Attention Is Power: Who Spends Our Money When We Don't?
If taxation feels like theft, then apathy is the getaway driver.
I've sat in rooms where people I wouldn't trust to make a sandwich decide or don't decide where to put millions, with almost no one watching. On paper, they're "public." In practice, they're quiet exchanges of power. Not because people don't care, but because they're already exhausted—working extra hours, paying bills, and feeding their kids. Showing up at 7 p.m. for a budget hearing feels impossible when you're counting change for gas money or are not even home from your shift. Taking one’s few spare moments to listen to the most boring meeting in the world on YouTube is beyond a stretch.
So the question isn't, Why don't people care? The better question is, How do we shape civic life so participation feels possible—and worth it?
Budgets are straight-up numbers we can point to, but Legislation is subtler. It shapes the ground we walk on. A single ordinance can change who gets heard. A charter tweak can reroute authority for a generation. A statehouse bill can wipe out local control with a paragraph. None of this requires a conspiracy. It only requires us not to look.
We just watched that dynamic play out. Approximately a quarter of Cleveland Heights voters participated in the recall and primary. In low-turnout conditions, the most energized narrative wins—often the one that traveled faster than any correction could. That's how rumor becomes "record," and neighbors end up arguing over the echo.
And who’s in the room when everyone else can’t be? Usually two groups we rarely name. First, the regulars—people who show up every time because being heard matters. Their consistency deserves respect; it’s a civic act of care, even when the comments meander. Second, the agenda-driven—organized, disciplined, and on message. They don’t represent the whole, but in a thin room, they set the tone. When the broader community is stretched, these voices—steadfast and strategic alike—become the default chorus.
That's the danger I keep naming: not apathy as disinterest, but apathy as consent. A missed meeting becomes an open lane for decisions that reshape a neighborhood. An unopened agenda is a quiet yes to whatever comes next.
And still, I see possibility. Young people, especially, are fluent in calling out spin and asking for receipts. What they don't have is a bridge between everyday pressures—rent, transit, safety—and the exact moments decisions are made. That isn't their failure; it's ours. We bury timelines in PDFs. We drown tradeoffs in jargon. We publish uncertainty only after the rumor has finished its lap.
So I keep circling the same questions:
What would make a tired parent say, "That hour was worth it"?
How do we make truth move at the speed of trust, not clicks?
If participation feels like a test with trick questions, who designed the test—and who benefits from the failing grade?
Can a resident point to one law or one line item and say with pride, "That changed because I showed up—on time"?
Maybe the work ahead isn't about demanding more from people who are already stretched, but about providing better avenues for the flow of information. As a Communications Director, I’m still in the brainstorming phase. I see the issue clearly, and I’m sketching out what it might take to meet people where they are—so that when the time comes to weigh in, it feels less like another demand on their already thin time and more like an opportunity that matters.
Because attention is power, budgets follow it. Laws do, too. If we don’t spend our attention, someone else will spend our money—and write our rules—without us. The question isn’t whether decisions get made. The question is who’s in the room when they do.
