The Vanishing Gentleman

In Whom Do We Trust?

by Dana Raye Barnaby

…trust has become the rarest commodity of our time.

For thousands of years, much of humankind placed its faith in the words, "In God We Trust". Regardless of the name given to God, the trust remained the same: to protect us from evil, to take care of our children, and to believe that there is a plan, even when life feels uncertain.

Then came the adage, "seeing is believing". The backbone of modern trust. If we can see it with our own eyes, it must be true. Yet, in today's world of AI, deepfakes, and algorithmic manipulation, this trust completely collapses.

If the previous essays, in The Vanishing Gentleman have revealed anything, it is this: trust has become the rarest commodity of our time. Each chaptor has circled a different fracture, but together they sketch a larger truth. We live in a world where trust is evaporating, and with it, the very foundations of community, morality, and human connection.

We began with advertisers who mocked the ideal of the gentleman, reducing him to a frat-house caricature in underwear campaigns, filled with ass-grabbing, camera-screaming stereotypes. What was once an aspiration of integrity was sold off as cheap parody. We moved to women who could no longer trust men, forced instead to create digital self-defence networks to warn each other about predators. And then came politics, where trust in leadership crumbled as Trump’s autocratic impulses collided with oligarchs hiding in the shadows, funding the playbook of a self-appointed American king.

Technology promised connection but delivered suspicion.

Social media turned feeds into minefields where algorithms chose outrage over truth. The loudest voice replaced the wisest. Even art and creativity, once the last refuge of authenticity, now struggle under clickbait formulas and AI-generated filler. What began as a promise to democratize expression has been hijacked by a handful of tech oligarchs intent on numbing us into compliance.

And what of intimacy, romance, love? Even there, trust has collapsed. Dating apps turned human connection into roulette wheels of swipes. The infamous eighty–twenty rule left most men excluded and most women distrustful. Gen Z, battered by these odds, has begun to opt out entirely, not trusting in pursuit, in love, or even in sex. What once moved us to write sonnets, risk heartbreak, or build families is dissolving into indifference.

Today, deepfakes and AI-generated images remind us that sight alone is no longer proof.

Pinterest and Instagram feeds are now seventy to eighty percent algorithmically churned filler. Entire industries promise miracle cures, side hustles, or guides on how to make millions with AI, all scams built on our desperation to believe. And we hand over our hard-earned money while inflation steals from our pockets.

Our distrust permeates every online purchase now.

Products arrive wrapped in five-star reviews and lofty promises, yet with almost every click we are reminded of our disappointment. Is it not a scam to advertise miracle results, sell us “guaranteed” effectiveness, and leave consumers footing the bill for failure?

Once upon a time, governments and oversight commissions existed to prevent exactly this kind of exploitation. Where are those institutions now? Have they all been stripped down, hollowed out by budget cuts, and sacrificed at the altar of tax breaks for the wealthiest.

Perhaps the most haunting change is this: in past moments of chaos and corruption, we fought back with art. From 1971 to 1977, songs of protest filled the airwaves. Dylan, Baez, Marvin Gaye, Neil Young. They sang against war, greed, and betrayal. Films like Taxi Driver and Apocalypse Now held up mirrors to our fractured societies. Art was our rebellion, our warning, our way of restoring trust through honesty.

Where are those voices now?

Where are today’s protest songs, films, and works of art that refuse to bow to the machine? Have we become so distracted by the dopamine drip of endless scroll, so numbed by algorithmic noise, that we no longer raise our voices? Or is it fear, the quiet knowledge that those who do speak out are threatened, judged, labeled “dark” or irrelevant, and quickly drowned out by the tide?

The silence feels familiar. It feels like 1933 to 1945, when propaganda drowned out dissent and fascism flourished because too many artists, thinkers, and citizens were silenced, or simply stopped speaking. We know how that story ended.

I know it may not always sound like it, but I am an optimistic person. Friends often remind me that despite the conflicts I wrestle with in our modern world, I wake each morning ready to praise the best in us all. The intention of my writing is not to dwell on darkness, but to present a worldview that is constantly changing, one that requires us to be mindful of the direction it takes. Every action has consequences, and my hope is to remind us of the weight our choices carry, not only for ourselves but for our humanity, our society, and our community as a whole.

Even as I write this essay, I paused to make breakfast and came across yet another LinkedIn post celebrating the greatness of AI. This one was about copyright infringement taken to a new level, where anyone’s face can be instantly placed over an actor’s in a famous scene from a franchise film. One comment in particular stood out, from Russ Allen, who wrote: I don’t know about everybody else, but a future where I can no longer tell what’s real and what’s AI is really awesome and I love it. Can Russ really be that dim? Does he not fathom the real-world consequences of this technology?

Russ later rebuked that his comment was an attempt at sarcasm, but without a “I jest,” or “kidding,” or even a twisted-face emoji to suggest his point of view, the meaning was lost. This is exactly the problem with written communication online. Stripped of tone, body language, or inflection, a sentence can be interpreted in a dozen different ways, each filtered through the reader’s own assumptions. We are left to trust not in what is said, but in our own interpretation of what was meant.

And so we must ask the final question.

In whom do we trust? If the answer is no one, then the Gentleman is not the only vanishing act. Humanity, morality, kindness, integrity. All will vanish beside him. If the answer is the machine, then we surrender our ability to think critically, to love authentically, to create art that resists.

But if the answer is each other, if we dare to trust again in honesty, respect, and courage, then perhaps the Gentleman does not vanish. Perhaps he returns, not as nostalgia, but as necessity. Perhaps we put down our phones, look up, and remember in time to save ourselves from ourselves.

In whom do you trust? I implore you to take a serious moment to reflect, because your answer may not only surprise, but seal our fate.

Thank you for taking the time to join me on this journey of reflection and storytelling. If these words have resonated, you might enjoy my second series of essays called, The Art of Living. 

Subscribe today to continue our conversation. Together, we can explore the timeless art of living thoughtfully and graciously. Your support means the world to me.

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