Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Language shapes the way we think, and sometimes the words we have—or don’t have—reveal blind spots in how we understand the world.

One thing I’ve often found curious is that English has the word “violation” to describe many forms of sexual assault, but the imagery behind that word is rooted in intrusion. It evokes the idea of one person physically invading another’s body or personal boundaries. That makes intuitive sense in many situations, but it doesn’t seem to capture every possible circumstance.

Consider the case of a woman sexually assaulting or raping a man. The crime is every bit as real. The lack of consent is every bit as serious. The trauma can be just as profound. Yet the language many people instinctively reach for—words like “violation”—doesn’t always feel as though it describes the experience in the same physical sense. The act isn’t defined by the same kind of bodily intrusion, even though it is absolutely an assault on the victim’s autonomy, dignity, and right to consent.

That raises an interesting linguistic question: Why doesn’t English have a distinct word that captures the experience of being coerced, manipulated, or forced into sexual acts when the physical mechanics differ from the traditional image of “violation”? We have words like “coercion,” “compulsion,” and “assault,” but none of them function as a true opposite or counterpart to the way “violation” is commonly understood.

Perhaps the answer lies in history. For centuries, legal systems and societies viewed sexual crimes through a narrow lens, often assuming that only women could be victims and only men could be perpetrators. Language developed around those assumptions, and as our understanding of consent has evolved, our vocabulary hasn’t always kept pace.

The reality is that rape is not defined by penetration. It is defined by the absence of consent. Whether the victim is male or female, whether the perpetrator is male or female, the essential wrong is the same: one person has stripped another of the freedom to choose. The harm is no less real simply because the physical circumstances differ.

Maybe English doesn’t need an entirely new word. Or maybe it does. But asking why our language seems better equipped to describe one form of sexual violence than another reminds us that language evolves alongside society. As we broaden our understanding of who can be a victim and who can be a perpetrator, perhaps our vocabulary should evolve as well, giving us words that more precisely describe every form of abuse without diminishing the seriousness of any of them.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Campaign season is upon us, and like clockwork the slogans come marching out. Lower taxes. Stronger police. Secure the border. Election integrity. They’re polished, they’re simple, and they’re designed to fit neatly on a campaign flyer or yard sign.

The other day I stopped to talk with someone campaigning for a Republican candidate for the Arizona Legislature. I didn’t even bother to learn the volunteer’s name because, honestly, I was more interested in the message than the messenger.

They enthusiastically listed the platform: lower taxes, strengthen law enforcement, improve border security, and enhance election security.

I smiled and asked what I thought was a simple question.

“That’s great. If you’re lowering taxes while increasing spending on police, border enforcement, and election security, what programs are you planning to cut to pay for it?”

The conversation stopped cold.

I continued.

“Is it education? Water security? Healthcare for seniors? Mental health services? Road maintenance? Fire protection? State parks? What exactly gets sacrificed?”

Nothing.

Just a blank stare.

It struck me that this is the question almost nobody asks during campaign season. Politicians love talking about what they’ll build and what they’ll cut, but they rarely explain how both can happen simultaneously. Government budgets aren’t magic. If revenue goes down because taxes are cut, yet spending goes up in other areas, something has to give. That’s not a partisan opinion—it’s basic arithmetic.

Every budget is a collection of priorities.

If someone promises another $500 million for border security while also promising tax cuts, ask where the $500 million comes from.

If someone promises more police officers, ask which department loses funding.

If someone wants to eliminate taxes entirely, ask how they intend to pay teachers, repair highways, maintain reservoirs, inspect food, respond to wildfires, or operate prisons.

The same questions should be asked of Democrats.

If a candidate promises expanded healthcare, free community college, renewable energy investments, and affordable housing initiatives, ask how they’re paying for it. Are taxes increasing? Are existing programs being reduced? Is the plan expected to generate enough economic growth to offset the cost? Those are legitimate questions, too.

Campaigns have conditioned voters to accept wish lists instead of budgets.

“We’re going to cut taxes.”

Wonderful. Which taxes?

“We’re going to strengthen public safety.”

Excellent. How much will that cost?

“We’re going to secure the border.”

Fine. What’s the price tag?

“And what are you willing to sacrifice to make that happen?”

That’s the question that seems to make campaigns uncomfortable because it forces candidates to move beyond slogans and into governing.

You can’t build more while paying less unless you can clearly explain where the money comes from. You can’t promise every benefit while denying every cost. Every dollar spent in one place is a dollar unavailable somewhere else unless there’s a credible plan to increase revenue or reduce spending elsewhere.

Maybe we’ve been asking politicians the wrong questions all along.

Instead of asking what they want to do, perhaps we should start asking what they’re willing to give up.

Because budgets, unlike campaign speeches, don’t applaud promises. They demand choices.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

One of the more curious conversations I had recently started with someone confidently declaring, “Well, Christianity has been around longer than Islam.”

My response was, “Technically, yes. But it’s not nearly that simple.”

One of the biggest misconceptions people have is imagining Christianity appearing fully formed the moment Jesus was born, as if someone flipped a switch on Year One of the calendar and suddenly there were churches, denominations, creeds, and Bibles exactly as we know them today. History doesn’t work that way.

Jesus was Jewish. His earliest followers were Jewish. They didn’t think they were creating a brand-new religion overnight. What would eventually become Christianity developed gradually over generations. The institutional church, its hierarchy, and many of the doctrines people associate with Christianity today evolved over centuries. Roman Catholicism itself didn’t simply spring into existence during Jesus’ lifetime. It became organized over time as Christianity spread throughout the Roman Empire.

Then came the Great Schism, dividing Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism. Later came the Protestant Reformation, which fractured Christianity into thousands of denominations. Lutherans. Anglicans. Presbyterians. Baptists. Methodists. Pentecostals. Evangelicals. Seventh-day Adventists. Jehovah’s Witnesses. And, in the nineteenth century, Mormonism emerged with its own scriptures and theology.

At what point do we stop calling this one religion and start acknowledging that it has become an enormous family tree with countless branches, each convinced it understands God’s intentions a little better than the branch next to it?

Islam entered history in the seventh century, making it younger than Christianity as an organized religion. But even that comparison ignores the obvious question: younger than which Christianity? The first-century Jewish followers of Jesus? The Catholic Church? Eastern Orthodoxy? Protestantism? Mormonism? They all trace themselves back to Jesus, yet many disagree fundamentally with one another.

And then we step back even farther.

Judaism predates Christianity by many centuries. But Judaism isn’t the oldest major religion either.

Hindu traditions stretch back thousands of years before Judaism. Various forms of Hinduism are among the oldest continuously practiced religious traditions on Earth. Buddhism emerged centuries before Christianity. Other ancient belief systems existed throughout Persia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, China, and indigenous cultures across every continent long before the New Testament was ever written.

So when someone boasts, “My religion is older than yours,” I can’t help but wonder what point they’re trying to make.

Does age determine truth?

If that’s the standard, then Christianity loses to Hinduism. If Christianity claims legitimacy because it grew from Judaism, then Judaism itself must acknowledge older spiritual traditions that preceded it. Every religion can trace influences, borrow ideas, or react to beliefs that came before.

History isn’t a straight line. It’s a web.

The irony is that nearly every faith teaches some version of humility, yet many of its followers engage in what amounts to theological schoolyard taunts: “My prophet is better than your prophet.” “My scripture is older than yours.” “My denomination has the correct interpretation.”

It begins to sound less like a search for truth and more like fans arguing over whose sports team has the better mascot.

Perhaps instead of obsessing over which religion came first, we should ask a far more meaningful question: Has it made us kinder, more compassionate, more honest, and more willing to treat our neighbors with dignity?

Because if a religion has existed for 2,000 years—or 5,000 years—but still leaves its followers arguing over spiritual seniority instead of practicing empathy, then perhaps we’ve missed the point entirely.

History should inspire curiosity, not superiority. The age of a belief system doesn’t prove its truth any more than the age of a book proves every word in it is correct. Civilizations evolve. Religions evolve. Ideas evolve.

The real measure of any faith isn’t how old it is.

It’s what it inspires people to become.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

One of the most bewildering contradictions in modern foreign policy is watching the same administration justify military action against one nation over the possibility of nuclear weapons while simultaneously helping another nation develop nuclear capabilities.

Think about that for a moment.

The argument for bombing Iran was that it represented an unacceptable nuclear threat. Whether one believed that assessment or not, the justification was that the United States could not allow another destabilizing force in the Middle East to move closer to nuclear capability.

Then, almost in the same breath, we’re told that Saudi Arabia should receive American assistance to build a civilian nuclear program.

How does that make sense?

If the concern is nuclear proliferation, then shouldn’t our standard be consistent? Either spreading nuclear technology in one of the world’s most volatile regions is dangerous, or it isn’t. We can’t declare one country an existential threat while insisting another deserves American investment in nuclear infrastructure simply because it’s considered a geopolitical partner.

History should also give us pause.

The September 11 attacks remain the deadliest terrorist attack ever carried out on American soil. Of the 19 hijackers, 15 were Saudi nationals. That fact doesn’t mean Saudi Arabia as a nation was responsible for the attacks, nor does it mean every Saudi citizen shares extremist views. Those distinctions matter. But it does make the current enthusiasm for deepening strategic ties, especially involving sensitive nuclear technology, worthy of serious public debate.

Foreign policy shouldn’t operate on the principle that our adversaries are dangerous while our allies are incapable of making dangerous choices. Alliances change. Governments change. Regional politics change. Nuclear technology, once transferred, cannot simply be taken back.

This isn’t about defending Iran. It isn’t about condemning the Saudi people. It’s about asking for consistency.

If nuclear capability is truly one of the greatest threats to international stability, then our policies should reflect that principle regardless of which flag is flying over the facility. If we’re willing to use military force against one country over nuclear concerns, we should be extraordinarily cautious before helping another country acquire the same underlying technology—even for peaceful purposes—because history has a way of reminding us that today’s ally isn’t guaranteed to be tomorrow’s ally.

Consistency isn’t weakness. It’s credibility.

Without it, foreign policy begins to look less like a coherent strategy and more like choosing different rules for different countries based solely on convenience. And when that happens, it’s fair for Americans to ask a simple question:

Are we making the world safer, or are we simply redefining what counts as dangerous depending on who our friends are this week?

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

One of the things that has always fascinated me about social media is how easily a quote can be attached to a famous name. Benjamin Franklin, Mark Twain, Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein—you can find them all saying things they almost certainly never said. Every time I see one of these quotes on Facebook or Instagram, I have the same question: Did they actually say that, or did someone simply decide it sounded profound if Benjamin Franklin’s name was attached to it?

One quote in particular has stuck with me, whether Franklin actually said it or not:

“We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.”

Whether those are Benjamin Franklin’s words or someone else’s, the sentiment is brilliant.

Think about it. Every single one of us enters this world ignorant. That’s not an insult. It’s a fact. A newborn knows absolutely nothing. Ignorance simply means a lack of knowledge. It isn’t a moral failing, and it certainly isn’t permanent. We spend our entire lives replacing ignorance with experience, education, curiosity, and discovery.

Stupidity is something entirely different.

Stupidity isn’t not knowing something. Stupidity is refusing to learn after the evidence is staring you in the face. It’s rejecting information because it challenges your beliefs. It’s deciding that your opinion matters more than facts. Remaining ignorant in the age of libraries, universities, documentaries, and a device in your pocket with access to nearly all of humanity’s knowledge—that takes effort.

I’ve noticed something else over the years.

If you tell someone they’re ignorant about a subject, many immediately respond, “So you’re calling me stupid?”

No.

I’m calling you ignorant.

There’s a huge difference.

If someone doesn’t know how an engine works, they’re ignorant about engines. If someone has never studied astronomy, they’re ignorant about astronomy. If someone doesn’t understand economics, medicine, or history, they’re ignorant in those fields. We all are. Every one of us is ignorant about thousands of subjects because no one can know everything.

Ignorance is fixable.

All it takes is curiosity.

But if I explain that distinction, provide evidence, answer questions, and someone still insists on believing something because it feels better than reality, then we’ve crossed into different territory.

At that point, if you insist that being called ignorant is the same as being called stupid, you’ve made the leap yourself.

As I sometimes tell people, “If I say you’re ignorant and you think I’m calling you stupid, then now I am calling you stupid.”

Not because you lacked knowledge.

Because you rejected the opportunity to gain it.

Perhaps that’s why that quote—whether it belongs to Benjamin Franklin or not—resonates so deeply. It reminds us that ignorance is the default setting for every human being. None of us chooses where we begin.

What we do choose is whether we keep learning.

In an era where answers are available within seconds, remaining uninformed isn’t nearly as understandable as it once was. We have more access to knowledge than any generation in human history. The real challenge today isn’t finding information.

It’s having the humility to admit when we don’t know something and the courage to learn.

That’s the difference between ignorance and stupidity.

One is simply where we all start.

The other is a decision.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There is an old saying that government is only noticed when it fails. Most of the time, Americans never think about the inspectors examining food processing plants, the scientists tracking disease outbreaks, or the countless public servants whose job is to prevent disasters before they ever reach our dinner tables. Their success is invisible because nothing happens. But when those safeguards are weakened, suddenly everyone notices.

That is why the recent concerns over contaminated vegetables should serve as a reminder that government agencies are not abstract bureaucracies. They perform real-world functions that protect all of us. Food safety isn’t partisan. Neither are bacteria.

Donald Trump and Elon Musk have repeatedly championed shrinking the federal workforce and reducing the size of government. Supporters celebrate these efforts as cutting waste, but there is a fundamental question that deserves to be asked: at what point do efficiency cuts become cuts to the very systems that keep Americans safe?

Food inspectors, epidemiologists, laboratory scientists, and public health investigators are not luxuries. They are the people who identify contaminated products, trace outbreaks, issue recalls, and stop illnesses from spreading further. When agencies lose experienced personnel, every remaining employee is expected to do more with less. Eventually, something gives.

The troubling part is that food safety is only one example.

If agencies responsible for protecting our food can be weakened, what comes next? Will the next consequence involve air safety? Environmental monitoring? Disaster response? Tax enforcement? Medical research? Consumer protection? Government is a vast network of interconnected responsibilities, and weakening one piece often creates ripple effects throughout the entire system.

Healthcare oversight raises another concern. The Department of Health and Human Services oversees issues affecting hundreds of millions of Americans. Its leadership influences responses to disease outbreaks, vaccine policy, public health emergencies, medical research, and healthcare programs. These are positions that require informed, evidence-based decision-making because the consequences affect every family in the country.

Americans should expect competence from those entrusted with public health. This should never be viewed as a partisan expectation. Regardless of political affiliation, the person overseeing the nation’s health infrastructure should inspire confidence through expertise, respect for science, and the ability to manage complex public health challenges.

The irony is that many people who call government ineffective are often the same people applauding when government is stripped of the very resources that allow it to function effectively. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy: reduce funding, eliminate experienced staff, watch performance decline, and then point to that decline as evidence that government never worked in the first place.

Most Americans never thank the inspector who prevented contaminated produce from reaching grocery shelves. They never know the scientist who identified a dangerous pathogen before it spread nationwide. They never meet the epidemiologist who traced an outbreak back to its source.

But when those people are gone, we notice.

Government isn’t supposed to be invisible because it does nothing. It’s supposed to be invisible because it’s doing its job so well that most of us never have to think about it. Weakening the institutions that quietly protect our health may save dollars on a budget spreadsheet today, but the costs can become painfully obvious when they show up on tomorrow’s dinner plate.