The National Conservative tradition begins from a deceptively simple objection: that there is no such thing as conservatism-in-general. You can only conserve something — a particular people, a particular inheritance, a particular place with its own language, faith, memory, and way of life. Where other conservatives defend abstract principles — markets, liberty, the rule of law — that could in theory belong to anyone anywhere, your worldview insists that a serious conservatism must defend the nation, this nation, and the culture that makes self-government possible at all. Globalism, with its borderless markets and procedural universalism, strikes you as a threat to both prosperity and identity, dissolving the very "we" that a free people requires.
The root, read in a particular way, is Edmund Burke. Against the French revolutionaries' universal Rights of Man, Burke defended the concrete inheritance of an actual people — its customs, its established institutions, its accumulated wisdom — over the abstractions that would flatten every nation into the same rational template. He grasped that real loyalty attaches not to humanity in general but to the particular, the near, the inherited. Your worldview takes that particularism as its starting point, though it sometimes presses it further than Burke, with his horror of zeal, would have gone.
Alexander Hamilton supplies the economic half, and it is the half that distinguishes you from the free-trade right. Hamilton built the framework of economic nationalism: protective tariffs, public investment, industrial policy, a national bank — the nation taking active charge of its own development rather than trusting the invisible hand of a global market to provide. His "American System" rested on the conviction that a country's prosperity and its sovereignty are linked, that a nation which cannot make things cannot defend itself, and that the state has a legitimate role in building the industrial sinews of national strength. Your politics still runs on that framework.
Carl Schmitt is the tradition's most dangerous and most clarifying interlocutor, and he must be read with open eyes: a brilliant jurist who became a Nazi, whose ideas your tradition engages not to redeem the man but because his analysis of liberalism cuts deep. Schmitt argued that political communities are constituted by substantive shared identities, not by procedural bargains — that beneath the liberal language of neutral rules there is always a friend-enemy distinction defining who "we" are, and that liberalism's pretense of universal proceduralism is an evasion of this basic political reality. Your worldview meets that claim and takes from it a hard truth — that a polity needs a real, substantive "we" — while carrying the burden of showing where that logic stops short of the abyss Schmitt himself fell into.
Samuel Huntington brought the argument into respectable modern social science. In Who Are We? and across his work, Huntington insisted that national identity rests on cultural, not merely creedal, foundations — that a democratic community needs a shared inheritance of language, history, and habit, and cannot be sustained by procedural agreement and economic interest alone. His challenge to the idea that America is held together purely by abstract principles anyone can affirm is at the center of your worldview: a nation, he argued, is a culture before it is a contract.
Roger Scruton gave the tradition its philosophical heart and its most humane voice. Against the cosmopolitan disdain for national loyalty as parochial or worse, Scruton argued that the nation is not an administrative convenience but a genuine form of belonging — the "we" that makes accountability and self-government possible, the thing that allows strangers to trust one another and sacrifice for a common good. He called the love of home oikophilia, and named its opposite, the educated contempt for one's own inheritance, a kind of vandalism. The Meaning of Conservatism is the argument at your worldview's center: that you cannot have a free, self-governing people without a settled sense of who that people is.
What you inherit, then, is the conviction that the particular comes before the universal — that real political community is cultural, bounded, and inherited, and that the abstractions which claim to transcend it actually corrode it. From Burke, the defense of a particular people against universalist flattening. From Hamilton, the economic nationalism that links prosperity to sovereignty. From Schmitt, the hard recognition that a polity rests on a substantive "we." From Huntington, the thesis that a nation is a culture, not a contract. From Scruton, the love of home that makes self-government possible. The throughline is that there is no people in general — only peoples, each with an inheritance worth conserving — and that a free society requires roots a borderless order cannot provide. The tension you carry is the one your tradition can never fully escape: the friend-enemy clarity that gives your politics its edge is the same logic that, unrestrained, produced the catastrophes of the twentieth century, and the line between defending a nation and the darker nationalisms is one your worldview must police with more care than its loudest voices sometimes show. But you hold a truth the cosmopolitan order keeps forgetting and then relearning: that people will not long be governed by a "we" they do not feel part of, and that a politics with no home is a politics no one will defend.