“How many people do you know would hold absolute power in the palm of their hand, and walk away?”
This is how my AP European History teacher introduced Cincinnatus to us in my senior year of high school, and it’s a sentence that has stuck with me since. The history itself is fascinating: Ancient Rome, under severe threat, elected to relinquish their democratic rights in order to expedite the process of raising an army against their hostile neighbors to the north. They called upon Cincinnatus, a decorated army man who had since retired to farming in the countryside, to serve as dictator, giving him complete control of the political, economic, and social machinery of the country. He accepted this call to action, enlisted every able-bodied man to assist in the war effort, and fourteen days later, returned victorious. His citizens were so overjoyed they offered to extend his dictatorship indefinitely, but he didn’t even stay in town long enough for the victory parades. On Day 15 of his rule, he reenacted the democratic Roman Congress and returned to his farm.
For someone who has always wondered where the cliff edge where power becomes corruption truly lies, this story is practically the rulebook in ultimate leadership. Leaders act decisively and fearlessly when the moment calls for it, displaying exemplary competence and their hard-earned expertise. But this work is fundamentally done as an agent of the people they lead, without a single selfish motivator in mind. Moreover, leaders bring other upwards with them, influencing by setting a subtle, silent, and moral example. Several Roman military dictators after Cincinnatus were offered a similar extension of their powers, and each refused. In fact, it became an unspoken competition -- who could relinquish this unfettered power the quickest? And of course, nobody could beat his record.
This is how my AP European History teacher introduced Cincinnatus to us in my senior year of high school, and it’s a sentence that has stuck with me since. The history itself is fascinating: Ancient Rome, under severe threat, elected to relinquish their democratic rights in order to expedite the process of raising an army against their hostile neighbors to the north. They called upon Cincinnatus, a decorated army man who had since retired to farming in the countryside, to serve as dictator, giving him complete control of the political, economic, and social machinery of the country. He accepted this call to action, enlisted every able-bodied man to assist in the war effort, and fourteen days later, returned victorious. His citizens were so overjoyed they offered to extend his dictatorship indefinitely, but he didn’t even stay in town long enough for the victory parades. On Day 15 of his rule, he reenacted the democratic Roman Congress and returned to his farm.
For someone who has always wondered where the cliff edge where power becomes corruption truly lies, this story is practically the rulebook in ultimate leadership. Leaders act decisively and fearlessly when the moment calls for it, displaying exemplary competence and their hard-earned expertise. But this work is fundamentally done as an agent of the people they lead, without a single selfish motivator in mind. Moreover, leaders bring other upwards with them, influencing by setting a subtle, silent, and moral example. Several Roman military dictators after Cincinnatus were offered a similar extension of their powers, and each refused. In fact, it became an unspoken competition -- who could relinquish this unfettered power the quickest? And of course, nobody could beat his record.
I've always thought my moral failing to be that I'm not as selfless as Cincinnatus. My mother says I'm too petty to relinquish leadership to others, even though I'd never want power for malicious reasons for myself, but I don't think it's that. It's moreso an act of rebellion against how effortless leadership is supposed to seem. It doesn't seem fair that, to be truly great, you must run from leadership. To quote Taylor Swift, what's wrong with being the person who wants it the most? Isn't that the person who should get it?
All this to say, one of the most important clubs I'm involved with on campus had our executive board elections yesterday, and I ultimately chose to give up the chance to be President despite being voted in for the sake of club continuity. The details aren't quite relevant, but as I walked home, feeling very uneasy about my decision (as the indecisive always do), I couldn't help but wonder if this was how Cincinnatus left, too.
Perhaps he didn't leave with ease and grace. Perhaps he didn't stroll away from the castles of the Roman cities with a spring in his step, excited to rejoin his wife and children in their humble countryside life. Perhaps it was gut-wrenching, to look around and realize it wasn't his time. Perhaps he took bad advice from someone who wasn't truly considering what he wanted. Perhaps it was bad luck and the poor result of a bad process. Perhaps he tossed and turned all night, wondering if the "right thing" was supposed to feel so unsettling. Perhaps he tried to be kind in the morning, but ended up crying on his apartment floor out of sheer exhaustion.
Did he wonder if he was a bad feminist for giving up a title most men would take without a second thought? Did he wonder if he would pay for this by never feeling truly at home in the city he had given everything to? Did he wonder if he had any real friends, or if anyone would ever truly understand him? Did he realize then, the magnitude of what he was giving up, or did his sister have to yell at him in the morning for making the wrong choice, as he always seemed to do?
What I gave up last night wasn't the Roman Empire, but my Roman Empire. Which makes me not Cincinnatus, just stupid.
But alas, there's a reason there's a city named after him, and not me, right?
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