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The economists were wrong before
Most economists would disagree with Donald Trump's new reciprocal tariff policy, unveiled yesterday as the cornerstone of his second term. They would argue, with furrowed brows and stacks of data, that tariffs distort markets, inflate prices, and invite retaliation — textbook heresies against the gospel of free trade. Yet most of those same economists spent decades nodding along to the previous approach, the one that sent jobs and manufacturing overseas in a slow bleed that transformed the Rust Belt into a mausoleum of shuttered factories.The Rust Belt seems to trust Trump, delivering him the presidency based on his promise to enact the very tariff policy announced yesterday. Why are the voters mistaken and the experts correct? This is an important question that experts and the media must answer, as they show no hesitation in expressing their excitement at the prospect of Trump's failure. They may end up being right — the consensus is overwhelmingly in their favor at the moment — but isn’t it worth exploring how and why they were wrong in the past?The irony is thick: the consensus that once promised prosperity through globalization now stands accused of hollowing out the very nation it claimed to enrich. The story of how we arrived at Trump's tariff gambit involves hubris, unintended consequences, and a populist backlash that has been simmering since the giddy years of the last century.Let’s return to the late summer of 1999. The dot-com bubble was swelling, Y2K paranoia was a faint hum, and America stood atop a unipolar world. The Soviet Union was a ghost, and globalization — free markets unfettered, borders softened — was the triumphant creed. Bill Clinton, with his Cheshire grin and third-way swagger, had already shepherded NAFTA into law five years earlier, cracking open the continent for a flood of goods and capital. The World Trade Organization, which the U.S. joined in 1995, represented the next step: a global pact to weave the planet into one vast, efficient bazaar. Economists cheered, pointing to GDP spikes in nations that embraced the gospel. Corporate chieftains salivated over labor costs that plummeted when you relocated a factory from Toledo to Tijuana. It was, as the think-tank clerics at Brookings called it, the era of the "Washington Consensus" — a belief that open markets would lift all boats, from Wall Street to Main Street.That faith was a mirage, the wreckage undeniable. The middle class, once a broad and sturdy plank of the American edifice, has splintered. Manufacturing jobs — six million of them — vanished between 1990 and 2010, sucked into the maw of China's WTO-enabled rise. Towns like Youngstown and Flint became sepia-toned postcards of a lost age, with their steel mills and auto plants replaced by Dollar Generals and despair. The COVID-19 pandemic laid bare the folly of it all: supply chains, stretched gossamer-thin across oceans, snapped, leaving America begging for masks and chips from a China it now regarded as a rival, not a partner. Globalization, the golden calf of the nineties, morphed into a scapegoat for a nation unmoored.The nineties didn’t just create legendary country music; it was also a time when the U.S., drunk on post-Cold War confidence, viewed itself as the architect of a borderless utopia. NAFTA was the opening shot, a deal that filled shelves with affordable TVs but devastated factory towns. The WTO established the rules, prioritizing efficiency over sovereignty. Corporations flocked to Shenzhen and Bangalore, seeking wages far lower than the American norm. The Brookings crowd celebrated the benefits — lower prices and global growth — while overlooking the fine print: the American worker would bear the burden. And bear it they did. The data is grim: income inequality widened, the top one percent thrived on global profits, while the bottom half saw their share diminish. The Atlantic, reflecting on this period, described it as a "Roaring Nineties" for some — a roaring disaster for others.Enter Trump, stage right, with a policy as retro as it is radical. Tariffs aren't new — Alexander Hamilton loved them, and they bankrolled the government for a century — but they're a middle finger to the past thirty years of orthodoxy. Robert Lighthizer, the owlish ex-lawyer who's spent decades brooding over trade deficits, is the brain behind it. On The Tucker Carlson Show last month, he laid it out with a flinty clarity: "A country that doesn't make things is a country destined to lose." For him, tariffs aren't just a tax; they're a defibrillator for an industrial heart that's flatlined. Trump's pitch is simple: slap duties on imports, force production back home, and watch the mills hum again. It's a vision that's less about economic fine-tuning than about national resurrection — one that's found fertile ground in a populace fed up with elite promises.There's a cultural thread here that runs deeper than spreadsheets. Globalization didn't just offshore jobs; it eroded something intangible — pride, identity, and the quiet dignity of a "Made in America" stamp. Lightizer frames this as a moral struggle: A nation that can't stand on its own is a nation adrift. Trump understands this. His tariffs, along with tax breaks for domestic companies, aim to rebuild not only the economy but also a narrative — a story of strength that globalization's bland uniformity erased.Back in 1999, the dream of a borderless world felt invincible. Markets would solve everything; sovereignty would be a relic; workers would adapt. It was a beautiful theory — until it wasn't. Trump's tariffs, blunt and brash, represent a repudiation of that hubris — a bet that America can reclaim its footing not by retreating but by remembering what it once knew: that a nation thrives when it builds, not just when it buys. Most economists might scoff, but it’s worth remembering they have been wrong before. The tapestry of globalization is in shreds, and Trump is threading a new one, stitch by stubborn stitch. Whether it holds is anyone's guess.
Bedtime stories can’t buy G-Wagons
Some lunch meetings have more impact than others. Ron and Jacob’s once-a-quarter bread-breaking, something they’d held sacred since they met almost four years ago, was nothing if not high-impact. It always left both feeling pleased to have invested their valuable time in building the relationship. It doesn’t need to be stated, and a better narrator would simply omit this detail, but neither Ron nor Jacob has so much as touched a loaf of bread in years. Sure, the title of the ritual outing was always “Breaking Bread” on the calendar invite, but that’s nothing more than a touch of wit and humor between professional acquaintances. (The wit stems from how closely the title resembles their shared favorite television show, while the humor arises from the fact that they both practice intermittent fasting.) They do order food to maintain appearances. This particular lunch took place in the same spot as the others. I’ve chosen to omit the restaurant’s name since they declined to sponsor this story — a request they didn’t understand, and I couldn’t explain. I will admit that the establishment is known as the gathering place for prominent founders and investors. The food is overpriced, and the drinks are watered down, but, as I mentioned earlier (proving I may have been selling myself short as a narrator), these days, no one eats lunch or drinks anything other than the enhanced water they bring from home.“Bro, I’m telling you, you have to come tonight,” Ron said to Jacob after they finished ordering entrees. “The fireside chat will be dogshit boring, something about how to raise venture capital, but the networking will be so baller — so money — that skipping whatever you said you had to do tonight is the only option.”“I don’t know, man. My wife will kill me if I miss another one of my kid’s concerts.”“Your wife? Doesn’t she know you’re only doing it for her future?”“I mean, you’re right, of course, but that doesn’t track whenever I try to explain it to her that way.”“Would a brand new G-Wagon track? Because that’s the kind of business that can come out of tonight. I’m telling you — everyone will be there.”“I wish she understood I don’t like going to these things — at all. Just a bunch of egos in a room pretending to like each other so they can gain some sort of advantage.”“Yeah, you’d never hang out with the kind of people who go to these events in real life, but you’ve got to be willing to suck it up if you want to win.”“You’re right. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”“Wait — did you say you have a kid? How old?”Ron was right about the fireside — it was dogshit — but wrong about the networking. The people there weren’t the right people. He didn’t want to talk to those people; he wanted to connect with the people who weren’t there. Frankly, he would have preferred speaking to literally anyone other than the people who showed up. Where were the right people? He hoped they didn’t find out he was there. That wouldn’t be a good look — attending an event that wasn’t worth the right people’s time.On the drive home, with the All-Podcast playing in the background, Jacob thought about how close he was to achieving his goal of becoming successful according to the standard of strangers. He deserved it. He’d put in the work, sacrificed what really mattered, and did a cold plunge every morning at exactly 5 am. Unfortunately, all this hustle was putting a major strain on his relationship with his wife and kids. They could tell he was distracted, struggling for presence even at home.He was starting to wonder whether his wife still respected him. She seemed unimpressed by his accomplishments and had begun to resent his work. As a wife and mother, she wanted him to be nothing more than a husband and father. Had he taken the best days of her life in pursuit of the world's respect and admiration while losing it from the only people who truly matter?He wasn’t sure if his kids understood what he did outside the house; they probably wouldn’t recognize out-of-the-house dad. They knew he was gone a lot. Why did other people need their dad more than they did? Jacob knew he couldn’t rise to his own defense if asked. As Childers sings, there was a good man in the making once, but is he still alive?As he snuck into his daughter’s room to kiss her goodnight, she woke up and asked, “How did the event go, Dad?”“It was fine, sweetie. How was your choir concert?”“It was good. I missed a few notes, but Mom says no one noticed. She recorded it on her phone for you.”“I can’t wait to watch it. Sorry I missed it, kiddo.”“It’s okay, Dad. I know you’re busy. Love you.”“I love you, too.”Jacob turned off the night lamp and gently closed the door. He stood outside his daughter’s room longer than necessary. At the event, one of the speakers discussed the importance of balancing work and home life. Don’t hesitate to work hard, he advised, knowing it will pay off when you achieve success and can spend your time as you choose. As he listened, Jacob thought about all of the time he would spend with his wife and kids once he reached the finish line. That’s who he’d want to be with after finally achieving success. Now, at home with everyone asleep, he wondered why he couldn't bypass the success part — whatever that meant — and just choose his wife and kids right now. What was he waiting for?Jacob typed the question in his notes app so he could discuss it with Ron at their next lunch. Glancing at the time, he realized he needed to go to bed soon if he hoped to get tomorrow morning’s cold plunge in. He needed the clarity that icy water offered before another day of sacrificing himself to the grind.
Globalization’s Collapse: Why the middle class views Trump’s tariffs as their last stand
In the late summer of 1999, as the dot-com bubble grew and the American economy thrived during what The Atlantic would later refer to as “The Roaring Nineties,” the United States found itself at the height of a new world order. The Soviet Union had dissolved, the Cold War was a distant memory, and globalization — celebrated as the victory of free markets and liberal democracy — was the doctrine of the time. The Clinton administration, buoyed by post-Cold War optimism, pushed through NAFTA and ushered the U.S. into the World Trade Organization, promising a future of unbounded prosperity. Economists pointed to surging GDP growth in globalization-focused nations, as Boundless U.S. History notes, while corporate leaders were eager at the prospect of cheaper labor and untapped markets. It was, in the words of Brookings, an era when the “Washington Consensus” on free trade seemed unassailable — an ideological juggernaut ready to weave the world into a single, shimmering tapestry of commerce.Fast forward to March 24, 2025, and that tapestry lies in tatters. The factories of the Rust Belt stand silent, their hulks a testament to jobs shipped overseas. The middle class, once the backbone of American life, has been hollowed out, with stagnant wages and crumbling towns. Supply chains, stretched thin across oceans, snapped during the COVID-19 pandemic, exposing a nation dependent on foreign powers — chiefly China — for everything from steel to semiconductors. Globalization, once the golden calf of the elite, has shown itself to be a false idol, leaving a trail of economic wreckage and social discontent. And into this breach steps Donald Trump, armed with a policy as old as the republic itself: tariffs.In a recent interview on The Tucker Carlson Show, Robert Lighthizer, former U.S. Trade Representative under Trump and the intellectual architect of his trade agenda, presented his case with the precision of someone who has spent decades analyzing America’s economic decline. “A country that doesn’t make things is a country destined to lose,” he stated. For Lighthizer, tariffs are not just a tax; they represent a lifeline, a way to revive an industrial base that has been hollowed out by years of free trade ideology. Trump’s economic vision, articulated by Lighthizer and echoed across platforms such as The Conservative Treehouse and Occidental Dissent, represents a radical departure from the globalist orthodoxy of the past thirty years — a bid to reclaim America’s sovereignty, one steel mill at a time.The story of how we got here reflects as much hubris as it does economics. In the 1990s, as American Foreign Relations recounts, the U.S. viewed itself as the undisputed leader of a unipolar world. Globalization was not merely a policy but a mission — to spread capitalism and democracy to every corner of the globe. NAFTA, signed in 1994, was the first major salvo, opening borders to a surge of inexpensive goods from Mexico and Canada. The WTO followed suit, binding the U.S. to a system of rules that valued efficiency over resilience. Corporate America celebrated, drawn by the allure of lower labor costs in places like Shenzhen and Guadalajara. The Brookings analysis of trade policy during that decade captures the sentiment: a belief that open markets would benefit everyone and that the rising tide of global wealth would support American workers just as it did for Wall Street.It didn’t. The tide came in, but it drowned the heartland. Manufacturing jobs, once the bedrock of the middle class, vanished at a staggering pace. Between 1990 and 2010, the U.S. lost roughly six million such jobs, many to China after its entry into the WTO in 2001. Communities in Ohio, Michigan, and Pennsylvania—places where steel and auto plants once thrived — have withered into ghost towns, their populations decimated by unemployment and opioids. Endless economic charts illustrate this decline with cold clarity: the outsourcing boom enriched corporations and foreign economies while leaving American workers to fend for themselves. Income inequality widened, as the top one percent reaped the rewards of global capital flows while the bottom half saw their share of the pie shrink. The Atlantic’s retrospective on the nineties highlights the irony: a decade of economic boom for some was a slow-motion catastrophe for others.Worse still, globalization tied America to a web of dependencies that proved dangerous. When the pandemic hit, the nation found itself scrambling for masks, ventilators, and pharmaceuticals — all sourced from abroad, much of it from a China increasingly viewed as an adversary. Lighthizer, in an interview with CBS News, described it as an “existential threat” — a vulnerability that tariffs seek to address by bringing production home. A Politico article on Lighthizer’s groundwork for Trump’s next tariff push underscores that economic independence is not merely about jobs but about survival. A nation that cannot produce its own essentials is vulnerable to others — a lesson the elite of the 1990s never learned.Trump’s tariff policy is less a leap into the unknown and more a return to first principles. After all, tariffs have been the lifeblood of American economic policy for much of its history, funding the government and protecting emerging industries from foreign competition. During his first term, Trump imposed duties on steel and aluminum, leading some domestic mills to spring back to life — a small but tangible sign of what’s possible. Today, Lighthizer argues that these measures can prevent a broader economic crash by fostering a manufacturing renaissance. Critics, of course, cry foul — tariffs raise consumer prices, they argue, and risk trade wars. However, Lighthizer counters that foreign exporters often absorb the costs to remain competitive, and the long-term benefits —jobs, wages, resilience — far outweigh the short-term pain. ProPublica’s profile of Lighthizer underscores the stakes: he has “blown up sixty years of trade policy,” and what follows is anybody’s guess. Yet, the argument for tariffs is not only economic — it’s cultural, even moral. Globalization hasn’t just offshored jobs; it has eroded identities. The Brookings essay on the “globalization challenge” suggests this: as local economies were absorbed into a borderless market, communities lost their anchors. The uniformity of Walmart shelves replaced the pride of “Made in America.” The backlash — political, social, and visceral — has fueled Trump’s rise. He promises to improve the economy and restore a sense of national purpose. His policies, ranging from tariffs to tax cuts for domestic producers, aim to rebuild what globalization has dismantled.The dream of a borderless world in the 1990s was alluring, but it was built on shaky ground. It presumed that markets could address all problems, that sovereignty was outdated, and that the American worker could endlessly adjust to a system rigged against them. Trump, despite his bluster, recognizes this. His tariffs are a blunt tool, true, but they represent a reckoning — a rejection of the elite consensus that has left millions behind. Whether they succeed remains to be seen, but one thing is clear: globalization has failed, and Trump is betting that America can find its way back — not to isolation, but to strength — through the old, unglamorous tool of tariffs.
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The sun also rises in Appalachia
In the hollows of West Virginia, where the ridges rise sharply and the coal seams have long since thinned, a quiet revolution is flickering to life. It’s not the kind that rumbles with machinery or blackens the sky but one that hums softly on rooftops, catching the sun’s rays and transforming them into something practical — something like hope. Dan Conant, a lanky, earnest man with a preacher’s zeal and an engineer’s precision, leads this shift. As the founder and CEO of Solar Holler, a solar installation company based in Shepherdstown, he is determined to bring clean energy to rural America — not as a Silicon Valley afterthought but as a lifeline for places like Appalachia, where the old ways of powering life are fading into memory.Conant doesn’t talk about solar in abstract terms, filled with gigawatts and global salvation. For him, it’s personal, grounded in the dirt and clapboard of the communities he serves. “The ability to deliver for rural places — particularly places like central Appalachia, places that have been left behind — is absolutely huge,” he says in an interview with CEO.com. “This is an opportunity to build wealth, to build sustainable jobs, and to lower costs for folks who desperately need it.” In a region where the coal industry once promised prosperity but has left behind shuttered mines and shrinking towns, Conant views solar not merely as a power source but as a promise fulfilled — a means to give people a stake in their own future.Solar Holler isn’t your typical solar company, pursuing utility-scale contracts or suburban rooftops filled with cash. Conant’s team focuses on the small and scrappy: a church here, a firehouse there, a double-wide trailer on a hillside. They’ve installed panels on the roofs of volunteer fire departments in Mingo County and powered the United Mine Workers’ training center in Beckley. It’s a patchwork strategy, born from necessity in a landscape where large grids don’t always reach and budgets often fall short. “We’ve learned how to do solar in a way that works for rural America,” Conant explains, “not just the flat, sunny plains of Arizona, but the hollers and hills of West Virginia.”What sets Solar Holler apart is its refusal to treat rural folks as charity cases or afterthoughts. Conant’s team leans heavily into creative financing — federal tax credits, low-income solar grants, and partnerships with unions — to make solar accessible for people who’ve never had spare change to invest in a green dream. Take their work with the United Mine Workers: Solar Holler installed solar arrays to reduce energy costs for retired miners, a nod to the past that also serves as a bridge to the future. “We’re not here to maximize profit,” Conant says. “We’re here to maximize impact.” That might mean shaving margins to get a system on a low-income home or rigging up a “Solar Test Kitchen” for a nonprofit, where the only return is the glow of a community pulling itself forward.Since its founding in 2013, Solar Holler has transformed from a scrappy startup into a company that has installed over 1,500 systems across West Virginia and eastern Kentucky, employing dozens of locals — electricians, roofers, and recent high school graduates who might have otherwise left the area. Conant refers to it as “stopping the brain drain,” and he proudly expresses his satisfaction with it. “We’re training people, providing them with skills, and keeping them here,” he states. “That’s how you rebuild a place.”There’s poetry to this idea of harnessing the sun in a land once defined by what lies beneath it. Appalachia has powered America before — its coal lighting cities and forging steel — but the cost was steep, paid in lungs and landscapes. Now, Conant argues, it’s time for a new chapter, one that doesn’t pit progress against identity. “This isn’t about tree-hugging,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s about keeping the lights on, in a way that makes sense for us.” Solar Holler’s crews aren’t outsiders preaching a coastal gospel; they’re neighbors, speaking the language of pragmatism and paychecks.Policy has acted as a tailwind. The Inflation Reduction Act, with its substantial solar tax credits, has accelerated Solar Holler’s mission, allowing them to stretch dollars further and reach deeper into the hollows. “It’s been game-changing,” Conant admits. “Without it, we couldn’t do half of what we’re doing.” But he’s quick to point out that the real magic happens in the execution: navigating the steep slopes, the tight budgets, and the skepticism of folks who’ve heard big promises before. Solar Holler’s success isn’t just in the panels they bolt down — it’s in the trust they build, one handshake at a time.On a crisp morning in Logan County, you can see it unfold. A Solar Holler crew is on a roof, drilling mounts into shingles while a homeowner watches from the porch, coffee in hand. The system won’t just reduce her electric bill; it will give her something to brag about at the diner. Down the road, a church shines under its own array, a beacon of what’s possible when a company invests in the people it serves. “This is what it looks like to do it right,” Conant says, and you believe him — not because he’s selling a vision, but because he’s living it, one sunlit roof at a time.
The canal we gave away — Why the U.S. should reclaim Panama’s lifeline
The Panama Canal — eighty kilometers of locks and lakes carved through jungle and stone — stands as a monument to American audacity, a relic of an era when the U.S. didn’t just dream big but etched its ambitions into the earth. Since 1999, Panama has been in control, a handover solidified by the Torrijos-Carter Treaties — a noble gesture that now carries an air of strategic folly. Donald Trump’s call to “take it back” stirs a potent mix of nostalgia and cold-eyed realism. He’s right to want it. The United States must control the Panama Canal — not out of imperial swagger, but because it’s a vital artery of our economic and military might, a choke point too critical to entrust to shaky hands.Imagine a freighter stalled off Colón, its hold packed with Shenzhen-made gadgets, its captain seething as Panama’s rains — or drought — snarl traffic for days. Last year, a parched Gatun Lake reduced canal capacity by a third, forcing ships to reroute around Cape Horn or face extortionate premiums to skip the line. To the average American, it’s just a blip — your coffee maker costs a nickel more, your iPhone arrives a week late. However, zoom out: billions in trade grind to a halt, ports from Long Beach to Newark choke, and factories sweat their razor-thin schedules. That’s the canal’s silent clout. Leaving it to Panama — or, worse, under China’s influence — is a reckless gamble. Control isn’t bravado; it’s a shield.The data supports this. Forty percent of U.S. container traffic passes through those locks — a lifeline for Asian goods flooding the East Coast, LNG heading west, and soybeans and steel powering the heartland. It reduces 8,000 nautical miles from the Cape Horn slog, turning weeks into days and millions into pennies. In 1914, when the first ship sailed through Gatun Locks, it crowned America as a maritime titan — $375 million and 5,600 lives were spent to create a shortcut that reshaped the globe. By 1999, relinquishing it signaled a softer America, trading leverage for a diplomatic pat on the back. Today, with China’s reach extending south, that leverage seems less like a luxury and more like a lifeline.Trump’s pitch hinges on two main issues: fees and foreign influences. He criticizes Panama’s “exorbitant” tolls — $4 million for a gas carrier, a real figure but typical for the industry. The Panama Canal Authority defends its rates as fair, tied to drought and demand, yet Trump’s frustration taps into a deeper concern: America shouldn’t be nickel-and-dimed for what it built. Then, there’s China. “They’re operating it,” he claims — technically mistaken since Panama does — yet the threat is not imaginary. Chinese giants like CK Hutchison Holdings operate ports at both ends, with cranes looming over the locks; their infrastructure investments serve dual roles as geopolitical maneuvers. When Marco Rubio, Trump’s Secretary of State, confronted Panama City in February 2025, demanding a reduction of Chinese influence, he wasn’t bluffing. The canal is too vital to be treated as a bargaining chip.Since 1999, Panama has handled 14,000 transits annually — a $5.2 billion upgrade — but the seams are splitting. Droughts are draining Gatun Lake, stalling traffic; fees are spiking, rankling shippers; and China’s shadow looms, unsettling Washington. The Panama Canal Authority insists it’s neutral, sovereign, and untouchable. However, neutrality is a fairy tale when superpowers collide. If China’s ports — or its navy — tighten their grip, the U.S. could wake up to a throttled backyard. Control isn’t about robbing Panama; it’s about ensuring the canal remains an American asset, not a rival’s lever.When Trump vowed at Mar-a-Lago in December 2024 to “take back what’s ours,” he struck a chord of unease that has hummed since 1999 when the flag fell over Balboa Heights. The canal isn’t just a ditch — it’s a pivotal point of U.S. dominance, a bottleneck that tips the scales in a world of trade wars and warships. His fee fixation may lack precision, but it resonates with a raw truth: America pays dearly for what it once ruled outright. Why pay tolls when you could hold the deed?
The battle for trust in science
The demand for transparency in research — once a quiet murmur among ethicists and a handful of persistent journalists — has grown into a resounding chorus, fueled by a public increasingly distrustful of the institutions shaping their lives. At its core lies a timeless question: Who gets to know what, and when? The answer remains as intricate as the genome central to many of these debates.A March 21, 2025, article from the Genetic Literacy Project highlights the case of a University of Saskatchewan scholar whose research on technological shifts in the global food system was eclipsed in 2013 by freedom-of-information requests. Triggered by allegations of Monsanto’s corporate influence, the requests left a lasting mark despite the university clearing him — colleagues withdrew, students wavered, and the stigma of “tainted research” lingered. The piece frames this not as an isolated incident but as part of a broader pattern, spanning Canada to Brazil, where academics studying genetically modified organisms (GMOs) face similar scrutiny.This tension is not new, but it has gained urgency. Over the past decade, science — particularly biotechnology — has become a battleground for trust. Corporations like Bayer (which acquired Monsanto in 2018) and academic institutions tout collaborations that yield breakthroughs in agriculture and medicine. Yet a wary public, feeling like unwitting subjects in an unconsented experiment, demands clarity. Transparency has become a litmus test for legitimacy.The numbers underscore this shift. A Pew Research Center survey found that only 26 percent of Americans have strong confidence in scientists to prioritize the public’s interest, down from 39 percent in 2016. This decline reflects real events: the glyphosate controversy, where 2019 litigation uncovered Monsanto documents — reported by The Guardian — suggesting the company downplayed the herbicide’s risks; or the 2018 uproar over He Jiankui, the Chinese scientist who gene-edited human embryos, reigniting calls for oversight. Each episode chips away at scientific credibility, raising a persistent doubt: If the process lacks clarity, why trust the results?The Genetic Literacy Project proposes a structural fix — new partnership standards, proactive funding disclosures, and institutional backing for researchers facing public records demands. It points to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Office of Research Integrity, which offers a collaboration framework detailing goals, contributions, and data standards — a potential blueprint for universities and corporations alike. Yet this solution carries a paradox: transparency, while noble in principle, grows messy in practice, inviting misinterpretation, skepticism, and even hostility.Where does this leave us? Transparency isn’t a panacea—it’s a tightrope. Too little risks further eroding trust, and too much could paralyze researchers under relentless scrutiny. The Genetic Literacy Project argues that leaving it to individuals breeds inconsistency. Instead, institutions must lead — setting auditable standards, documenting decisions, and bracing for backlash. Only then can science navigate this era of doubt with both integrity and resilience.
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Dispatches from the frontiers of leadership.