Naivety to Epiphany: The Fight For Truth In A Divided America

As someone who has voted for both Republicans and Democrats and even collected signatures in a failed attempt to run for U.S. President in 2020 as an Independent, I’ve always put country first, ahead of any political party. But the journey from naivety to a forced epiphany—from the unsolicited advice that introduces you to the constant discomfort and uncertainty of consciousness—has been anything but easy. If you find the idea of confronting yourself unsettling, you might want to stop reading now.

When only two people are in a room and a crime occurs, that room doesn’t just hold two witnesses—it holds two versions of reality, each shaped by the self-interest of its observer. I’ve seen this firsthand. If one of these individuals is a habitual liar, no external force can stop them from spinning their version of events, nor can it compel them toward genuine self-reflection. In today’s world, where relativism reigns, we often craft narratives that are less about outright lies and more about rationalized truths. Through relentless repetition, these narratives solidify, blurring the line between reality and the stories we tell ourselves. This is the foundation of our age, where the power to construct truth is often wielded more deftly than the search for it.

In such a world, where the loudest voices often drown out the quiet murmur of conscience, I ask myself: Is there a place for justice, or has the very concept become just another tool in the hands of those who shape the narrative?

My time in business school and sociology classes at Binghamton University gave me crucial insights into self-fulfilling prophecies and the power of mindset. I remember a lesson about a beggar faking mental illness, who eventually became mentally ill. It made me question whether positive actions could have a similar transformative effect. Another pivotal moment was when a fellow Latino student—who grew up on the same Upper West Side block as I did—advised me not to socialize with “townies” at college. This led me to wonder whether I, too, was seen as an outsider by Columbia University students while shopping at D'Agostino supermarket on 110th Street and Broadway. These experiences taught me that people’s narratives can limit their perception of others and themselves.

Unlike Donald Trump’s projected confidence, I’ve learned that out of the billions of people in the world, the person I least trust is myself. I can walk away and ignore anyone with negative thoughts, but when I have similar thoughts, I can’t walk away. Instead, my negative thoughts become self-imposed barriers that prevent me from visualizing a plan to reach my goals. Back in 2011, I lost 70 pounds in 120 days after experiencing a paradigm shift in how I saw myself in relation to external things. The realization that I’ll always be both my own best friend and worst enemy stays with me every day, keeping me modest, humble, and receptive to learning new things. My confidence comes from managing my internal uncertainties.

My first step is to have a clear and defined vision of a healthy lifestyle, focusing on what I can control. Since I don’t rely on externals, I seek to create new habits and continue replacing bad ones with those that align with my vision. I know this isn’t easy; that’s why the market for Ozempic is exploding in the U.S. I would be pleasantly surprised if Trump lost the weight he often criticizes in others by following my example instead of relying on medication.

Donald Trump’s “Make America Great Again” slogan is a powerful call to nostalgia, often tapping into fear and creating a divisive narrative across America. His approach leans toward immediate gratification, often overlooking sustainable, long-term solutions. A stark example of this was when New York City was gripped by fear during the Central Park Five case. Trump’s public call for harsh punishment against these young men shaped public opinion and contributed to their wrongful incarceration. This raises the question: Is there such a thing as a “just world”?

Growing up in the tough streets of New York City in the 70s and 80s, I witnessed firsthand the complexities of human nature. The YouTube channel Soft White Underbelly, known for exposing the raw and unfiltered realities of life, highlights the depths of human suffering and fallibility. It captures the essence of often overlooked stories, reminding us that while the universe may seem indifferent, our connections and shared humanity offer a path to finding meaning and grace, even in despair.

A recent interview on Soft White Underbelly featuring Chango, a figure from my past, prompted this reflection. I knew Maquetumba, a drug-dealing mentor to Chango, and was there on 109th Street the day of his murder. Though witnesses saw his killers flee, fear kept them silent. Yet, Chango’s act of persuading Matias Reyes to confess and exonerate the Central Park Five while in prison demonstrates that even in the darkest places, profound moments of moral clarity can emerge. This paradox between “how things are” and “how they should be” is crucial to understanding both the streets and society at large.

Influenced by Lacan’s writings, I realized that we often love through a fantasy, identifying with an external image rather than an internal, whole identity. As I sit quietly in my mental prison, the world outside rages on—a chessboard of power, wealth, and ambition. Two players stand out: George Santos and Donald Trump. Both are entangled in legal battles and public scrutiny, yet their paths diverge sharply.

George Santos, a pawn with dreams of becoming a king, now finds himself cornered and facing sentencing after pleading guilty. His crimes are many, but his resources are few. Santos scrapes together whatever he can to fend off the wolves at his door, like a knight without armor, thrust into a battle he was never prepared to win.

Then there’s Donald Trump, a king in his own right, who has never played by the rules. His alleged crimes are arguably more severe and far-reaching, yet he navigates with the confidence of someone who knows the board is tilted in his favor. With vast resources and powerful allies, Trump’s legal troubles are merely a distraction while he continues to dominate the game. While Santos struggles to stay afloat, Trump remains above the fray, untouched by the forces that threaten to drown lesser men.

This stark contrast brings to mind Thomas Piketty’s insights on capital and inequality. Piketty argues that wealth begets wealth, allowing those with access to capital to perpetuate their dominance while leaving others to fight over the scraps. Santos and Trump embody this divide—Santos, drowning in his sins without wealth; Trump, using his wealth as a shield against the consequences of his actions.

But this isn’t just about money. It’s about the fallacy of a just world—a comforting belief that good is rewarded and evil is punished. But this is a lie, one that keeps people in line and allows the powerful to maintain their reign unchallenged.

I’ve never believed in a just world. The philosophers I’ve studied—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Freud—each peeled back the layers of this illusion, revealing the harsh truths beneath. Life is not fair, justice is not guaranteed, and the world is not a place where everyone gets what they deserve. My metaphysical pill, designed to enable unconditional love and save the world, was meant to strip away these delusions, forcing people to see the world as it truly is—a place where love is the only truth worth holding onto, even if it’s the hardest truth to grasp.

Yet here I am, a man who dared to challenge the order, locked away like a madman. My pill, intended to open minds, has been deemed a threat by those who benefit from the status quo. Both Republicans and Democrats fear its power and the change it could bring. They know that if people could see beyond their narrow perspectives and love without condition, the fragile structures of power would crumble. And so they’ve buried me, along with the hope of a transformed world.

As I watch the game unfold, I reflect on the lessons I’ve learned. The New York Times and The Washington Post never published my op-eds, but those rejections were a gift. They pushed me to dig deeper, to question more, and ultimately to write my book, How To Get Better At Things You Don’t Think You’re Bad At By 2020. The struggle and resistance are all part of the journey. My book, the pill, the philosophies, even the love I wanted to unleash on the world—they’re not the end. The struggle itself is the lesson—the relentless pursuit of something better, even when the world tells you it’s impossible.

In this chess game, Santos and Trump may be playing different roles, but they’re both part of the same broken system. A system where wealth and power dictate who wins and who loses, where justice is not a given but a commodity to be bought and sold. In such a system, there’s little room for love, truth, or anything that might challenge the status quo.

But perhaps there’s still hope—not in the game as it is, but in the struggle to change it. In the willingness to keep pushing, questioning, and striving for something better, even when the odds are against you. That’s the true lesson here. Not in the moves made on the board, but in the determination to keep playing, even when the game seems rigged.

This perspective is like finding the difficult path out of Plato’s cave, finally seeing the sun instead of the shadows on the wall. The few who choose this path are rewarded with self-awareness, realizing that, like my metaphysical pill, we create our relative philosophies instead of embracing our insignificance. I seek out traces of love in Wittgenstein's quotes, addressing open questions we should continuously ask ourselves:

• How much tolerance should a society extend to ideas and individuals who, if given unlimited freedom, might seek to undermine that very tolerance?
• How can a democratic society balance the need for public order and security with the protection of individual freedoms and rights?
• What measures can be taken to ensure that political and economic power is not concentrated in the hands of a few, thereby threatening the foundations of a democratic society?

To survive, we must create space for rational discussion, as the universe might not have a master plan or ultimate purpose for humanity. Instead, meaning arises from our relationships, creativity, and contributions to the well-being of others, even amid the apparent randomness and chaos of existence.