Dwain Northey (Gen X)

America has a curious habit of turning its Founding Fathers into marble statues. We quote them, invoke them, and claim to know exactly what they intended more than two centuries ago. But when you actually study the men themselves, you discover something far more interesting. They weren’t ideological robots. They were deeply flawed, often contradictory, and constantly arguing among themselves. They disagreed about government, economics, religion, and even what the Constitution should become.

Thomas Jefferson is perhaps the greatest example of that complexity.

Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence that “all men are created equal.” It remains one of the most powerful statements about human liberty ever written. Yet Jefferson himself owned enslaved people throughout much of his life. That contradiction is impossible to ignore. Some dismiss him as a hypocrite, while others excuse it entirely because of the time in which he lived. Reality is more uncomfortable than either extreme. Jefferson articulated ideals that exceeded the society in which he lived, but he never fully lived up to those ideals himself.

History is often like that. Great ideas sometimes come from imperfect people.

Jefferson also held another belief that seems almost forgotten today. He argued that each generation should have the right to govern itself rather than be permanently bound by the decisions of previous generations. He suggested that constitutions should be revisited—and perhaps even rewritten—roughly every generation so that government would reflect the needs, circumstances, and values of the living rather than the dead.

Whether one agrees with that proposal or not, it reveals something important about Jefferson’s philosophy. He did not see the Constitution as a sacred relic frozen in time. He saw it as a living framework designed to serve the people, not the other way around.

Contrast that with much of today’s constitutional debate.

Many modern constitutional originalists or textualists argue that judges should interpret the Constitution according to its original public meaning or the text itself rather than evolving societal values. Their goal is to prevent judges from simply imposing their own policy preferences. That philosophy has a coherent legal rationale, even if many Americans disagree with how it is applied.

But there is an irony worth considering.

One of the principal architects of America’s founding believed that future generations should reshape their governing document as society evolved. If Jefferson himself expected constitutional change to be a recurring feature of American democracy, then treating every word as permanently fixed raises an interesting historical question. Are we honoring the Founders by refusing to reconsider their work, or are we overlooking the fact that at least some of them expected future Americans to do exactly that?

The Founders themselves certainly were not unanimous. Alexander Hamilton envisioned a stronger central government than Jefferson preferred. James Madison changed his views over time. Benjamin Franklin admitted that no constitution could ever be perfect. These men argued fiercely with one another because they understood that governing a free people required constant debate rather than unquestioning certainty.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson they left us.

The Founding Fathers were not asking to be worshipped. They were asking to be understood.

They knew they were creating an experiment, not writing scripture.

The Constitution itself contains an amendment process because its authors recognized that no generation possesses perfect wisdom. The document was designed to endure, but it was also designed to change when enough of the nation agreed that change was necessary.

Maybe we’ve lost sight of that balance.

Instead of trying to imagine what the Founders would think about every modern issue, perhaps we should emulate what they actually did. They questioned inherited ideas. They challenged existing systems. They debated vigorously. They compromised when necessary. They revised their own assumptions.

In other words, they behaved less like constitutional purists and more like practical problem-solvers.

The greatest tribute we can pay the Founders may not be pretending they all agreed with us. It may be recognizing just how complicated they really were—and accepting that they expected America to keep evolving long after they were gone.

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?