Michelle Obama’s Blunt Rebuke: "America Not Ready for Women Leaders"

Paul Riverbank, 12/8/2025Michelle Obama and James Clyburn confront hard truths about America’s readiness for women leaders.

Then the broadcast cycle kicked in. News desks picked up her comments within hours; clips circulated on social feeds. When NBC’s “Meet the Press” came around, host Kristen Welker didn’t hesitate. She put the issue before Congressman James Clyburn, a figure practically steeped in the long shadow of American political history. Asked if he agreed with Obama’s stinging challenge—was the country truly prepared for a woman president?—Clyburn didn’t skirt the question.

He answered flatly, “Michelle Obama is absolutely correct. If you look at the history, we demonstrated that we are not ready.” That clarity, almost too blunt for the usual Sunday show choreography, drew a direct line from recent events to a much longer story—one stitched together by old habits of exclusion. He name-checked Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris—politicians whose credentials stand beyond debate, whose losses nonetheless echo with something deeper than the tactical setbacks of campaigns. “These are incredible women who have run,” Clyburn pointed out, letting those names hang as a challenge to the notion that America runs only on merit.

Listening to Clyburn, it’s hard not to recall the palpable exhaustion after Clinton’s 2016 campaign, a sense that no amount of readiness or preparation could overcome a system that still assumes certain things about power. Kamala Harris’s unsuccessful 2024 campaign was fresher, more immediate—a reminder for younger voters that history, frustratingly, doesn’t always move in a straight line.

Welker pressed on—what, exactly, stands in the way? Clyburn was unsparing. “Entrenched bias, whether based on gender, race, or the often-combustible overlap of the two.” This isn’t a story of a bad month or an off-year; it’s about a scaffolding of expectations that shape even the most open-seeming contests. Campaign staffers who follow the numbers closely sometimes whisper about “likability,” but Clyburn is making a point that lives beyond polling crosstabs.

Yet, to listen to him dwell solely on what isn’t possible would mean missing the point. “Just because it doesn’t seem that we are ready doesn’t mean we should stop the pursuit,” he said, his tone veering away from fatalism. A story from his own family sits just beneath these observations. The congressman references his grandfather—a church leader in the rare window when Black men took congressional seats after the Civil War, during Reconstruction’s brief moment of sunlight. In Clyburn’s view, progress is cyclical; hard-won rights can slip away, as they did after “the first eight” Black legislators were ushered out and replaced after the rise of Jim Crow.

When Clyburn was elected in 1992, South Carolina hadn’t sent a Black member to Congress since Reconstruction ended. That gap—the sudden advance, the decades-long setback—framed both his own political journey and the undertone of his warning about today’s America. His new book, “The First Eight,” draws this line with the weight of lived memory.

There’s urgency in his caution about voting rights, too. With a Supreme Court poised to reconsider a pivotal part of the Voting Rights Act, Clyburn worries openly about the doors that may quietly close. “I believe that what we are approaching with this Supreme Court could very well result in the next century being one that will repeat that which took place in the previous century in 1877,” he observed. It’s a disquieting symmetry—one that makes the horizon seem a little closer and a lot less certain.

Still, for Clyburn, history isn’t just something to be recited. It’s a call to act. Though the echoes of past disappointment are loud, he returns again to hope’s refrain—progress isn’t always apparent, and sometimes it retreats before it returns. “We may be in a dark moment as it relates to women serving as president, but we may be in that moment just before dawn when a woman will serve.” It’s hard not to hear both warning and encouragement there.

Facing backward is tempting, but Clyburn insists on looking ahead. The work continues, neither clean nor guaranteed. “So just because it doesn’t seem that we are ready doesn’t mean we should stop the pursuit,” he repeats, and it lands less as a platitude than a truth weathered into certainty. The path forward, he suggests, isn’t paved by timing, but by collective persistence. For now, he stands as witness—a man shaped by hard reversals—reminding us that the future isn’t decided until someone outlasts the darkness. Sometimes that’s all progress looks like.

Michelle Obama didn’t mince words at a recent event—her message almost snapped through the microphone. “As we saw in this past election, sadly we ain’t ready.” It wasn’t a throwaway line; her gaze swept the room, daring someone to object. She continued, “That’s why I’m, like, don’t even look at me about running because you all are lying. You’re not ready for a woman.” In that moment, she wasn’t just speaking for herself. Her words settled like an unwelcome chill—an acknowledgment of a reality many suspect but few are willing to say out loud.Then the broadcast cycle kicked in. News desks picked up her comments within hours; clips circulated on social feeds. When NBC’s “Meet the Press” came around, host Kristen Welker didn’t hesitate. She put the issue before Congressman James Clyburn, a figure practically steeped in the long shadow of American political history. Asked if he agreed with Obama’s stinging challenge—was the country truly prepared for a woman president?—Clyburn didn’t skirt the question.He answered flatly, “Michelle Obama is absolutely correct. If you look at the history, we demonstrated that we are not ready.” That clarity, almost too blunt for the usual Sunday show choreography, drew a direct line from recent events to a much longer story—one stitched together by old habits of exclusion. He name-checked Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris—politicians whose credentials stand beyond debate, whose losses nonetheless echo with something deeper than the tactical setbacks of campaigns. “These are incredible women who have run,” Clyburn pointed out, letting those names hang as a challenge to the notion that America runs only on merit.Listening to Clyburn, it’s hard not to recall the palpable exhaustion after Clinton’s 2016 campaign, a sense that no amount of readiness or preparation could overcome a system that still assumes certain things about power. Kamala Harris’s unsuccessful 2024 campaign was fresher, more immediate—a reminder for younger voters that history, frustratingly, doesn’t always move in a straight line.Welker pressed on—what, exactly, stands in the way? Clyburn was unsparing. “Entrenched bias, whether based on gender, race, or the often-combustible overlap of the two.” This isn’t a story of a bad month or an off-year; it’s about a scaffolding of expectations that shape even the most open-seeming contests. Campaign staffers who follow the numbers closely sometimes whisper about “likability,” but Clyburn is making a point that lives beyond polling crosstabs.Yet, to listen to him dwell solely on what isn’t possible would mean missing the point. “Just because it doesn’t seem that we are ready doesn’t mean we should stop the pursuit,” he said, his tone veering away from fatalism. A story from his own family sits just beneath these observations. The congressman references his grandfather—a church leader in the rare window when Black men took congressional seats after the Civil War, during Reconstruction’s brief moment of sunlight. In Clyburn’s view, progress is cyclical; hard-won rights can slip away, as they did after “the first eight” Black legislators were ushered out and replaced after the rise of Jim Crow.When Clyburn was elected in 1992, South Carolina hadn’t sent a Black member to Congress since Reconstruction ended. That gap—the sudden advance, the decades-long setback—framed both his own political journey and the undertone of his warning about today’s America. His new book, “The First Eight,” draws this line with the weight of lived memory.There’s urgency in his caution about voting rights, too. With a Supreme Court poised to reconsider a pivotal part of the Voting Rights Act, Clyburn worries openly about the doors that may quietly close. “I believe that what we are approaching with this Supreme Court could very well result in the next century being one that will repeat that which took place in the previous century in 1877,” he observed. It’s a disquieting symmetry—one that makes the horizon seem a little closer and a lot less certain.Still, for Clyburn, history isn’t just something to be recited. It’s a call to act. Though the echoes of past disappointment are loud, he returns again to hope’s refrain—progress isn’t always apparent, and sometimes it retreats before it returns. “We may be in a dark moment as it relates to women serving as president, but we may be in that moment just before dawn when a woman will serve.” It’s hard not to hear both warning and encouragement there.Facing backward is tempting, but Clyburn insists on looking ahead. The work continues, neither clean nor guaranteed. “So just because it doesn’t seem that we are ready doesn’t mean we should stop the pursuit,” he repeats, and it lands less as a platitude than a truth weathered into certainty. The path forward, he suggests, isn’t paved by timing, but by collective persistence. For now, he stands as witness—a man shaped by hard reversals—reminding us that the future isn’t decided until someone outlasts the darkness. Sometimes that’s all progress looks like.