The audacity of mediocrity

By Francis Allan L. Angelo

Let’s talk about the unsung heroes of our modern era: politicians. They brave the fluorescent lights of committee rooms, wrestle with unwieldy binders, and occasionally, with truly staggering effort, manage to cut the ribbon on a public works project that was already scheduled for completion.

And what is our default response? A collective, breathless roar of sycophantic gratitude.

But pause for a moment and consider the old chestnut known as the Social Contract. This charming philosophical agreement, which we, the people, apparently signed in invisible ink, outlines a simple exchange: We hand over our money (taxes) and our authority (votes), and they, the select few, promise to keep the lights on and the general populace from descending into chaos. It’s a transaction, a business deal, not a charity drive.

Under this contract, when a politician manages to, say, secure funding for schools, or improved roads or public markets, or pass a sensible environmental regulation, we should perhaps offer a firm, dry nod and a curt, “Well done. You fulfilled the terms of employment.” Instead, we treat these basic acts of governance as if they were a divine gift, a philanthropic gesture descending from the marble halls of power.

Imagine extending this logic to any other profession. Would you applaud your plumber for installing a pipe that doesn’t immediately burst? Would you shower your accountant with lavish praise for not committing tax fraud? Of course not. You paid them a handsome fee to do their job, and you expect a certain, non-catastrophic level of competence.

When we heap effusive, hero-worshipping thanks upon an official for, say, filling a pothole that has been actively dismantling our economy for six months or putting decent roof over leaky government buildings and public markets, we commit a cardinal error: We reset the bar to the floor. We send the unmistakable message that mere mediocrity is commendable. We confuse a basic duty – what the job description explicitly requires – with a heroic, voluntary act of public sacrifice.

We’re not being ungrateful for genuinely selfless or exceptional work; those moments are rare and should be recognized. We’re drawing the fundamental distinction between a public servant’s fiduciary duty and a benevolent whim. They are our trustees, not our monarchs. They are paid employees, not philanthropic overlords.

So, the next time a politician performs a basic function of governance, let’s resist the urge to throw confetti. Instead, let’s simply acknowledge that the system, for that brief, shining moment, actually worked. And then, let’s quickly remind ourselves of everything else on their to-do list. After all, the rest of the contract still needs fulfilling.