A Puerto Rican Perspective on Political Identity and America's Future

Open Letter to the World
Dear World (and America in particular),
As I sit here on the beautiful island of Saint Kitts and Nevis, in the company of Elon Musk, I am keenly aware of how writing helps me embrace my insignificance. It’s not a resignation to being unimportant but rather a realization that our significance, in the grand scheme of things, often has very little to do with the individual. Writing, for me, is both a release and a confrontation—a way to articulate what may or may not matter in the long run but certainly shapes the present moment.

Imagine, for a second, Elon Musk sitting down to interview me, Jose Franco, with the same deceptively simple question he uses to spot top talent: “Tell me about the most difficult problems you’ve worked on and how you solved them.” I replied, “That’s easy—being the agent of interpretation of what I hope can shape the next iteration of the American Dream at a time when the next iteration of media platforms are being purchased to help their owners subjectively define the truth (not objectively).” I explain that, just as many political prognosticators and media influencers have historically used framing tactics to obtain short-sighted subjective goals, the internet now serves as a powerful tool for doing so on an even larger scale.

Then I flipped the script and asked Musk, "Tell me about a time you admitted to telling a lie for what you believed was the greater good." In response, I shared a story of my own—a time I collected signatures to run for U.S. President in 2018, fully aware that I couldn’t be elected because I was born in the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. My daughter humorously exposed this when two boys in her 8th-grade class mocked her by showing her my Facebook pleas for signatures on their smartphones. She laughed and said, “My dad can’t be U.S. President—he was born in Puerto Rico!”

In 2019, after dedicating a book titled How to Get Better at Things You Don’t Think You’re Bad At By 2020 to Donald Trump, and after collecting over 8,000 signatures, my daughter asked, “Why are you still wasting your time with this severely underfunded, one-man campaign?” I answered, “If someone who can never be U.S. President is able to mobilize his community without regrets or complaints, no one will be able to stop you if you decide to run in 2048.” She rolled her eyes and ignored me for the rest of the day.

With the Republican and Democratic parties now fighting for Latino votes in the 2024 presidential election, it’s ironic that someone born on an island, like Alexander Hamilton or myself, could frame a narrative that might save the Republican Party from political irrelevance, similar to the fate of the Whig Party.

But before we get carried away, let's return to the central theme of this letter—insignificance. The act of writing, like life itself, is a tool for self-reflection and self-confrontation. Through this lens of embracing insignificance, I’ve come to reflect on the ideas presented in The Fourth Turning by Neil Howe and William Strauss, a book that has gained significant traction for its interpretation of history as cyclical, particularly in times of crisis, uncertainty, and cultural transition.

Howe and Strauss argue that societies undergo cyclical patterns of growth and decay, divided into roughly 80- to 100-year intervals, or "turnings." The Fourth Turning, which we are currently living through, represents a period of crisis where institutions break down, paradigms shift, and societies either emerge stronger or crumble. This theory has drawn followers because of its compelling narrative structure, where history fits neatly into identifiable patterns. For many, this provides a comforting sense of certainty—an explanation for the chaos around us and a guide for navigating it. We, as human beings, naturally crave certainty.

Herbert Simon reminds us that our decision-making processes are limited by bounded rationality—we make choices with the limited information we can comprehend, driven by biases, desires, and cognitive shortcuts. This is why The Fourth Turning resonates so strongly: it offers a way to make sense of the world, particularly in times of great uncertainty. We are, as Simon posited, creatures of the stories we tell ourselves. Howe and Strauss have provided a grand, all-encompassing story that satisfies many people's need for order amidst what feels like disorder.
But is it entirely objective? Can any historical theory be, when it reflects the limitations of our imagination, our aptitude for framing, and our desire for certainty? Howe and Strauss give us a comforting framework for understanding cyclical crises, but it’s important to recognize that any theory which simplifies history into neat categories inherently imposes biases—just as my own writings inevitably reflect my biases and limitations.

Let me offer some constructive criticism, both of Howe and Strauss and of my own work. The Fourth Turning provides a model that resonates because it taps into collective fears of decline and collapse. It’s easy to look at our present moment and search for signs that we are entering a profound crisis. The world feels chaotic—pandemics, political instability, climate challenges—but this lens can, at times, oversimplify the complexity of human experience. We risk confirmation bias by seeing in the theory what we are predisposed to find: the inevitability of crisis, the cyclical inevitability of collapse. And while this perspective gives us a useful heuristic for identifying patterns, it may not account for the full nuance of human adaptability, innovation, or our capacity for breaking cycles.

In my writings, including How to Get Better By 2020 and Country Before Party: A Proactive Guide to Self-Confrontation for the Betterment of America, I explore the concept of self-confrontation—of facing uncomfortable truths about ourselves and our limitations. This principle, I believe, is relevant in any time, past, present, or future. Unlike The Fourth Turning, which emphasizes external cycles of historical forces, I focus on internal cycles—how our own mental frameworks, cognitive biases, and personal decisions shape our lives and, by extension, the world around us.

It’s important, however, to acknowledge my own insignificance in this discourse. I write not because I believe my ideas will reshape the world, but because writing allows me to confront my own biases and engage with existential questions. My insignificance, like yours, is both a limitation and a liberation. In acknowledging that my impact may be small, I am free to focus on the present moment—on the changes I can make within myself and those I influence directly. This, I believe, is where my work diverges from Howe and Strauss. Where they speak to grand historical patterns, I speak to the individual struggle to confront one's limitations, biases, and the illusions we hold onto in pursuit of certainty.

One of the key archetypes that The Fourth Turning addresses is that of the "hero," a generational figure that rises during periods of crisis. This archetype appeals to our collective desire for redemption, for a figure (or generation) that will lead us out of chaos. But this archetype can also lead us into dangerous waters, particularly when it merges with modern populism and political cults of personality.

In America, figures like Donald Trump have taken on this "hero" archetype for certain segments of society. He is seen by some as a figure who can save the nation from decline—an idea that The Fourth Turning indirectly supports by emphasizing generational crisis and renewal. But, just like my own insignificance, we must understand Trump’s role within a larger context: he is, ultimately, a symptom of larger forces, not a singular solution.

Trump's existence, significant as it may seem to his supporters or detractors, is in itself an example of how humans project their desires and fears onto larger-than-life figures. Just as I acknowledge that my own writings might not have an immediate or massive impact, we must also recognize that Trump, though influential, is part of a longer cycle of history. He represents not the cause, but the product of deeper structural forces—inequalities, political disenchantment, and a thirst for simple solutions to complex problems.

This is where The Fourth Turning has a particular appeal. Its narrative makes it easy to assign heroes and villains, to see the world in terms of clear historical epochs that rise and fall. But as we consider these frameworks, it’s crucial to maintain critical thinking and avoid falling into binary interpretations. The danger of such archetypes is that they offer an illusion of certainty, a way to ascribe meaning to chaos by pointing to generational patterns. Yet the reality of history—and human life—is far messier.

In contrast, my own writings on personal growth emphasize the messy, non-linear process of self-confrontation. There are no heroes in the way The Fourth Turning describes them. There are only individuals trying to do better, day by day, step by step. The existential crisis that many face today stems from a desire for certainty—certainty in who they are, in their country, in their future. But that certainty is an illusion. Whether through the lens of Howe and Strauss or through my own work, we must all confront this existential truth: uncertainty is the only constant.

This brings me to the existential crisis of the readers themselves. Whether readers are engaging with The Fourth Turningor with my writings, they are often seeking something similar—a framework for understanding the world, a way to cope with the immense uncertainty that defines modern life. But here’s the catch: the search for certainty, whether in historical cycles or self-improvement, can never fully be satisfied. We can only confront our own limitations, acknowledge the biases that shape our perceptions, and continue to grow within those constraints.
My criticism of The Fourth Turning lies not in its grand narrative—after all, we do learn from history and cyclical patterns do exist. But the book risks offering too much certainty, too much predictability, in a world that defies simple explanations. My own work, on the other hand, wrestles with the opposite: how do we live meaningfully without the illusion of certainty? How do we embrace our insignificance, and still strive for progress, understanding, and compassion?

Perhaps the answer lies in reconciling both frameworks. Howe and Strauss provide a valuable tool for understanding societal forces, while I offer a method for confronting the personal forces that drive us. Together, they remind us that while history may be cyclical, and while external crises are inevitable, it is the internal crises—the ones within ourselves—that define how we navigate them.
In closing, Elon Musk hasn’t yet called me back for a second interview (and probably never will). But like this letter, like my reflections, like The Fourth Turning itself, my significance or insignificance is irrelevant. What matters is the process—the act of writing, the act of thinking, the act of embracing uncertainty as both a challenge and an opportunity. I, too, am part of this Fourth Turning, but I am also part of something larger and, simultaneously, something far smaller.

With this in mind, I encourage you, dear reader, to do the same: embrace your insignificance. And in doing so, perhaps you will find the meaning you seek—not in certainty, but in the process of confronting it.
Sincerely, Jose Franco

Jose Franco is a Varsity Baseball Coach/Former Political Activist/Entrepreneur and author of Mind Over Matter: The Power Of Now In Baseball