Clout without commitment

By Herman M. Lagon

In every organization—from schools to professional organizations—election season feels predictable. Out come the polished speeches and the photo-ready smiles. Pledges of “service,” “commitment,” and “vision” fill the air like confetti. But once the spotlight fades and the paperwork piles up, many of those loudest in promise become the hardest to find. Their once-booming promises dissolve faster than the minutes of their first meeting. They are what people half-jokingly call “leaders for the clout”—the ones who want the photo, not the paperwork; the title, not the toil.

I remember a graduate student who begged to be nominated for president of a professional body. When no one else volunteered, he won by default. He delivered speeches full of buzzwords—“reform,” “unity,” “modernization.” But after the election photos were posted, he became invisible—missing in meetings, mute in group chats, and mysteriously allergic to accountability. When the year ended, the organization was no better than when it started. The only transformation was in his résumé, now proudly bearing the words “former president.” That, perhaps, was the real goal all along.

In schools and offices, this type of “armchair leadership” is everywhere. They show up for group photos but skip cleanup day and meetings. They post slogans online but never attend coordination meetings. They deliver fiery speeches but cannot draft a single project proposal. A 2022 Deloitte study on global leadership engagement found that only 23% of employees believe their leaders “walk the talk” in service (Deloitte, 2022). The rest, they said, were all “voice and no volume.” We see this too often—from student councils to government halls—where leadership is mistaken for presence on posters rather than persistence in problems.

Social media has not helped. The modern “clout leader” thrives on visibility. They curate their image as the tireless servant of the people, while in reality, they serve only the algorithm. During school foundation weeks or alumni events, they are the first to grab the microphone but the last to clean up the mess. They caption their photos with “#ForThePeople” while people quietly whisper, “Where were you when the work began?” Leadership has become theater for some—a carefully staged performance of concern without commitment.

There is an old Ilonggo saying: Indi ka magpangulo kung indi ka manguna—do not lead if you cannot be first to act. Yet this wisdom is easily lost today. The “empty suits,” as management expert Robert Sutton (2007) described them, excel in looking busy but not in being useful. They talk about strategic visions, but their to-do lists remain blank. They praise teamwork but skip collaboration. They delegate everything and own nothing. In one teachers’ organization I know, the elected officers met only twice the whole year, yet their Facebook page never missed a “thank you post” to sponsors. The optics were perfect, but the output was zero.

True leadership does not trend; it endures. It looks like a teacher holding a broom, a clerk finalizing minutes past midnight, a mentor offering quiet advice instead of grand speeches. These are the leaders who work without hashtags. They understand that leadership is not a trophy for ambition but a task accepted with joy—and that the best kind of influence is often invisible. Research by Harvard’s Center for Public Leadership (Kellerman & Rhode, 2014) emphasizes that authentic leaders are defined less by their authority and more by their consistency, integrity, and capacity to “serve beyond self-interest.”

Yet the tragedy is that clout leaders often overshadow these quiet workers. In one alumni association I observed, the same faces dominate the stage year after year, though their only real contribution is being available for photo ops. They are quick to critique—“Why was the event not more grand?”—but when asked to help, they suddenly have “prior commitments.” These are the fair-weather leaders who appear only when success is guaranteed and credit is plentiful. Psychologists call this self-enhancement bias: the tendency to overvalue one’s contributions while downplaying others’ efforts (Sedikides & Gregg, 2008). It explains why some people see leadership as an ego boost rather than a moral duty.

It is easy to laugh at them, but the consequences are serious. When leaders disappear, morale follows. Real workers burn out. Projects stall. Students lose faith in the idea of service. And the culture of mediocrity spreads like mold—quietly, invisibly, but pervasively. The late educator Paulo Freire (1970) wrote that authentic leadership is “dialogue and action intertwined,” not one without the other. In schools, this means showing up not just for the ceremony but for the community cleanup; in barangays, not just for the ribbon cutting but for the relief distribution. Leadership without labor is not leadership—it is performance art.

Still, there is hope. Every once in a while, we meet people who remind us what leadership can be when done right. There is the public school principal who drives his tricycle to deliver learning modules during floods. There is the teacher who doubles as guidance counselor, nurse, and accountant, all before lunch break. I remember a graduate student who begged to be nominated for president of a professional body. When no one else volunteered, he won by default. He delivered speeches full of buzzwords—“reform,” “unity,” “modernization.” But after the election photos were posted, he became invisible—missing in meetings, mute in group chats, and mysteriously allergic to accountability.

Perhaps this is what our country needs—not more leaders, but fewer pretenders. Not more noise, but more presence. Leadership is not about who speaks the loudest but who listens the longest. It is about sweating the small stuff when no one else will. Those who seek office for clout are like paper boats: they float proudly at launch but disintegrate at the first sign of rain. Those who lead with service, however, are like the bamboo—bending, rooted, and resilient.

As elections for student councils, organizations, and barangays come again, may we remember this: the truest measure of leadership is not how many follow you, but how many you serve without being seen. Let us vote for those who show up, not those who show off. For every empty suit in office, there are hundreds of real workers quietly stitching the seams of progress. The next time someone campaigns for a position “for the experience,” ask instead: For whose experience—theirs or ours?

Because when the meeting begins, and the real work starts, leadership reveals itself not in words, but in who stays to turn off the lights.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.