In the long tradition of American governance, the office of secretary of state has been a fulcrum of influence— a role held by some of the most distinguished public servants in our country’s history. From Henry Kissinger and James Baker to Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, these were individuals who often stood taller than the vice president, guiding foreign policy through diplomacy, caution, and, when necessary, principle.
But today, in the early months of Donald Trump’s second term, our current secretary of state, Marco Rubio, is not rising to that level of service.
He is not standing taller.
Rubio is disappearing— shrinking, in fact, into the very cushions of the Oval Office couch, where he sat hunched beside Vice President J.D. Vance while Trump berated Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky. It was a moment so surreal it felt ripped from a movie. Rubio had the look of a man descending into the sunken place.
Later, Rubio praised the moment. “Thank you @POTUS for standing up for America,” he posted.
Gone was the senator who once defended Ukraine’s sovereignty. Gone was the conservative who once understood the necessity of U.S. leadership abroad. What remains is a man willing to debase himself for proximity to power.
This pattern of surrender has repeated itself. At a recent cabinet meeting, Rubio hailed Trump as “the only leader in the world” capable of achieving peace—language that brushes dangerously close to religious reverence. He then attempted, and failed, to explain the administration’s erratic economic policies with a string of incoherent talking points about trade and deindustrialization. This, from the man once known as a sharp foreign policy thinker in the Senate.
Worse still, Rubio has presided over the decimation of institutions he once championed. He helped dismantle the U.S. Agency for International Development, an agency he once praised for advancing American values abroad—and one he had voted to fund while in Congress (that “wasteful spending” we hear about? Rubio had the checkbook). He has gutted human rights reports. He has endorsed deportations that violate international norms and praised leaders like El Salvador’s Nayib Bukele as “good friends” despite their growing authoritarianism.
Here in Cibola County, the effects may feel far removed. But I would argue they are closer than they appear. Our economy, like that of many rural counties, depends on decisions made far from home—on foreign investment, on commodity markets, on the soft power and reputation of the United States abroad. If America loses trust overseas, if its economic decisions are made in fits of political showmanship rather than policy, that ripple reaches even the red mesas of New Mexico. It reaches our uranium sector, our exports, our infrastructure grants. It reaches the students in our schools who may grow up in a country more isolated, more erratic, more forgotten.
Some may dismiss all this as Washington theater— but it’s more than drama. It’s damage. What we are witnessing is a transformation of government into performance, of policy into loyalty tests, of diplomacy into a circus. Trump’s vision of America is not one of structured leadership—it is personal rule, laced with grievance and spectacle.
And yet the greater tragedy is that so many of our fellow citizens no longer seem to understand the stakes. Civic education has withered. American history is receding from public life. What does liberty mean if we don’t teach it? Lately, some seem to believe that because Trump won the election, he should control the entire government. But that’s not how America works. The president leads the executive branch—but even before that office is mentioned, the Constitution begins with the House of Representatives and the U.S. Senate. Congress comes first, not last. That was deliberate.
What is a constitution if we don’t read it? What is America if we no longer remember what it was built to protect?
When Trump promises a return to the 1950s, he omits that the strength of that era was not just in steel and coal, but in strong labor unions, bold public investment, and an education system that prepared citizens—not just workers. His tariffs may make headlines, but they will not build a single factory unless paired with serious reinvestment in the people and systems that sustain an economy. That isn’t happening.
We are a nation approaching its 250th birthday, and we must ask ourselves: what have we become? Have we lost the memory of who we are?
In my most cynical moments, I fear the answer is yes. But I also believe in something more enduring. That even in places furthest from the Capitol, we can reclaim the idea that knowledge matters, that truth matters, and that the health of our democracy depends on citizens who think, who question, and who remember.
The people of Cibola deserve better. The country does, too.