In classrooms, I often heard students complain about assignments without word counts. It’s easy to fill up space with meaningless words, and our leaders have become masters of this. But words mean nothing without context and trust. It’s the same with promises from the podium—whether in Caracas or Washington. Without trust, governance falls apart.
The first “World Congress Against Fascism, Neofascism, and Similar Expressions” met last week in Caracas. Nicolás Maduro’s verbal tic—using three words when one would suffice—quickly becomes a meme. It’s as though he selected the most redundant suggestions from a thesaurus. Yet, as with many words, more doesn’t always mean better, especially when it comes to thought or trust. Political leaders excel at this empty rhetoric, demonstrating a remarkable ineptitude in both.
"Your pizzas will be out in a minute," the server reassured as she dropped off our drinks. It had been a while since we'd seen each other, and a lot had changed. We’d worked closely together before, but we went from co-workers to friends.
I had just wrapped up another job when he asked, "Dude, aren’t you tired of blowing up your life and having to always restart?"
I paused for a second before answering. It was a fair question. I have caused the people who love me plenty of stress on my behalf. But I never questioned why I didn’t mind the upheaval. Eventually, I answered, "Well, I guess you either go out with a whimper or go out with a bang, and it all comes down to trust."
"Go on," he said.
"Well, no matter how I’ve started, I’ve only left when the trust has been broken or the job has been done. I know I only want to go out with a whimper once—when it’s my last breath. So until then, yeah, I guess it is going to be a bang, even if it seems like the whole thing blew up. We always ask whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one is there to hear it. But we never ask if lightning was real if you didn’t hear the thunder. While others think you are the thunder, you are the light. It’s not like I wanted things to end that way."
In Venezuela, too, the thunder comes long after the flash. When trust in leadership is broken, the damage echoes for years. Just like the promises of Bolívar’s revolution—once a beacon of hope—the present reality feels like thunder in the distance, a painful reminder of what was once bright. The U.S. has not yet reached this point, but the cracks are forming. Once trust is broken, even the brightest flash of democracy can feel hollow without the roar to follow.
When the work of the diversity committee started, I was adamant it was temporary and not a permanent position. It was. However, one of our recommendations was better coordination between the three divisions where trust was lacking. I wasn’t looking for a fancy title or a C-suite job, but I couldn’t deny I had built up trust across the institution. The committee focused on aspirations, so a directorship sounded permanent in a figurehead, redundant way, and I had several other projects that could use my time and energy.
Our peer schools used “Director of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion,” or some combination thereof. If you want detangled hair, sometimes what is called a fork needs to be used as a comb. However, we focused on the aspiration of being and becoming an "inclusive community." I agreed to become "Director for Inclusive Community." I emphasized the FOR, even though the machinery always made it OF. My job was to figure out what matters most when it comes to teaching others how we do things. I was a trusted translator to all parties, and I enjoy wordsmithing, so I was there to define how we align on the clearest terms.
But even in positions built on trust, that trust can erode. Just as in Venezuela, where institutions that once had the people's faith became hollow shells of themselves, I saw this happening. When the destination is aspirational, the road must be wide, with broad shoulders, deep gutters, and strong retaining walls. When I started, the road was already built, and the committee I chaired had agreed on the destination. The last task was to build the retaining walls so the gutters could be dug. Once the leadership changed, they asked me to narrow the road and veer us off course, instead of going out with a whimper, I chose the other option of going out like a shot. Instead of a duel like Alexander Hamilton, I just fired the flare gun.
And then I thought further about those we hold in high esteem—how, given enough time, they all went out with a bang, even if the thunder took years for us to hear. That’s the funny thing: we all look to end like a dazzling show. But if you only spend time meandering down Disney’s Main St., you might leave thinking that the nightly fireworks behind your empty castle could ever replace the real thing. Not even close. They could never compare to the raw, chaotic magic of the Catatumbo lightning.
Sometimes you’re lightning, like Benjamin Franklin—dazzling, fiery, and fleetingly fast. So bright that once we got used to the normal light again, he was gone, until the thunder roared back. Better harness that energy, though, or like Hugo Chávez, you can burn the whole place down, leaving everyone waiting for thunder, but leaving only screaming and crying behind.
When you end up writing a novel like Rómulo Gallegos or crafting a proclamation like Abraham Lincoln, you control the spotlight and know that applause will come roaring at the end. Leaders like Gallegos and Lincoln have become rare, their legacies dimming under the weight of other’s mistakes. However, if you can’t write the novel or proclamation yourself, be like María Corina Machado or Donald Trump—shift the spotlight to a black light and let the rot expose itself. Whether in times of rebuilding or demolition, the response remains the same: I’m not merely the lightbulb but the electricity that drives real change.
I haven’t yet been a candle. But if I have the privilege to serve for long, I pray for George Washington’s wisdom. I want to light the fireworks and join the crowd in the roar. Or like Jimmy Carter, leave knowing his work was done, and that there was more to do; there’s always more to do. Better that than to melt slowly like Rafael Caldera or Joe Biden—misshapen and deformed with time, the flame long gone up in smoke.
I would be stressed, too, if I were looking inside the shell, behind the curtain, or inside the cannon—or the remaining wax. I’m not where you’re looking; I just turned that light off.
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