When Boasting Becomes a Governing Strategy

For much of American history, presidents have sought to project steadiness rather than superiority. They did not need to proclaim their intellect; they demonstrated it through action. Franklin D. Roosevelt rallied a nation through economic collapse and world war with measured resolve. John F. Kennedy navigated the Cuban missile crisis with deliberation that, however imperfect, reflected the gravity of the office. The presidency has always involved ego — it is difficult to imagine otherwise — but it has rarely required a public scoreboard.

That changed with Donald Trump, who has treated claims about his intelligence not as incidental flourishes but as central pillars of his political identity. For years, he has invoked an alleged I.Q. score of 150 as both shield and sword — dismissing critics as “low I.Q.” while elevating himself as a “very stable genius.” The boast is familiar, almost ritualistic. In rallies and interviews, it functions less as evidence than as incantation: repeat the number often enough, and it acquires the aura of fact.

The strategy is not unique to Mr. Trump, but it is unusually blunt. Intelligence, in his telling, is not a matter of policy mastery or coalition-building; it is a fixed, glittering number, hovering above scrutiny. It is also conveniently unverifiable. Academic records are private. Standardized tests from decades past are sealed or forgotten. The claim exists in a space where documentation is unlikely to intrude.

Until, at least in the telling that ricocheted across social media this week, documentation did intrude.

On a recent episode of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, the host, Stephen Colbert, departed from his customary barrage of punchlines and adopted a quieter tone. He held up what he described as a decades-old aptitude assessment from Mr. Trump’s undergraduate years at the Wharton School. The document, yellowed and encased in plastic, purportedly indicated performance that was, in percentile terms, unremarkable — translating, Colbert suggested, to an estimated I.Q. around 104.

The audience’s reaction, according to those in the studio, was not laughter but a kind of suspended disbelief. The moment landed not as a joke but as a challenge: What if the myth of exceptional intellect was precisely that — a myth?

The authenticity of the document has not been independently verified, and the White House dismissed it as fabrication. Mr. Trump responded in characteristic fashion, denouncing the claim and threatening legal action. Yet the episode illuminated something larger than the validity of a single piece of paper. It exposed the fragility of a political persona constructed on superlatives.

In modern politics, bravado can be an effective accelerant. It commands attention in a crowded media ecosystem. It reframes scrutiny as jealousy and dissent as stupidity. But bravado is also brittle. It depends on repetition and loyalty; it resists footnotes. When confronted with even the suggestion of archival evidence, it must either produce counterevidence or escalate the rhetoric.

For Mr. Trump, the escalation has long been the preferred route. The boast of a towering I.Q. is not merely self-flattery. It is an organizing principle. If he is uniquely brilliant, then disagreement must stem from malice or incompetence. If he is a singular genius, then institutions that constrain him are obstacles to be overcome rather than guardrails to be respected.

That logic carries risks. Democracies are designed around the premise that no one person, however gifted, is infallible. Expertise is distributed. Power is checked. Leaders are expected not only to decide but to listen. When a president insists that his intellect is beyond question, he subtly reframes accountability as insult.

There is, of course, nothing disqualifying about being average on a standardized metric. Most Americans are, by definition, average. The country’s prosperity has never depended on a single prodigy in the Oval Office but on a dense web of public servants, scientists, judges and citizens whose collective judgment exceeds any one résumé. What unsettles critics is not the possibility that Mr. Trump’s test scores were ordinary. It is the possibility that he felt compelled to inflate them — and to wield the inflation as political weaponry.

If the Colbert segment proves to be satire layered upon rumor, it will fade into the churn of late-night commentary. If it uncovers something verifiable, historians will treat it as a footnote. Either way, the episode underscores a broader cultural shift. The presidency, once cloaked in an aura of institutional dignity, now competes in the arena of spectacle. Intelligence is marketed like a brand. Humility is recast as weakness.

In that environment, the temptation to boast is understandable. But history suggests that the most enduring leaders are those who allow their decisions, not their decibel levels, to testify on their behalf. Intelligence that must be constantly proclaimed begins to resemble insecurity. And insecurity, when amplified by power, can distort governance in ways no standardized test could ever measure.