The Political Calculus of Self-condescension

Gavin Newsom, the white governor of California, was on stage in Atlanta last night, in conversation with the city’s Black mayor, Andre Dickens. It was a book tour event in what seemed to be a crowded theatre. The ordinary choreography of modern politics. And then came the words that escaped the room almost as quickly as they were spoken.

“I’m not trying to impress you,” Newsom said. “I’m just trying to impress upon you I’m like you. I’m no better than you. I’m a 960 SAT guy… You’ve never seen me read a speech because I cannot read a speech. Maybe the wrong business to be in.”

As a black American, I do not hear remarks like that in a vacuum. Neither do I extend the benefit of the doubt easily to powerful white politicians who perform humility in cities like Atlanta.

Atlanta is not just any city. It is a city with a national reputation as a black political and cultural center. Fulton County has a large black population. The mayor moderating the conversation was black. Against that backdrop, I do not simply shrug and move on when a white governor says, “I’m like you… I’m a 960 SAT guy… I cannot read.”

Literacy and standardized tests have never been neutral terrain in this country. Black Americans were once forbidden to learn to read. Later, literacy tests were used to block our right to vote. Even now, SAT score gaps are widely reported and politically charged. A 960 score sits closer to the reported black SAT average than to the white average. Those are statistical facts. They do not prove intent, but they form part of the context in which Newsom’s words were heard.

So no, I am not eager to excuse the remark as harmless self-deprecation. When politicians speak in racially sensitive spaces, they bear responsibility not only for what they mean but for what their words are likely to evoke.

At the same time, the story is still unfolding. The short clip that traveled online did not include the full exchange. Moreover, an eight-second video clip shared by Newsom on X shows a line of attendees that appears racially mixed. News reports say the comment was not made in response to a question about race. Of course, none of that settles the matter. But it does complicate it.

“I’m like you” is an ambiguous phrase. It can be a racial identification. It can be a class gesture. It can be a statement about academic struggle or dyslexia. It can mean, “I am not elite,” or “I am not better than anyone in this room.” Or it can be heard as something more pointed. The hinge is a pronoun.

Modern politics trains candidates to perform relatability like actors in a well-rehearsed play. They must confess their flaws, downplay their credentials, and reassure audiences that they are not too accomplished, too polished, or too privileged. In an age that distrusts elites, even competence must be disguised.

But there is a risk in that performance. When leaders try to make themselves smaller to seem approachable, they sometimes shrink into caricature or even into incompetence. Humility becomes theater. Self-deprecation becomes self-condescension. And in a country where intelligence and literacy have been racialized for centuries, that performance can backfire in ways the speaker either did not anticipate or chose not to weigh carefully.

On the other hand, real humility is not the denial but the morally disciplined use of ability. It is the refusal to wield competence as a weapon against the governed. That kind of humility does not need to advertise itself; it needs to manifest itself in one’s policies and style of governing.

Equally troubling is the fact that we have created a culture in which leaders believe they must diminish themselves in order to connect. The political calculus now runs like this: if voters resent elites, then confess academic weakness; if credentials intimidate, then mock your own intelligence; if privilege is suspect, then perform ordinariness.

But words do not travel only within the safe confines of a theater. They travel through history. They travel through cultural memory. They travel through communities that have long been told, implicitly or explicitly, that they are less capable, less intelligent, less worthy. Against that backdrop, even a clumsy joke can sound like something seriously not-funny.

That said, I am not prepared to pronounce final judgment on what Newsom intended. Intent is notoriously difficult to prove, and the full context of the exchange matters. But I am also not prepared to suspend suspicion simply because the clip can be explained another way. Both caution and skepticism are warranted, given his shameless history of histrionics.

Politicians owe the public far more than facetious or feigned humility. They owe us speech, lives, and policies that are serious enough to withstand scrutiny. Especially when anything they say or do involves “you.”