Tag: power

The Insecurity of Power

On August 8, 1974, Richard Nixon addressed the American people.

As White House cameras rolled, Nixon announced that he would be vacating his presidential term the following day.

It was a painfully ironic moment.

Nixon was seemingly at the height of his powers. He had already implemented much of his campaign agenda, and he’d won re-election in a landslide almost two years prior. But now, he was stepping away from it all.

For Nixon had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dogged reporting had uncovered Nixon’s role in a break-in at the Democratic headquarters two years prior. And in the face of a congressional inquiry, Nixon had tried to cover up his involvement in the whole affair.

These revelations were more than an embarrassment. They constituted a crisis.

And so, facing public pressure and the threat of impeachment, Nixon relinquished his post. He gave up the most powerful position on the planet. And he slunk into obscurity for the rest of his life.

It was a sad ending to Nixon’s story. An ending that was all too predictable.

When I was in school, English class wasn’t my jam.

I didn’t geek out on arcane grammatical exercises or enjoy reading about faded romances in the passages of Jane Eyre. I much preferred history class, or Spanish class, or even photography class.

And yet, when my English teacher assigned the class Macbeth, I found myself captivated by it.

William Shakespeare’s play had all the necessary elements to capture an adolescent’s attention. Ambition. Betrayal. Suspense. Murder. Comedy.

Macbeth was a fun read, no doubt. But it would take me years to internalize its underlying message.

Namely, that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You see, when we first meet the title character, he is an upstanding and loyal member of the Scottish nobility. But once he’s given a prophecy of greatness by three witches, the shine of his character starts to fade.

This obsession leads Macbeth to slay the Scottish king and cover up his involvement in the dirty deed. The ploy vaults him to the throne. But it also sends his paranoia into overdrive.

Macbeth starts killing off his friends and associates to keep them from taking the crown from him. He becomes obsessed with legacy and succession. And he generally becomes insufferable.

These traits eventually lead Macbeth to overconfidence, which portends his downfall. And that downfall transcends Macbeth into a cautionary tale.

Be careful in how you attain power, the conventional wisdom reads. And be even more careful in how you wield it.

If only it were that simple.

In recent years, there’s been plenty of grumbling about powerful figures in our society. Particularly the well-heeled ones.

The excesses of the billionaire class have been thoroughly documented. And their moves to consolidate power have led to vehement protests.

To those with less than 10 columns of numbers on their net worth statements, these billionaires seem unconscionable. They seemingly have it all, and yet they seem to be squeezing society for even more. It’s a practice that seems wholly unnecessary.

Or is it?

You see, if we put ourselves in the ornate shoes of these elites, we might find them in the same dilemma as Macbeth.

No, they likely don’t have a bloody dagger lying about. And they aren’t channeling their inner Nixon to bury the evidence.

But those same sensations of insecurity are omnipresent within them. In fact, they’re inherent.

For these elites had but two paths to their station in life. They either climbed the ladder from obscurity – as such titans as Jeff Bezos did – or they were born into familial wealth – as it the case with the Waltons, Murdochs, and Hunts.

In each situation, the pressure to maintain is immense. Jeff Bezos and his kind don’t want to lose what they’ve worked so hard to accrue. And the scions of silver spoon families don’t want to waste away multi-generational legacies.

This pressure begets insecurity. That insecurity begets paranoia. And that paranoia leads to sequestration.

Elites build barriers to protect their treasure troves. Then they expand those barriers outward, trampling those below them in the process.

It’s cruelty spurred by caution. A toxic cocktail.

Back when I first learned about Nixon’s foibles and Macbeth’s misdeeds, I had but one reaction.

If I were in that position, I’d be better than that.

It was easy for me to say. I was a good kid who stayed out of trouble. Perjury and murder seemed beyond the pale of my capabilities.

But as I grew older, I realized how wrong that statement was.

Truth be told, if I ascended to such power, I would likely act similarly to those disgraced figures – or the modern-day aristocracy. For I would be afflicted with an insecurity-laden dissonance.

This revelation altered my approach to life.

I still strove to enhance my station and to challenge myself at every turn. But I no longer kept the penthouse in my crosshairs.

It wasn’t a distaste for whitewashed mansions or haggis that kept me from the express escalator.

No. It was an urge to maintain my essence that kept me in check. By failing to chase power, I’d instead find maximal peace. I wouldn’t hear the footsteps. I’d maintain my best qualities and personality traits.

To be clear, such an outcome might still have been possible with full power. Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife Mackenzie Scott, for instance, has remained both well-heeled and well-regarded through the years. She’s kept her head – and a semblance of relatability – through a tireless devotion to philanthropy. And she’s earned plaudits from Time and Forbes magazines in the process.

Still, Scott’s path is a narrow one. It’s a tightrope act that few can traverse.

Indeed, the surest way to avoid the fall from grace is to avoid the pull of power. To leave such dark callings to others, and to entrench oneself in the proletariat.

That is what I believe. That is the path I follow.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

On Illumination

As I wandered out into the ocean, I noticed something had changed.

The cool water still felt refreshing. The breakers were still formidable. But there was a contrast to this body of water that hadn’t existed a few hours earlier.

Sunlight was no longer exploding off the whitecaps, preventing me from seeing more than two feet in any direction. Instead, a mosaic of moving water splayed out as far as my eyes could see. A mix of cobalt blue, frothy white, and dark gray.

The tidal pull had something to do with this shift. Earlier, the ocean had enveloped half the beach. But now the tide had gone out. Instead of advancing forward into the waves, I had walked gradually downhill to submerge myself.

But the tides couldn’t explain the refreshed color palette in the sea. That had everything to do with the position of the sun.

Earlier, it had been directly overhead. But now, it was practically positioned behind the beach.

That new angle brought definition to the seascape. Shadows and highlights emerged, forming an elaborate contrast that left me mesmerized.

Illumination means everything.

Many years ago, I went to a Colorado Rockies game with a friend.

Our seats were down the left field line, a few rows from the field. It was prime territory to snag a foul ball, so all the fans around us stayed focused on the game.

But around the fourth inning, our section thinned out considerably. I joked that everyone must have had a hankering for a hot dog at the same time.

Oh, no, my friend replied. They’re heading to the concourse to see the sunset.

It turns out that the Rockies ballpark had a unique feature. Namely, a gap in the left field corner between the hulking upper deck and the massive outfield scoreboard. In this particular corner, the lower concourse was the highest feature in the stadium.

We’d walked by this area on the way to our seats, but I didn’t think twice about it. Sure, you could see the Rocky Mountains from there. But this was Colorado. You could always see the mountains off in the distance.

But now, in the fourth inning, the sun was setting over those same mountains. A rich palette of color was taking center stage in the left field corner. And for many, priorities had changed accordingly.

The ballgame was no longer the main event. The sunset in the distance had become appointment viewing.

Illumination means everything.

To get that view of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains, one only needed to buy a ticket to the Rockies game. And to get that rich view of the ocean in the late afternoon, one only needed to head to a public beach.

But such vistas rarely come so cheaply.

Indeed, most beachfront, lakefront, and mountain views are already accounted for. They’re wrapped up in private property, valued at a premium.

Many finance types have pointed out that these investments are far from worthwhile. Between the purchase price and the insurance bills, they carry a cost that’s far from rational.

For most the day, the naysayers would be right. But then the sun hits that spot in the sky, and the vista beyond the property transforms itself. And it’s as if the wonders of the world are performing to an exclusive audience.

That’s what keeps the whole thing going. That’s why the well-off keep hold of these overpriced properties. And that’s why the rest of us search for a public beach or buy a ticket to a ballgame to do the same.

Illumination means everything.

There’s something fascinating about this whole dynamic.

First off, this setup shatters the whole concept of permanence. Mountains don’t move, and the sea continually stretches to the horizon. But at a certain time of day, it seems like we’re transported to an entirely different place, without moving an inch. The position of the sun can be just that powerful.

And such power cannot be controlled. We can do our best to corner the market on viewpoints. But no money in the world will allow us to view a sunset from the deck at 11 AM, or the rich blue of the ocean on an overcast afternoon. We are captivated by nature’s beauty, but we are powerless to conjure such majesty on our terms.

This whole dynamic defines our existence. And I’d argue that it enriches it as well.

You see, when we yearn for an experience we can’t control, it forces us to level up. We must become masters of patience and prioritization. We must strive to be richer in the illustrative pictures we paint on the canvas, on the page, or through the spoken word.

If the late day sun didn’t bring out such defined colors in the ocean, I wouldn’t have reached into the depths of my writing abilities to convey them. Such efforts only come from captivation, from awe, and from inspiration. Fading light on the water provides that.

And if that sunset view from the Rockies ballpark hadn’t captivated its first viewer just so, they wouldn’t have gone on to share that wonder with their friends and acquaintances. And those friends and acquaintances wouldn’t have gone on to tell their friends and acquaintances. And the fourth inning tradition wouldn’t have come to be.

This is the power of the world’s wonders. Of limited-time engagements. Of all that is too inspiring to be kept to oneself or patently ignored.

Illumination means everything.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Ferris Bueller wasn’t heading to the beach, catching the sunset, or otherwise capturing nature’s essence when he uttered these lines at the start of the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But we could stand to gain plenty from this advice nonetheless.

Let’s turn off autopilot, remove the blinders, and take note of what’s around us. How it all looks at this moment, and how that vista might differ once this moment has passed.

This activity might seem counterintuitive in an on-demand world. But it fills a gap that modernity has created. A gap that was once filled by wonder.

Let’s bring that attribute back into our lives. Let’s fill our souls with awe. And let’s endeavor to share that feeling with others through any means that best suit us.

We’ll be better for the experience. Those around us will as well.

Illumination means everything.

The Curse of The Strongman

He had thick eyebrows and a thicker mustache.

He dressed in the fashion of the day. A suit. A hat. An overcoat. A pistol.

His name was Seth Bullock, and he was a prominent western sheriff.

Bullock might not have held the notoriety of Wyatt Earp or Pat Garrett. But he was just as effective a lawman as those two – if not more. Operating with steely resolve, Bullock cleaned up a county in Montana. Then he repeated the trick in the Dakota Territory.

Bullock’s exploits helped tame the northern frontier. They also drew the acclaim of future President Theodore Roosevelt, who would go on to appoint Bullock as a United States Marshal.

And yet, despite Bullock’s strong and steady hand, there’s little recognition of him in the region today. It’s Roosevelt — not Bullock — whose face is chiseled into a mountain in South Dakota, and whose name is on a national park in North Dakota.

Bullock had the pedigree of a strongman. But it turns out that title only goes so far.

Back when I was in middle school, I leaned about a particular term in history class.

Tariffs.

I hadn’t seen this word in my day-to-day life. And for good reason.

Tariffs, I discovered, were taxes on goods shipped across national borders in the 18th century. American colonists took exception to the practice back then, and this backlash helped pave to the road to America’s independence.

I internalized this information, used it to ace my class exam, and promptly filed it away in the furthest recesses of my mind.

Tariffs hadn’t been relevant in 225 years. I wouldn’t need to worry about them anymore.

Boy, was I wrong.

You see, a generation after I turned in my history exam, a new president took the helm in America. Well, more accurately, a returning president — one who had occupied the Oval Office four years prior.

This president railed against weak leadership while campaigning for his old job. He all but pledged to be a strongman if elected back to the role. And voters accepted the pledge, paving his road back to the White House.

Once back in power, the president took every opportunity to rule with an iron fist. He started deporting migrants, slashing the government workforce, and systematically removing his opponents from positions of influence.

It was all a bit jarring, but hardly unpredictable. This is what a strongman does.

But his next move would prove the most disruptive. The president brought back tariffs, imposing them on nearly every other country on the planet.

The reasoning for this move was straightforward —to the president, at least. America had been roiled by skyrocketing inflation in recent years. American industry had been on the decline, and trade deficits with other countries had widened.

Why not solve all these problems with one fell swoop? Make global trade too expensive to be practical. And bring supply chains — and their associated jobs — back within American borders.

Unemployment would plummet as industrial jobs returned within our borders. And with those goods being made closer to home, prices would drop as well.

The stock market would rally, businesses would remain profitable, and families would bask in the prosperity of a rejuvenated economy. The strongman leader would be the hero, the savior, the genius behind it all.

This was the theory the president had as he announced the tariffs. But things played out much differently.

Markets tanked within hours of the announcement, wiping out billions of dollars in value. Businesses raised alarm about rapid onshoring of operations — a process that normally takes years to complete. Financial analysts warned of rising prices, and even the risk of a recession.

The president may have embodied the strongman persona with aplomb before. But now, he appeared to have overplayed his hand.

It was a sordid outcome. But hardly an unprecedented one.

The annals of history are filled with strongman leaders.

The legacies of these leaders vary widely. Some built empires through military might, for instance. Others committed mass genocide and related atrocities.

But even with these varying outcomes, two threads seem to tie this archetype together. Strongman leaders are effective at consolidating power and ineffective at managing an economy.

That second part of the equation might not seem intuitive. But it should be.

Economics, you see, represents the systematic allocation of scarce resources. The entire practice is built on the premise that there’s not enough to go around, and participants must consider trade-offs.

Just about every economic concept — from Invisible Hand to specialization to supply chains — stems from the entrenched reality of these trade-offs. Capitalism is essentially built on it.

But cooperative systems like these crumble in the face of the strongman ethos. There is no room for the strongman to share control or delegate influence. Giving an inch means the gig is up.

So, strongmen often choose power over prosperity. Or they silence the voices of reason in favor of chasing economic fantasies.

The latter appears to be happening in America. Tariffs are just the vehicle to get the nation to that outcome.

This is the curse of the strongman. And we’re mired in it.

Guilt by association.

Such a concept is prevalent in America.

If we give a friend a ride to the bank, and the friend robs that bank, there’s a good chance we’ll be viewed as complicit in the crime.

This might seem unfair. We didn’t necessarily know what our friend would do once inside those bank doors.

But we should have.

The bank robber was our friend, after all. We’ve conversed with them, immersed ourselves in their personality, and come to recognize what they were capable of.

The same principle holds true when it comes to our leaders — particularly those of the strongman variety. We might not be directly culpable for their actions. But we still carry the stain of association.

We do so because we lean into one illusion, in particular. That an iron fist can yield widespread economic prosperity.

This is simply not possible, for the reasons already discussed. And there are plenty of real-world examples of the illusion failing. Examples we’ve seen in the news, or learned about in school, or just heard about through our social circles.

We know better. And yet, we chase after misguided fantasies anyway.

It’s time to wake up.

There is an explanation as to why Seth Bullock’s name no longer graces much of the northern tier.

It centers on a couple of elections that took place in the 1870s in what is now Lawrence County, South Dakota.

Bullock had served as sheriff in the county. But he was an appointed sheriff who had been named to his position by the Dakota territory’s governor.

As the county legitimized, elections were held for the sheriff’s position. Bullock ran for his post, but he did not win it. He was forced to cede his duties.

Bullock tried again in the following year’s election. But once again, the voters cast his aspirations aside.

Even at the apex of his exploits, Bullock’s legacy was getting sidelined.

It’s hard to know exactly what led to these election losses. But it’s possible that the citizens of Lawrence County saw the limits of strongman rule.

Sure, Bullock could cut down on the saloon fights and the shootouts in the street. But the frontier region was on the precipice of a boom. Could Bullock really help deliver the prosperity residents were seeking?

It appeared not.

Indeed, Bullock’s exploits had pitted him against some local business owners — who prospered in trade and social connections across the county, but who also engaged in some illicit activities. Voters seemed to favor the future promised by these leaders to the strongman keeping them safe.

Perhaps we can take something from our ancestors’ example. Perhaps we can get less swept up in the fantasy of rhetoric. And perhaps we can apply more logic when a strongman makes their pitch of prosperity to us.

This might not sooth the acid reflux of our current tariffed economy. But it could keep some future heartburn at bay.

And that matters.

Power Dynamics

As I stared at my phone’s home screen, frustration washed over my face.

The neat grid of app icons I’d perused just hours earlier was now an imperceptible mess.

I had updated the phone’s operating system overnight. And the new OS seemed to have put all the app icons in dark mode.

The white space on each app tile was now a dark gray. And the app icons were now a faded array of colors. This made the apps for Ford, AT&T, Venmo, Garmin and The Weather Channel appear interchangeable.

This was a first world problem of the highest order. But it was still a problem.

Indeed, I felt as lost navigating the screen at 6 AM as I had at 1 AM, when I’d stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water. I knew the general direction of where I was headed, but getting there required a lot of squinting and some tentative movements.

This had to stop.

I turned to the phone settings screen and tried to revert the darkened icons. But this turned off dark mode entirely — making all the apps on my phone blindingly bright and draining the phone’s battery in the process. I rolled back that change quickly.

I thought about complaining to Apple, who was behind this phone update. Hey, maybe don’t tether dark mode to the app icons, or at least let us opt out of that view.

But I knew better.

This was Apple, after all. The company which once had Think Differently as it’s tagline. The poster child of the closed ecosystem.

Apple wasn’t going to make it easy for me to file a consumer complaint. And even if I persisted, they weren’t likely to take that complaint into account.

The power dynamics were not in my favor.

If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses.

Such were the musings of Henry Ford. While it’s uncertain if he said these words verbatim, there’s no doubt that he thought along these lines.

Ford came of age in the first era of capitalism. Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations had been published in 1776, and it placed market dynamics front and center.

Without demand, Smith stated, there would be no impetus to create goods. And without those goods to sell, there would be no commerce.

Smith called the combination of these forces The Invisible Hand. And the term soon became ubiquitous.

The United States had also come to be in 1776. And as it established its economy, it deferred heavily to the power of consumer demand.

There was a heavy focus on producing items that the populace had expressed a need for. And on bringing those items to market at a fair price.

It was The Invisible Hand in action.

Innovation had trickled into the fold over the ensuing decades. But such efforts mostly focused on efficiency of production, or the quality of finished materials.

The machines in east coast textile mills helped turn more cotton, silk, or wool into clothing each day. The steel from Andrew Carnegie’s foundries helped build taller buildings and sturdier bridges.

The transportation needs of the people wearing that clothing and crossing those bridges to get from building to building? Those were accounted for by horses, steamships and railroads.

Those were the methods consumers used. As such, those would remain the areas of focus for businesses in the market.

Until Henry Ford turned the whole system on its head.

Ford had a grand vision for the automobile. The motorized wagon had cropped up in Europe, and it had recently found its way to America. Still, it was mostly a novelty for the rich, with no sign of widespread demand.

Ignoring these headwinds, Ford set out to create a reliable vehicle – the Model T. Then he rolled out new production techniques to assemble that vehicle at scale. He offered the vehicle at an appealing price point. All while unleashing messaging sure to spur interest.

Ford’s efforts ushered in the age of the automobile. Horse-drawn travel faded away. Suburbs became viable. The road trip became a thing.

And the second era of capitalism found its spark.

By succeeding with something the market hadn’t asked for, Henry Ford had usurped control.

No longer were consumers pulling the strings. Ford was the one who knew best what was needed. And he ran his company accordingly.

Consumers didn’t always like this, and some did voice their complaints. But as the automobile fast became ubiquitous, those complaints mostly fell on deaf ears.

The power dynamics was not in their favor.

Roughly a century after the Ford Model T hit the market, Steve Jobs took the stage at an Apple keynote. Partway through his presentation, he unveiled the iPhone.

Apple’s first smartphone didn’t come out of left field the way Ford’s automobile had. Consumers had already been using mobile phones for some time. And some of those phone models had email and text messaging capabilities.

But Jobs paid little attention to what consumers had expressed demand for. Instead, he spurred Apple to create something entirely novel.

The result was a pocket-sized supercomputer. One that embedded messaging and phone calls into the touchscreen. And one that allowed for additional functions through programs called phone apps.

Apple didn’t make the iPhone as affordable as Ford had made the Model T. And it took time for consumers to flock to the device.

But once they did, they ended up giving more than their money to the tech behemoth. They handed over leverage as well.

Indeed, the iPhone ended up transforming the way many went about their everyday lives, from accessing entertainment to paying bills to ordering food. Phone apps helped re-imagine these processes.

Many of these apps were built and managed by third parties. But Apple still controlled access to them through a proprietary App Store found on each iPhone.

Third party programs would have to confirm to Apple’s standards to remain in the App Store. Consumer demands carried little weight. What Apple wanted, Apple got.

The same held true for the iPhone’s underlying software. Apple could redesign it at will – by, say, making all app icons appear in dark mode – and then deploy the update to all phone users. The consumer had no say in the matter.

The power dynamics were not in their favor.

A day after the darkened phone icons wrecked my morning, I got a notification.

Check out the guide to your new operating system.

I scrolled through the tutorial, learning how to style text messages and customize my lock screen.

Suddenly, there it was. A tip for customizing my app icons on the phone’s home screen.

I followed the instructions. The process was anything but intuitive, but I got my icons to appear as before.

As I stared at my phone, I felt a mix of emotions.

I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to quint at my phone anymore to open the right app. But I was annoyed that it took a dose of fortune to get back something that never should have been taken from me.

I feel this way all too often in life. And I’m certain that many others do as well.

Our leverage has been taken from us in the name of innovation. And we’re forced to jump through hoops for the privilege of being strong-armed.

It’s a pernicious cycle. But it doesn’t have to be a self-fulfilling one.

We can demand more from those we buy from. We can buoy alternatives to send a message. And we can model behavior that shows more equitable power dynamics between buyer and seller.

None of this will be easy. And some of it might demand some sacrifice.

But it will prove worthwhile.

Power dynamics have gotten out of hand. It’s time to flip the script.

Convective

What goes up must come down.

These words caught me off guard.

Sure, I’d heard them before. They were a favorite saying of my father on family road trips.

But I wasn’t in the car this time. I was in my college meteorology class. And my professor was the one conveying these words.

The professor was introducing the concept of convective weather. An abstraction that he sought to make reality in our minds.

About 10 miles to the west of the classroom, the professor explained, moisture would rise from the swamps of the Florida Everglades. Those vapors would cool as they rose, turning into thick clouds as they collided with the stratosphere.

Those clouds would drift out toward the coast until they got too heavy. Then they’d dump down rain — usually right onto the university campus during the mid-afternoon.

What went up had indeed come down. And this scientific illustration left an indelible impression.

I thought about all the times I showed up to class drenched to the bone. I thought of all those times when black clouds suddenly sent me scurrying from the beach.

Convection might have been a force of nature. But I was not a fan of it.

Career pathing.

It’s a concept that’s gained steam in the corporate world of late.

Gone are the days of keeping workers in stable, specialized roles for decades. These days, companies focus on elevating employees through the ranks.

At first glance, there would seem to be much to like about this. Employees can attain loftier titles, more responsibilities, and bigger paychecks. Companies can retain highly motivated workers, who might prove more efficient in managerial roles than outside hires.

But make no mistake. Career pathing is no panacea.

There is only so much room at the top, and providing an escalator to that rarefied air does nothing to relieve the pressure.

There are only two ways to make space — add layers to the organizational chart or cut ties with existing managers. One method exacerbates the core issue at hand. The other punctuates it.

We might enjoy the promise of time in the sun, boosted by career pathing and a culture of upward mobility. But the fall will eventually come for us, just as it did those we displaced during our rise. And when that drop arrives, it will be precipitous.

These are the laws of a convective system. What goes up must come down.

My roots are American.

This is the answer I always give when people ask me about my background.

Others may rally around strains of lineage. Irish, Italian, Mexican, and so on. But not me.

I was born here, and I was raised here. So were my parents and three of my grandparents. Shouldn’t that be enough?

Maybe not.

None of us are really from America. Our ancestors all emigrated from somewhere. And whether they crossed the Bering Strait 10,000 years ago, crossed the Atlantic Ocean by boat 100 years ago, or crossed the Rio Grande a decade back — well, those ancestors were likely not all that well off when they arrived.

My lineage reflects this well. Most of it spreads across the hilly terrain of Eastern Europe. Yet, it converges here in America. Not by luxury, but by necessity.

Consider the ancestral string that carries my surname.

My ancestors from that strand came to America four generations ago. I don’t know much about what brought them here. But I do know that in the 1910s, my great grandfather was growing up in a single parent household. His mother would sell goods along the beach, skirting permitting laws to make ends meet.

My great grandfather eventually found a more stable income by operating his own corner grocery store. My grandfather improved his stature even further, becoming a family doctor.

These days, my father is a teacher at a prestigious private school. And my uncle is a renowned surgeon who heads a department at a major American hospital.

My family has certainly followed the convective pattern, rising in prominence with each generation. This feat is laudable, if not entirely noteworthy.

Indeed, plenty of families have risen through the ranks the way mine did. The convective route to acclaim is so commonplace that it’s become a staple of American culture.

That is one reason why I’m unapologetic about claiming my roots as American.

But this gravy train must end sometime. At some point, a generation of my family will hit the stratosphere. Upward mobility will be quashed. And things will start going in the other direction.

What goes up must come down. But when?

Will this reckoning happen to my generation? The next one? The one after that?

I have no idea.

What I do know is I’ve got a clean slate. My parents allowed me to pursue a career of my choosing, free of prejudice. And I’ve been successful in that pursuit.

Still, my exploits have brought me precious little inner peace.

I often ask myself if I should be going after more in my profession. I often ask myself if I’m in the right profession.

I wonder if I’m adequately contributing to the convective process that’s brought my family to the fore. I wonder if I’m doing enough to sustain the rise and stave off the downfall.

But I could be chasing after the wrong questions.

What’s next?

I asked myself this openly, as I prepared to vacate a volunteer leadership role.

I had been president of my alma mater’s local alumni chapter for four years. And I had served as vice president for two years before that.

Now, my time at the helm had come to an end. And I was readying myself for the next challenge.

I thought through my options for my next step. Other volunteer organizations to devote my time to. Other rungs of involvement within alumni leadership. Other activities to get acquainted with.

These were the ways I could keep rising, keep contributing, keep demonstrating prominence. The convective system of influence demanded I choose one.

But I didn’t want to.

I was tired. Tired of sacrificing my time and energy at volunteer leadership pursuits. Tired of leaning deeper into that sacrifice with each passing year.

I didn’t want to keep rocketing up to the Teflon ceiling of the stratosphere. I was just fine floating along in the mid-levels. Not getting stepped on, but not getting knocked down either.

I wanted to break the cycle. So, I did.

I replaced my volunteer leadership role with…nothing. And in the process, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My decision in this area is far from noteworthy. But it is illustrative.

It shows that the convective system — the escalator to the top — is not the prerequisite to success.

Those who want to keep defying gravity have full license to do so. Our societal systems make that abundantly clear.

But not everyone wants that.

Indeed, a great many likely prefer a less turbulent journey. They yearn to get to a comfortable cruising altitude and level off the plane. But they don’t recognize that such a path is possible.

Let’s change that.

It’s high time we evangelize that gentler path. That we normalize an alternative to the never-ending climb. That we blaze a trail to a more sustainable future.

What goes up doesn’t have to come down. Let’s make it so.

Soft Power

On June 12, 1987, the world changed with six words.

Those words came from Ronald Reagan, who was the United States President at the time. And they took place in front of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin.

The image of the American president speaking in the shadow of Germany’s most famous landmark should have been glorious and awe-inspiring. It was anything but.

For the Cold War was in full swing. Tensions were high. And a hideous concrete barrier stood between Reagan and the iconic gate.

That barrier, of course, was the Berlin Wall. A heavily fortified edifice that split the city in half and had come to symbolize the divide between the Soviet Union and the West.

Reagan surely knew why the Berlin Wall was there. But he also recognized that it didn’t need to be there. What was built up could always be removed.

And so, he called on his Soviet counterpart – General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev – to do just that.

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall, he exclaimed. The crowd in front of him cheered voraciously.

The Soviet premier didn’t come down to the Brandenburg Gate with a sledgehammer on that day, or any other. But he surely heard Reagan’s words. The whole world did.

And less than 30 months after Reagan’s speech, the Berlin Wall did indeed fall.

The Soviet Union collapsed. The Cold War ended. And Berlin was at last reunified.

It was a turning point in history — an exuberant, peaceful moment. And it might not have happened that way without Reagan’s words.

Reagan’s tactics that June day in Berlin were a classic example of what’s known as Soft Power.

This term – coined by political scientist Joseph Nye — refers to a nation’s ability to persuade others to do what it wants without force or direct coercion.

Instead of relying on military offensives, economic sanctions, or trade embargoes to influence change, Soft Power practitioners use indirect methods to get what they want.

They might spout off a few well-timed words to turn the tide of public perception. They might lean on the titans of industry within their borders to transform economic markets a continent away. They might rely on entertainment conglomerates at home to model cultural behaviors abroad.

Soft Power has existed for centuries. But few have mastered it as the United States has. Our prowess in this area is so pronounced that it’s practically taken for granted.

Invade Cuba with Starbucks and Coca-Cola, goes one old joke. The Communist regime will fall within a day.

It was going to take more than Coca-Cola to topple the Soviet Union though. So, Reagan —a man who was dubbed The Great Communicator — used his voice instead. He pounced on Gorbachev’s prior platitudes of openness, calling the premier’s bluff by demanding action.

Reagan knew full well that Gorbachev couldn’t take down the Berlin Wall. What lay behind it was simply too ghastly to display.

But now, thanks to Reagan’s words, everyone was wondering what lay behind the curtain. Was the Soviet Bloc truly as fearsome as its nuclear arsenal? Or was it just a house of cards?

It turned out to be the latter. And because of that, a 30-year military stalemate ended without a single shot fired.

Decades have now passed since the Soviet Union fell. And in that time, the world has soured on Soft Power.

What was once an invaluable diplomatic tool is now a mark of exploitation. A symbol of imperialist meddling. A usurping of a sovereign nation’s destiny.

Such views are not without merit. Soft Power has surely been abused plenty over the years.

But leaving well enough alone isn’t exactly a panacea either.

You see, as humans, we have a propensity to emulate behavior. This tendency is why parents have such an impact on young children. It’s why education so frequently takes place in group settings. And it’s why traditions remain resonant through the generations.

Dismantling Soft Power leaves societies without influencers to emulate. And in that vacuum malfeasance can grow.

It’s no wonder that the most isolated nations tend to be the most corrupt, the most dangerous, and the most volatile. It’s hard to thrive in the shadows. Just look at the Soviet Union.

Yes, Soft Power itself is not a cancer. In fact, it can be a force for good.

But only if we use it responsibly.

I don’t work for the government. I didn’t study political science in school. And I’m hardly versed in international affairs.

Yet, I consider myself a practitioner of Soft Power.

For I work in a sizable organization. One with hundreds of employees, scattered across multiple states.

If I want to influence how we go about our business, brute force isn’t an option. I can’t pull rank, and I don’t have a bullhorn large enough to carry across time zones.

Soft Power is my only option for leaving my mark on my organization’s processes. I must rely on influence, rather than edict.

Some may bristle at this scenario. But I love it.

I like impacting change through influence. I like modeling behavior. I like building a coalition to get everyone pulling in the same direction.

And most of all, I love what Soft Power requires of me.

It requires me to be nuanced and well-rounded. It requires me to truly listen to others and to understand their perspectives. And it requires me to work within those parameters to find an agreeable solution.

This is a much better method of resolution than going into a scenario with guns blazing. I’m far more likely to drive enduring change through Soft Power. And I’m far more likely to remain agreeable through the process.

But I needn’t be the only one to reap these benefits.

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?

Wealth vs. Fame

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

How often have we heard this phrase?

And yet, we seem to have misconceptions about what it truly means.

On its face, this message is an edict that success is double-edged. It states that making it big means selling our soul. It tells us that who we are and who we want to be are forever incompatible.

Because once we attain a position of influence, our vantage point shifts. We conveniently forget what life was like before the climb.

All we see is our position on the summit. And we are determined to hold on to that spot.

We are immensely powerful. And we are thoroughly corrupted.

The prophecy fulfills itself.

And yet, the prophecy is a myth.

Across America, there is an uneasy divide.

This divide is Red States versus Blue States. It’s farmers in overalls versus Wall Street bankers in fancy suits. It’s bright city lights versus one-horse towns.

We have many ways to explain what forms this chasm. Political ideologies. Education systems. Community surroundings.

But I think there’s a better explanation.

I believe the fault lines form between those who aspire for influence and those who repel its grip.

For we are all aware of the perils of power. And we are cognizant of the unsavory ways it can transform us.

We’ve read the slogans. We’ve heard the cautionary tales.

And yet, some of us find ourselves drawn to power’s radiant glow, much like moths to a flame. All while others avoid it like the plague.

This explanation might seem crude. Rudimentary even. But it incorporates the great American X-factor: Mobility. It explains the rush of people heading to the big city to make their fortune. And it defines the counter-rush of city-dwellers heading to the suburbs for simpler living.

Our relationship to power flows both ways.

This leads to another question: What exactly is power?

It seems like a simple query at first. And yet, answers are lacking.

For power is an abstract concept, devoid of visualization.

There is no universal symbol, such as a sunburst for light or a heart for love. There are just the cultural vessels we have defined — in particular, wealth and fame.

Each of these vessels seem to fit the mold at first. Those who accumulate vast sums of money have plenty of options on how to spend it. Those bestowed with fame can bend fawning followers to their will.

And yet, one of them has proven far more corrosive than the other.

Greed is good.

This is the most iconic line from the 1987 movie Wall Street.

The film — and its antihero, Gordon Gecko — serves as a stark portrait of the ills of capitalism, wealth and fortune.

The implication is straightforward. Those who accumulate money will seek to double their returns at all costs, transforming from full-fledged members of society into sociopaths.

Sometimes, this portrait comes to life in horrifying detail. But not always.

There are more than 600 billionaires in the United States. Some of these names you know. But a bunch of others you probably don’t.

Why is that?

Could it be that our brains can only process so much information at once? Maybe.

But I think there’s more to it than that.

You see, some brash billionaires do put their name out there, letting their wallet or their ambitions inflate their ego. But many others resist such temptation. They try and live as anonymously as those with fewer commas on their balance sheets.

Sure, their clothes might be fancier than ours. And they might never know the struggle of living paycheck to paycheck. But they are far from the embodiment of Gordon Gecko.

In their case, greed is not good. In fact, greed is not part of the equation.

Fortune might not change everyone it touches.

But fame? Fame most certainly will.

We can lurk in the shadows, even with loads of cash in the bank. But once everyone knows our name, our lives are destined to profoundly change.

For fame is elusive. It can overtake us in an instant. But it doesn’t last for long.

The easy in, easy out nature of notoriety comes from our fragile attention spans. Humans are stimulated by novelty, and we seek it at every turn. Something that captivated us yesterday thoroughly bores us today.

These forces are wonderful news for those seeking to have their name in lights. They can help accelerate the rise to notoriety.

But once those people reach the pinnacle of fame, they’ll find those same forces working against them. The tide is rolling in. And the next big thing is charging full speed at them, ready to bury them alive.

No one who’s achieved such glamour wants to feel the humility of irrelevance. No one in this spot wants to see their star burn out.

And so, the newly-gilded fame-erati do what they can to hang on to their notoriety. They become belligerent. They pander. They toss aside rules of decorum.

And in the process, they lose every sense of who they were before the bright lights found them. They find themselves corrupted to the core.

One can still find balance when bestowed with great wealth. But fame? There is no redemption for fame.

I don’t aspire for wealth or fame.

Having enough to get by is sufficient for me. The virtues I espouse and the company I keep matter far more than any power or influence I might attain.

Yet, I feel confident that if I were to come into wealth, I would handle it appropriately. I would remain true to myself and to my values. I wouldn’t let my new net worth change my outlook.

Wealth isn’t enough to corrode the life I’ve built. But fame most certainly is.

I don’t feel like I’m all that different from others in this sense. I feel that most of us could take the mantle of fortune without evolving into monsters.

So, it’s time to dismantle the myth tethering power and corruption.

Notoriety might be doomed to the status of poison pill. But prosperity needn’t suffer the same fate.

The Power of Thank You

Sometimes, words carry extra weight.

Think of Abraham Lincoln delivering The Gettysburg Address. Ronald Reagan demanding Mr. Gorbachev, Tear Down This Wall. Jim Valvano imploring Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

These speeches have captivated our society. These words helped change our perspective and even altered the course of history.

They are powerful indeed.

But the most impactful words out there are actually quite simple: Thank you.

Thank you is brief and ubiquitous. We say it reflexively at times. We add it to our letters and emails by default.

Viewed this way, thank you looks like a formality. An expression of politeness, to be sure, but a formality nonetheless.

But don’t be fooled. These two words have a far deeper meaning than that.

In a world where we are quick to assert our independence, saying thank you indicates humility. It reminds us that we can only get so far on our own. And that the assistance of others is critical to our success.

Recognizing that, and expressing our appreciation, means everything.

In our culture of individualism, we all too often treat reliance on others as a sign of weakness.

As a compromising flaw in the human condition. As a bug in our software.

But reliance is no bug. It’s a feature.

We have relied on others throughout our history. As far back as ancient times, humans have banded together to avoid falling prey to lethal threats surrounding them.

Protecting the future of humanity has always been essential. And the best way to achieve that objective has been to avoid going it alone.

Even the earliest books of the Bible allude to this principle.

When Moses parted the Red Sea, he wasn’t simply going his own way. He was liberating his people from bondage.

Conversely, when Eve wandered alone in the Garden of Eden, she came upon the serpent of temptation. She bit into the forbidden apple, and humanity was cast out of paradise.

The lesson is stark. Going it alone is a recipe for disaster.

As I write this, Western society is fraught with unprecedented divisiveness.

Isolationism is at its peak, and polarization has poisoned public discourse. Facts are under attack, eclipsed by partisan theories and agendas.

Self-reliance is having a moment right now. And those Thank yous in our daily conversations and our email threads have never felt more hollow.

We don’t often think about the paradox this presents. After all, this behavior is now considered normal. And we find little inherent need to cross-examine normalcy.

But the irony grows thicker toward the end of the year, when gratitude is baked into our schedules.

In November, we celebrate those who serve in our military and then have a big meal in celebration of each other. In December, we shower each other with gifts before making a toast about the year to come.

It’s an intriguing eight-week run. One that causes us to reflect on what we have, why we have it and what we have to look forward to.

But our toxic divisiveness has turned this once-joyous period into a chore.

Appreciating veterans for their service has been turned into a litmus test for patriotism. Or a verdict on foreign policy.

Sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner now means going to battle with those at the table who have different views. Or perpetuating our filter bubble if no differences in opinion are present.

Unwrapping gifts on Christmas now means reviving the debate over whether America is a Christian nation. Even as the Constitution clearly separates religion from governance.

And ringing in the New Year now means lamenting how awful the prior year was, and approaching the new one with skepticism.

Our quest to reach self-reliance has reached its destination. And the misery it sows is now swallowing us whole.

We blame The Other for our plight. After all, is what the self-reliance playbook tells us to do.

But that only further deludes us from the truth.

Many years ago, a group of English settlers sat down for a feast on a chilly fall day.

The settlers had left England on some wooden ships, escaping religious persecution there. They crossed the Atlantic Ocean, hoping to land in the recently established Virginia territory and set up a colony there.

But this was centuries before GPS or motorized vessels, and the voyagers drifted off course. They ended up more than 500 miles up the coast from Virginia, in the region that would come to be known as Massachusetts.

The settlers were ill equipped for the frigid winters of the region, or the way the climate hardened the soil.

The attempts to go it alone had failed miserably. Many died of cold and starvation in that first winter. And the survivors seemed doomed to face the same fate, sooner or later.

Yet, the settlers reversed course. They turned to native tribes in the area for assistance in planting crops and building weather-resistant shelter.

Once the harvest was done, the settlers invited the natives to share in a feast of appreciation. A feast that is replicated each year. And one that will take place once again on the week I am writing about this.

Looking back now, this all seems quite remarkable. For we know what happened next.

The fledgling settlements in Virginia and Massachusetts grew into English colonies. Those colonies broke free of England and became the United States. The new nation expanded westward, the surge led by pioneers and frontiersmen out for their own interests. And native tribes like the ones who sat down for that first Thanksgiving dinner were villainized and confined to reservations.

Yes, our entire history has been defined by a divergence from that moment. From the point we thanked others for helping us survive to our current edict of Individualism-At-All-Costs.

We have forgotten our roots. We have abandoned the inclination to rely on each other, and to appreciate each other.

And in the process, we have become lost.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The power to change our narrative remains in our hands.

We can start by expressing gratitude, as we do each year amongst heapings of turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce and pie.

But we must dig deeper.

We should consider what a Thank you represents. Namely, appreciation for the assistance of others.

We should swallow our pride, and stop running from this assistance. Instead, we should seek it out when we are in need. And we should return the favor to others in need.

These actions represent humanity at its most efficient. These actions show humanity at its best.

Gratitude can be the gateway to this ideal. But only if we open our hearts and our minds to the principles it espouses.

There is great power in thank you. It’s time that we start using it.

The Truth To Power Paradox

Speak Truth to Power.

It’s an American rallying cry.

These words have come through as gospel time and again throughout our history, from the Boston Tea Party to the Civil Rights Movement. They’re even anchored in our Constitution, courtesy of the First Amendment.

We have long admired the truth-tellers, the rabble-rousers, the muckrakers. They have helped give a voice to the voiceless and keep corruption in check.

Indeed, the underdog is a particular favorite of our culture for this very reason. The ability to speak truth to power gives us hope.

Yet, this phrase carries with it an inherent irony.

For success in this case is subversive.

The ultimate goal of speaking truth to power is to evoke change.

Yet, the initiative in question is not the only thing turned on its head by this shift. So are the power dynamics.

Think about it.

Those who speak truth to power and succeed often end up toppling those on high. In doing so, they assume the figurative position of the fallen.

They fill the vacuum. They become the power.

And with that role change comes the hefty weight of responsibility.

The eyes of others remain on the ascendant truth to power speakers. But now, those eyes look with suspicion.

For within that crowd lies the next wave of truth-tellers. If an opportunity arises, they will strike swiftly and ruthlessly.

Those with power and influence will fall. The new breed will rise.

And so the cycle perpetuates, like the ebb and flow of a tide.

This might sound ruthless. Even cutthroat. But it is inevitable.

Those that take the escalator of accountability to prominence will eventually find themselves cut down. Much like our own existence, our time of influence is not unlimited.

This process cannot quite be summarized by the phrase Heavy Lies The Crown. After all, many truth-tellers are simply seeking transparency, not prestige.

No, this process is instead akin to The Principle Overrides The Person.

The system we have cultivated is bigger than any of us. It has to be.

Much like America itself — a grand experiment in constitutional democracy — the ability to speak truth to power is meant to be timeless.

The people who exercise this right with agility are mere footnotes to the greater ideal. In the grand scheme of things, they’re pawns to be used and disposed of.

I recognize this idea is controversial. Maybe even distressing.

But having cut my teeth in the ultimate truth-to-power profession — journalism — I’ve found it to be the truth.

As a young TV news producer, I prodded at the gatekeepers. I did my best to ensure the local police and sheriff’s offices were above board, civic governance bodies were transparent and major employers were not exploiting the community.

This was not a difficult task in West Texas during the midst of an oil boom. The entire community rallied around its Cash Cow product. Big city crime and corruption were hardly to be found.

Still, I took my job seriously. I kept prodding.

At first, I didn’t realize the power that I was wielding with this approach, or the weight it carried. After all, my check-ins with the movers and shakers of the region were only one part of my job, interspersed with coverage about knife fights at a local Whataburger and teenagers doing donuts in the median of the highway in stolen Jaguars.

(Yes, both of those stories really happened.)

But I soon came to understand the full weight of my responsibility.

One day, about 18 months into my tenure, I found a treasure of a story to include on the evening newscast.

Down near Big Bend, a woman had rescued a bunch of severely malnourished horses from across the Rio Grande in Mexico and nursed them back to health. She was preparing to adopt them out when I caught wind of her exploits.

Unfortunately, I had been working 14 hour shifts for much of that week, and I made an egregious typo on the news script for the story.

Instead of writing the word adoption, I put auction.

The error made it onto the 5 PM newscast. A few hours later, word got back to the woman, who called the station irate and threatened to sue.

We collectively did what we could to right the wrong. We made corrections and did our best to make amends. But the damage had been done.

Until that moment, I had been speaking truth to power. Now, I was the one being called into account. My job and my good name were on the line, because of a typo I whiffed on catching.

Ultimately, I survived. I got written up, but was able to keep my job.

Still, I will never forget that feeling where the tables turned on me. When I felt the heat of the spotlight I had so brazenly cast on others previously.

I can only imagine how the true veterans of the Truth to Power paradox feel.

People like John Lewis.

Lewis was a key figure in the Civil Rights Movement. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. might have gotten the notoriety — and rightly so — but John Lewis was right there with him.

After spending his youth fighting for and attaining civil rights, John Lewis has spent three decades fighting for the people in the U.S. House of Representatives. He has gone from speaking truth to power to becoming part of that power machine.

During his time on Capitol Hill, Lewis has served with dignity and grace. He has put the people first.

Yet, when people call out Congress as a body, they call out John Lewis. He is one of the 535 lawmakers in the Capitol. Even he, a national hero, is not immune to the Truth to Power paradox.

So, how can we improve this process? How can we make the world a better place without ending up as the villain?

I think we can start with a new perspective on power dynamics. By understanding the unique pressures those on high face, but also the boundaries they should not cross. By recognizing when to hold those above us in account and when to back off.

This perspective can make leadership desirable, instead of a fool’s errand. It can provide a forum for aspirations to flourish, while providing a needed barrier against exploitation.

This is only one potential solution. It might not be the best one. But it’s a start.

Ultimately, one thing is clear. Speaking truth to power, in itself, is not a panacea.

Let’s keep searching for better.