Power by Proxy

Heavy lies the crown.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard that one before.

Having authority doesn’t come with strings attached. It comes with barbells.

We have a responsibility to use our leverage both effectively and ethically. But we must devote time and attention to make this happen. And such commitments can be a drag.

So, we try and delegate. We add proxies to do our bidding on our behalf.

It makes sense on the surface. And yet, we must wonder if such attempts are futile?


Have you ever taken a close look at a map of America?

It’s a strange sight.

States in the interior west look like blocks of a brick wall, dwarfing the size of their cousins back east. Maine protrudes into Maritime Canada. West Virginia resembles a misplaced shopping bag. And California looks like a banana.

There’s little uniformity to the boundaries of our 50 states. And yet, with some context, the divergent shapes make more sense.

Those tasked with defining these borders had to contend with topography — mountains, rivers, and lakes. The timing and circumstances of our nation’s expansion also played a part in how the map looks today

So yes, the story of our state map is a cogent narrative. You just need to think critically to find it.

By contrast, if you stare at a congressional district map, you might go cross-eyed.

Districts dot the map from coast to coast, without any sense of uniformity. Indeed, the map resembles a summer afternoon in Florida, with sunshine blanketing one side of the street and torrential downpours on the other.

What’s the rationale behind these strange boundaries?

It’s simple. They’re the expression of unchecked power.

To explain why that is, let’s brush up on some civics.

The United States Constitution states that an accurate count of everyone in the nation must be taken every 10 years. We know this decade-marking exercise as the Census.

Census data is used for many purposes, but the Constitution stipulates one in particular — apportioning Congressional delegates.

The numbers from the Census show how many seats each state can have in the House of Representatives. This ensures populous states — such as Florida or Texas — have more representation in the chamber than such less-populated states as Montana and Vermont.

This mechanism follows common sense. While the Senate allows two representatives per state, the House is meant to hold a more proportional voice. But the process of tying population to representation is only effective if the numbers are kept up to date.

And yet, the Constitution gives no guidance as to how these congressional seats are doled out. That process is left up to each state.

Our nation’s founders likely expected states to be prudent at executing this task. Yet, instead of coming up with something intuitive, many states make their maps resemble a game of Tetris.

You see, the map-drawing process — known as redistricting— normally falls to state legislatures. And that means the political party in control has influence over the results.

Politicians drawing the maps want to see members of their party inside the United States Capitol. So, they create districts that are more likely to drive that outcome.

Areas with lots of voters from their political party are split geographically into as many districts as possible. And wellsprings of support for the opposing party are clumped into a minority of districts.

Equity and common sense go out the window in a process like this. Preserving power is the only consideration.


Opponents of redistricting bias haven’t always gone quietly.

Back in 2003, dozens of Texas House members fled to Oklahoma to stall what they considered a flawed redistricting process. And more recently, the U.S. Congress has proposed legislation to address the issue.

Such tactics have largely been unsuccessful. But even if they had worked, victory would have been fleeting.

For restoring the ethics of redistricting only scratches the surface. The real issue lies at the root.

Yes, the idea of power by proxy itself is the issue here. The notion of representative democracy, while noble, is fatally flawed.

Such an arrangement emerged out of both necessity and convenience. Smarting from the injustices of monarchical rule, the founders of our fledgling nation decided to make our government by the people. But giving everyone a seat at the table was not practical. And so, the founders settled on proxy representation.

And therein lies the rub.

You see, proxies work best when they put the needs of their constituents first. For instance, parents and legal guardians tend to choose what’s in the best interest of their children.

But when the connection is less direct, proxies can go off the reservation. It’s human nature.

Politicians aren’t serving out of the kindness of their hearts. They have ambitions to satisfy.

And with such goals in mind, staying in power becomes their prime concern. The needs and wants of the electorate are barely more than an afterthought.

This is how we end up with ever more polarized political parties. This is what spawns partisan redistricting fights. And this is what ultimately leads to a democracy that’s representative in name alone.


What’s left for the rest of us?

This is a question I’ve long grappled with when it comes to representation.

At first, this seems like an odd inquiry. I am a White man. Our democracy has long been looking out for my needs, sometimes at the detriment of others.

But when it comes to ideology, I’m in the middle of the road. I’m neither far to the left, nor radically on the right. I believe in the importance of compromise and tradeoffs.

Across America, there are tens of millions of people like me. And yet, we have no one to stand for us in our representative democracy.

Moderate ideologies and commitments to compromise are not winning strategies on Capitol Hill — or in any statehouse. The ruthless ambition needed to maintain power tends to come from the fringes.

As such, politics tends to attract those with more radical viewpoints. Fundraising comes from hyper-partisan special interest groups. And the political parties themselves diverge more and more from common ground.

Sometimes an outsider shakes up the establishment. But that outsider is generally even more radical than either of the splintered factions it positions itself against.

Add it all up, and centrists like me are left out in the cold.

We have no seat at the table. Our “representative” democracy fails to represent us at all.

It’s a tragic consequence of power by proxy.


So, how do we get out of this conundrum?

How can we make power more representative?

Throwing out our existing system is not the answer. If we consolidate power, we open the door to authoritarian regimes. And if we disperse it, we only find ourselves with more voices to shout over.

Punishing proxies for their ambition is not the answer either. Without the incentive, fewer will serve in that role.

No, the best we can do is to demand more guardrails. The best we can do is to leverage peer pressure to keep proxies in line. The best we can do is speak up to ensure our voices are not silenced.

This process is not pretty, and it’s not particularly comfortable. But in an imperfect world with imperfect systems, it’s precisely what’s needed.

Power by proxy can be effective. But it’s on us to make it so.

Are you equal to the task?

On Accents

I don’t know about that accent, son. Just where did you come from?

Those thirteen words come from an Alan Jackson song. They describe a driver’s encounter with a State Trooper.

The lyrics seem simple enough. But they’re plenty evocative.

They remind us that no matter how we present ourselves, our voices can give us away.

The way we speak differs in the northern, southern, eastern, and western United States. The intonations vary even more if we hail from Canada, England, or Australia.

And it only takes a few words for us to get pigeonholed.

It’s as if a veil has been lifted. Once we open our mouths, others can tell where we’re from. And with that knowledge, they can seemingly deduce who we are.

This can be disconcerting. But it can also be fascinating.


I have long been obsessed with accents. It’s been a passion for most of my life.

While other kids were paying attention to music or dance moves, I was focusing on the way those around me talked. I was entranced hearing the same word expressed so differently off two people’s tongues.

I’m not quite sure where this obsession came from.

Perhaps it spurred from all the times my father — who grew up in Pennsylvania — put on a fake New York accent when emulating his in-laws. There’s a chance it came from the hours I spent within earshot of my mother’s Australian colleague. Or maybe it emerged from a reckoning with my own childhood speech deficiencies.

Whatever the case, I picked up an ear for accents early on. And as I got older, I added nuance.

Soon, I was able to tell a Boston accent from a New York one. I could differentiate a Georgia drawl from a Texas twang. I even mastered the difference between the British and Australian dialects.

Such abilities weren’t limited to English either. As I grew proficient at Spanish, I also picked up the various dialects of that language — Iberian vs. Caribbean, Mexican vs. Argentine, and so on. I would overhear someone speaking in Spanish and understand not only what they were saying but also where they were from.

This was a passion of mine. But I didn’t find it to be anything out of the ordinary.

That is, until Inglorious Basterds hit movie theaters.

Quentin Tarantino’s 2009 film about a vigilante group of Nazi hunters might as well have been about dialects. The first scene features dialogue that covers three languages — French, English and German. A major plot point stems from a peculiar German accent. Another plot point involves a creative interpretation of Italian.

Tarantino’s love for accents was so blatant in this movie that it struck me as odd. Then I remembered that some of his other films also had prolonged discussions about language.

In Pulp Fiction, a boxer and a Colombian cab driver commiserate on the meaning of American names. In Kill Bill, a retired Japanese sword maker complements the protagonist’s pronunciation of the word Arigato.

No one else seemed to put this much focus on accents and dialects. Sure, some people would mock a Southern accent, or joke about Pahking the cahh in Boston. But that was where the nuance stopped.

Tarantino and I were on another level.


What does an accent say about us?

Not much really.

Sure, we have those well-worn tropes about the dumb redneck or the pretentious Englishman. But genius and elitism aren’t limited by geography.

There are smart people in Alabama, and there are pretentious folks there too. And anyone who’s watched a Premier League match knows that there are plenty of Brits who are neither prim nor proper.

With that in mind, this accent encyclopedia I’ve been building seems like a waste of effort.

What good is it to understand the difference between a drawl and a twang? And who cares if I can describe a Michigan accent?

There is seemingly no point in reading into someone’s region of origin. And yet, I find it irresistible.

You see, I consider accents to provide critical building blocks in communication. Detecting them is the first step in building a connection with someone else — whether they’ve from your region or one far away.

As an introvert, such details are a lifeline. While I generally struggle to talk to people outside of my circle, accents can provide a nifty conversation starter.

Those I speak with might not have the same exuberance I do — particularly if they’re trying to shed the stigma of their origins. But their accent gives us both an opportunity to delve deeper, rather than blathering on about the weather.

So yes, tracking accents might seem like an obscure activity. But it has its virtues.


Several of my friends have small children.

These infants and toddlers haven’t yet found their voice. They’re too young to have that figured out.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder what they’ll sound like as they get older. Will they sport a twang or a drawl? Will they drop their r’s or sport a Midwestern hokeyness?

I would suppose not.

Kids tend to emulate their parents, and my friends have made great strides to remove any semblance of a regional dialect.

But even beyond that, the odds are against the next generation developing strong accents.

Regional dialects blossomed in a different era. An era when people were confined to the echo chambers of their cities and towns.

There was no defined American accent. There were only thousands of interpretations of it.

But as technology has improved and travel has evolved, such schisms have evaporated. And the dialects have faded away as well.

Today, we live with entertainment at our fingertips. Anyone can watch anything, anywhere. And as we watch, we emulate.

The more we emulate, the more we converge on a single standard. A standard that sheds any semblance of the dialects of our ancestors.

And so, most of the newest generation is set up to sound alike. It won’t be easy to tell if they’re from Ohio, Oregon, or Oklahoma. There will be no audible difference between young adults in St. Louis and San Diego.

This is likely a positive development. But it still distresses me.

I will miss hearing the distinct dialects of America, and of the world beyond. I will miss the regional hallmarks, the markers of individuality. I will pine for the ability to travel the globe through a simple conversation.

So, in the meanwhile, I will soak it all in. I will cherish each accent I encounter, and the doors unlocked by the experience. I will take nothing for granted.

The way we speak might seem quaint. But trivial? It’s anything but.

Rules and Customs

The vehicle ahead of me was nothing special. An SUV with Texas plates adorned with Bernie for President and Beto for Senate stickers.

OK, maybe that was a bit unusual. It’s rare to see support for Democratic political candidates in Texas, although that’s been changing a bit recently.

I had plenty of time to think about all this because the SUV was moving slower than molasses.

As I crawled along behind it, my blood boiling, I started to consider the motivations of the driver. For someone seeking to break the political mold in my state, they seemed eager to stick to the rules of the road — particularly when it came to the speed limit.

This prudence might have seemed noble to some. But not me.

I had things to do and places to be. And staying below the posted speed wasn’t helping matters at all.

Did this driver not have the same obligations? Was there no urgency built into their day?

It was hard to tell.

After a few frustrating moments, the road widened. I veered my SUV into the open lane and hit the gas, leaving the liberal-loving driver in the dust.

Adios, I thought. May our paths not cross again.


I should have let this moment go. And yet, I dwelled on it for days.

What was it that so agitated me?

It wasn’t the driver’s politics. As a centrist, I tend not to let that sway me.

It wasn’t even the driver’s behavior. They weren’t swerving or brake-checking me.

No, it was the implication of what the driver was doing that got my goose. It was the notion of the rules reigning supreme that seemed so off-putting.

For while this driver was out there earning their imaginary gold star, I was at risk of getting to my destination late.

And that outcome seemed costlier than a speeding ticket would have been.


Follow the rules.

From our earliest days, we absorb this mantra.

We hear stories about the bad guys who broke the law and ended up in jail. We adhere to warnings not to cheat on board games. We discover that disobeying our parents can send us straight to timeout.

Rule adherence is a central tenet of our society. It stabilizes us. It protects us. It galvanizes us.

The rules have meaning. But they’re not all-encompassing.

Indeed, much of what we adhere to can’t be found in a rule book. Much of what we believe in isn’t within a formal code of law.

Punctuality, respect, and integrity are paramount in our culture. We might not get put in handcuffs for breaking with them. But they still matter.

These concepts are deemed customs. They’re behavioral constructs that we agree to abide by.

Customs and rules generally live in their own bubbles. But occasionally those bubbles overlap.

What happens then? And how do we choose what to follow?


Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great man.

And yet, he was also a criminal. Or at least, that’s what the record says.

In 1960, Dr. King was convicted of driving without a license in Georgia. A judge then gave him a four-year prison sentence, to be served maximum-security prison.

Dr. King only served a few days of that sentence. And yet, he would find himself behind bars 28 more times in his abbreviated life.

Dr. King clearly wasn’t proficient at following the rules. And yet, he’s still celebrated for that fact.

You see, the rules Dr. King broke were impractical. They were laws designed to insulate the few, rather than protect the many.

Following those rules might have given Dr. King a clean rap sheet. It might have kept the FBI from ever tailing him. It might have even kept him from getting assassinated.

But adhering to the rules would have denied Black people of their dignity. It would have deprived them of opportunity. It would have barred them from their fair share.

These rights are the markers of common decency and the cornerstones of our democracy. They’ve long been customary among those with a paler skin complexion. And yet, they were systematically kept from Black people for centuries.

So, when it came time for Dr. King to choose between rules and customs, he didn’t flinch. He disobeyed with purpose, in hopes of giving his community the future it deserved.

Fellow Civil Rights activist — and eventual U.S. Congressman — John Lewis called this willful disobedience Good trouble. And Dr. King was a master at it.

Lewis’ description hits on a key point. When rules come into conflict with customs, the customs often win.

This isn’t always the case. We don’t adhere to the Mayan rituals of human sacrifice, for instance.

But when the code of law and the code of society enter the ring, it’s our customs that generally land the knockout blow.


First-world problems.

That’s the derisive term for minor issues we raise a big fuss about.

Dr. King wasn’t dealing with first-world problems when he engaged in the civil rights movement. He was combatting something far more substantial.

But my frustrating journey behind the SUV with the Bernie and Beto stickers? That was first-world problems to the max.

There is no real comparison between Dr. King’s tribulations and my moment of inconvenience. Dr. King was changing the world. I was just trying to get to a destination on time.

But in both cases, customs superseded rules. Following the letter of the law was less important than adhering to broader principles.

In my case, that meant upholding the promise of punctuality. Going a few miles over the speed limit would be a calculated gamble — one that might burn me. But showing up late was a less forgivable outcome.

So, once the road widened and my vehicle accelerated, I became an outlaw of sorts. I defied one edict to uphold another.

My experience is not unique. Many of us have made similar tradeoffs from time to time.

We tend not to speak of these exploits. For it shatters our preferred narrative — the one where we always do the right thing.

But perhaps it’s time to lift the veil. Perhaps it’s time we make peace with our momentary naughtiness.

For ultimately, rules and customs are hollow shells. They hold the shape of ideals. But they lack the ballast.

It’s on us to fill them with weight. It’s on us to determine what matters and when.

It’s our obligation to decide all this. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

The Reciprocity Contract

You get what you give.

How many times have we heard this?

The reciprocity contract is as old as the hills. Wherever there has been connection, there has been this adage.

We are social beings, but we are also self-minded beings. We want to make sure that our needs are taken care of, but also that others don’t get the best of us.

Such a mentality is so widespread that it threatens to destroy trust. And so, we settle for an even exchange to keep the peace.

The fundamentals are simple. If we want anything from someone else, we must part with something deemed equivalent. This could be a physical item, a commitment of time, or an emotional investment.

We put a lot of value in these items. But the principle behind them rules the day.

Or perhaps not.


When I was a young boy, my father had a fancy job.

Every morning, he’d put on a suit and tie and catch the train to the city. He’d walk a few blocks from the train terminal to an office building, take the elevator to the 32nd floor, and spend the next 8 hours attending to the needs of clients.

This might sound glamorous and idyllic. It was anything but.

My father had no aspirations of climbing the corporate ladder. He didn’t dream of power lunches or access to exclusive country clubs.

No, my father wished for something else.

He yearned to do something creative. He aspired to impact his local community. He desired to be there for his two young children, who he barely saw during the week.

But this job paid well. It helped with the mortgage. It covered living expenses. It allowed our family to live the way we were accustomed to.

Those were outcomes that couldn’t be easily replaced. And so, my father kept putting on that suit and getting on that train.

My mother saw the toll this took on my father, and she couldn’t bear it. So, she gave him an ultimatum. Change your life or change your wife.

My father made the smart choice. He gave up that fancy job and decided to become a schoolteacher. With no formal training in the field, he decided to enroll in graduate school — at the same time my mother was pursuing a master’s degree.

Our family was on the path to fulfillment and prosperity. But we were also dead broke.

And so, we hunkered down. We stopped eating out. We didn’t take vacations. And we avoided other large ticket spending items.

It was an intense, stressful experience. And it left an indelible mark on me.

I learned then that nothing is handed to you. What you earn is consummate to the choices you make and the sacrifices you accept.


Many years after this experience, I entered the workforce.

Fresh out of college, I had no idea how personal finance worked. I struggled to keep an accurate budget, build up savings, and anticipate expenses for car repairs.

But despite my struggles maintaining my meager salary, I knew what it took to earn it.

I understood that I would need to show up at my job every day. I recognized that no matter what was going on, I would have to perform to the best of my ability. The reciprocity contract demanded that of me.

As I’ve progressed through my career, I’ve held onto this principle. Day after day, I’ve devoted myself to my vocation. And in return, I’ve received a paycheck.

I believe there’s a great deal of honor in this mentality. America was built upon this philosophy. And in following it, I’m carrying on a storied legacy.

Yet, with each passing day, I feel more and more isolated with this approach.


The trouble started with a news article. One of those that pop into your feed on your smartphone or social media timeline.

The article stated that some newly-minted college graduates were demanding $50,000 a year for entry-level salaries. These young adults considered anything under that number to not be a living wage.

At the time I read this, I’d been out of school for several years. I’d held three jobs in two industries, giving my all to each one. Even with all these accomplishments, I’d never cracked the $50,000 salary mark.

I was outraged.

What gave these graduates the right to make these demands out the gate? And how dare they denigrate my efforts to make ends meet by refusing to even try to do the same?

Had these young adults ever seen real sacrifice? Did they even spend a year of their childhood with no family income? Had they ever considered what it might be like if they were unemployed?

Apparently not.

But it was more than spite fanning the flames. I was horrified at the way these fledgling adults even approached the subject.

Instead of abiding by the reciprocity contract, they made blanket demands of would-be employers. And they committed to virtually nothing in return.

It was a flat rejection of everything I understood society to espouse. It was a formidable rejoinder against the way I was raised. It was a forceful repudiation of the way I lived my life.

It was inconsiderate. It was selfish. It was sickening.

And as the years went by, things only got worse.

All around me, workers demanded more of their employers, while offering nothing in return. Some called for universal job perks. Others sought to do less and get paid more. Still others insisted on only showing up to work when they felt like it.

One young woman even advocated against working at all. Living off government unemployment benefits in the wake of the pandemic, she proudly stated in an interview that she would not return to work.

Now, to be clear, the issues raised here are valid. Wage stagnation has been a longstanding issue in America. Job perks have been uneven. Work distribution has been uneven within industries. And our mental health concerns have long been ignored.

But we shouldn’t just demand that others fix these issues for us. We need to make commitments of our own.

We should reciprocate for the gifts our employers provide us. We should resolve to be more productive, more dedicated, and more loyal. We should seek to innovate and to collaborate. We should choose selflessness over greed.

Such commitments do more than repay the goodwill that comes from our vocations. They prevent others from subsidizing our lives.

If we’re earning our keep, we’re not relying on someone else to foot the bill. We’re providing an even exchange for our livelihood. We’re following the reciprocity contract.

This is how it had long been. And this is how it should be.

Let’s make it happen once again.

The Linearity Trap

You’ve got to stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything.

So goes the chorus of an old Aaron Tippin song.

Whenever I hear it on the radio, I get fired up.

Heck yes, we should stand for something, I think. There’s no use in being wishy-washy.

I’ve taken such perspective as gospel for years. But now, I’m starting to question this mantra.


Back in 2004, John Kerry was campaigning to be the United States President.

The Massachusetts senator had an uphill battle against him. The nation was only three years removed from the 9/11 terror attacks. American combat operations in Afghanistan and Iraq were nascent. And the incumbent president — George W. Bush — continued to earn strong marks for his handling of the job.

However, Kerry — the Democratic nominee — saw a window of opportunity. As the military got entangled in conflicts in the Middle East, reporters scrutinized President Bush’s prior service in the Air National Guard.

There were rumors that President Bush had sought to avoid combat in the Vietnam War, which was escalating during his time in the Air National Guard. And there were open questions about whether the president had fulfilled his military service.

Kerry pounced on this opening. He had served as a Swift Boat captain in the United States Navy, earning a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and three Purple Hearts for his service in Vietnam. Kerry made it a point to feature such accolades in his campaign, contrasting it to President Bush’s dubious service record.

In a country that loves stories of military valor, this strategy seemed like a slam dunk. But Kerry’s efforts quickly hit substantial headwinds.

A political organization — Swift Vets and POWs for Truth — challenged Kerry’s narrative, claiming he had misrepresented his service in Vietnam. The group also claimed that Kerry’s later criticism of the Vietnam War represented a betrayal of military trust.

Kerry tried to defend himself against these accusations, but they stuck. He became known as a flip-flopper — someone who would shift between opposing stances on a topic. He went on to lose the presidential election by a wide margin.

Swift Vets and POWs for Truth later disbanded, and the group’s claims were eventually discredited. But the damage had been done.

For many, John Kerry had defied the Aaron Tippin Edict. He had failed to fall for something. And as president, he was liable to fall for anything.

Four years after the Swift Boat scandal, I was eligible to vote in a presidential election for the first time. Kerry was not running for office in 2008, but I still scrutinized the candidates closely for inconsistencies.

Were they true to their word? I asked myself. Did anyone flip-flop?

I repeated this exercise for another decade. Linearity was the best policy, I told myself.

I should have known better.


It is not the strongest of the species that survives, not the most intelligent. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.

Those words come from Charles Darwin.

Darwin is notorious for his work with modern evolutionary theory. But the foundations of his principles continue to elude us.

Darwin saw evolution more as an arc than a straight line. As the environment changed, the process of natural selection would pick new targets. Only the most adaptable species could stay in the running each time the landscape shifted.

Evolutionary theory underpins much of our society these days. Modern capitalism, pop culture, and even the trajectory of industry all reward those who are most adaptable to the demands of a changing world.

Yet, we fail to get the memo when it comes to assessing our own viewpoints. Those Aaron Tippin lyrics fill our minds, and we feel determined to take a stand.

We refuse to admit that life is not linear. We refuse to change, even as the circumstances at hand shift drastically.

Such shortcomings have been made all too apparent during the recent pandemic. As an unknown disease spread around the globe, guidance on how to ward it off shifted.

An early focus on physical distancing and handwashing morphed into a new approach — wearing face coverings and getting inoculated. Activities that were shamed in the early days of the disease — such as small outdoor gatherings — were later deemed safe and preferable.

The shifting advice was as frustrating as it was confusing. Some defied it all together — rallying against masking, business restrictions, or vaccine adoption. Others refused to change their ways as the guidance evolved further.

These actions have led to strained social relationships, and they’ve accelerated the toll levied by the pandemic. Many have blamed the rebellious for these outcomes — pointing to their selfishness and lack of empathy.

These people do have some impact on the outcome, for sure. But our expectations are equally to blame.

For the more we follow the playbook laid out by Swift Vets and POW’s for Truth — demanding linearity above all else — the more we stand to lose.

Polarization will only go up. Discourse will only go down. And our ability to make choices that meet the moment will disintegrate.


Knowing all this, it’s hard not to turn a critical eye toward those Aaron Tippin lyrics.

Having a backbone does matter. But it might not be the panacea we think it is.

An immovable conviction may protect us from manipulation. But it can also close the door to coalition.

And to fix what ails us, a coalition is exactly what we need.

It’s my hope that we can move beyond our differences. That we can restart discourse, both in politics and broader society. That we can face the needs of an evolving world, rather than anchoring ourselves in principle.

But this work can only start if we free ourselves from the linearity trap. It can only take flight if we accept that our views might change with the times.

Yes, we do need to stand for something. But that something should be openness.

Openness to connection. Openness to information. Openness to change.

I’m ready to meet the moment. Are you?