Just before the government shutdown, I went to the National Archives Museum for the Charters of Freedom exhibit in the Rotunda, where the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution are on display. I’ve only just recently moved to Washington, and I thought visiting the exhibit would be a patriotic, inspiring event to commemorate my return (or, in light of its current state, my escape) from England.

I’m going to be honest and risk alienating the entire National Review audience: Seeing all the documents was extremely underwhelming, almost disturbingly so. Before I entered the building, I had imagined myself cowering before the documents, even welling up with tears. But when I saw them, they were visually dull — tattered, yellowed, and so faded that there was practically nothing legible. I grew up receiving the basic instruction in school that our Constitution is pretty good, learned to understand the document as extraordinary while being a student in the Princeton politics department, and then deepened my appreciation for it while living abroad in England. But looking at it, somewhat worn and indecipherable, I had skeptical thoughts: “Is this all it is? This is the glorious freedom document?” As I stood there waiting for something dramatic, I worried that maybe I’m a bad American for not finding it impressive and emotionally moving.

Upon reflection, my disappointment prompted me to realize that we cherish the Constitution because of the ideas it contains, not for its physical form or appearance. Our Constitution doesn’t need gilded letters, since those would only be distractions from the true content.