“When someone shows you who they are, believe them.”
That old truth has never felt more urgent than in this moment, when the President of the United States dismisses a reporter with the words “Quiet, piggy,” and then, in a separate context, shrugs off one of the most brazen journalist murders of the modern era. Words matter. Tone matters. Leadership, most of all.
People often say one of the reasons they voted for Trump is that “he speaks his mind.” They admire that quality, as many do. Candor can be refreshing. Honesty can be noble. But so does the visibly disturbed man pacing a city street corner, screaming obscenities at passing cars and pigeons. He, too, is speaking his mind. The difference is not the act of expression; it is the quality of the mind doing the speaking.
When public discourse deteriorates to the point where it becomes increasingly complex to distinguish between presidential communication and a street-corner tirade, something has gone deeply wrong. When cruelty, mockery, and verbal degradation are rebranded as “authenticity,” we should not just pause; we should be alarmed.
And then comes the final layer of absurdity: The Interpreter—the official translator of the outburst. The apologist who insists that insults are actually “frankness,” that degradation is merely “honesty,” that humiliation is somehow a virtue.
That role now belongs to Karoline Leavitt, whose salary, it should be noted, is paid by the very citizens being told to applaud incivility as leadership.
We might understandably extend compassion to the man screaming at pigeons. But what do we say about those who stand beside him, microphone in hand, assuring us the pigeons deserved it?
That is not communication.
That is normalization.
And normalization is far more dangerous than the noise itself.
When the President refers to a journalist with a demeaning animal slur, the harm goes beyond the individual. He isn’t merely insulting a reporter. He is signaling to the nation that contempt toward those who question power is not only acceptable, but performative, expected, and even applauded.
Then consider this: During a recent meeting with Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, Trump dismissed the 2018 murder of Washington Post columnist Jamal Khashoggi by noting: “A lot of people didn’t like that gentleman that you’re talking about … whether you like him or didn’t like him, things happen.” He added that the Crown Prince “knew nothing about it.”
This was not merely glib. It was chilling. While U.S. intelligence concluded the Crown Prince ordered Khashoggi’s killing, the President employed dismissive language, then called the reporter asking the question “insubordinate,” threatened to yank the network’s broadcast license, and likened journalism to a hoax.
This is not a strength. This is not “telling it like it is.” This is the corrosion of democratic decorum.
Journalism exists not to flatter presidents but to question them. The press does not serve leaders; it serves the public. So when a president attempts to humiliate a journalist, or shrug off the execution of a journalist as little more than “things happen,” he is not asserting dominance—he is revealing insecurity and contempt.
And when a government communications apparatus rushes to rationalize that behavior, it transforms personal insult and international murder alike into institutional doctrine.
When someone shows you who they are, believe them.
A leader who mocks, belittles, and demeans does not merely lack civility. He lacks respect for the institution he represents and the people he claims to serve.
Frankness is not cruelty.
Honesty is not humiliation.
And leadership is not volume.
We can debate policy. We can argue ideology. We can disagree passionately about the direction of this country. But when the bar for leadership drops so low that cruelty is celebrated as candor, or murder dismissed as “things happen,” democracy itself absorbs the wound.
The danger is not simply what Trump says.
It is what we have been asked to accept.
And what we repeatedly accept eventually becomes who we are.