The age of performance: Tote bag politicians

A curious, almost playful trend has been making its way through Gen Z: the rise of the performative man. (So ubiquitous, in fact, that it even inspired a satirical contest in New York.) Yesterday, while out with my 17-year-old son and his friend at an obscure café in Makati, I couldn’t help but notice how quickly the archetype revealed itself. Call it the curse of being a chronically online millennial, I knew the moment those two sharp-tongued teens spotted the crowd, they’d have something to say.

You’ve seen him, too. Tote bag slung over one shoulder, matcha latte in hand, wired headphones dangling as if they were part of his uniform. He probably journals. He might collect vinyl, though he doesn’t own a player. He posts about “feminism,” but wears it like a costume rather than a conviction.

By definition, the performative man is more concerned with looking good than actually being good. It is less about substance and more about appearance, less about who he is and more about how he can lure attention, especially from women. His look, his habits, even his curated softness are all part of a carefully constructed performance.

But if you think performativity ends at the café, look again. The Philippines has long been home to its own kind of performers – our politicians. Only they do not carry tote bags. They carry the nation’s budget.

The latest theater is the sudden outrage over flood control projects. Billions of pesos have been poured into these programs year after year, across administrations. Yet every time the rains come, the same images return: families wading through waist-deep water, motorists stranded, children carrying school bags above their heads as if survival itself were an Olympic sport.

I know this too well. I grew up in Hagonoy, Bulacan, a town where flooding is not an occasional tragedy but a way of life. We have seen waters rise inside our homes again and again, politicians wading in for photo-ops, handing out relief goods, promising “long-term solutions.” And yet nothing changes. The floodwaters recede, the promises evaporate and the cycle begins with the next typhoon.

And now, here they are again: politicians past and present, acting all mighty. Acting as if they are shocked, as if they are crusaders for the people, as if they are not cut from the same cloth. Performative anger, raised voices, finger-pointing. All from the same people who had their time in power and did nothing. The same people who signed off on budgets, sat on committees or even held the highest seats in government.

What did you do when you were in power? That is the only question worth asking. And the answer, if we are being honest, is written plainly in our submerged streets: nothing of consequence.

Because the truth is, floodwaters do not lie. You can stage hearings, issue privilege speeches or wear rubber boots for the cameras. But if every monsoon still drowns the same communities, then the performance is exposed. Just as we see through the Gen Z boy who performs “softness” for the aesthetic while treating people disposably, we see through politicians who perform outrage while their fingerprints are all over the very mess they now condemn.

The difference is that the Gen Z tote-bag boys are, at worst, annoying. Performative politicians, on the other hand, cost us our future. They cost us roads that never get built, classrooms that never see teachers and, in this case, flood control projects that exist more on paper than on the ground.

We do not need more performances. We do not need your performative outrage. We need accountability. Because for every peso pocketed, every project delayed, every plan sabotaged by greed, the cost is never abstract. It is measured in flooded homes, children missing school, workers stranded, livelihoods washed away. It is measured in lives disrupted and a nation that sinks deeper each year, not just under water, but under the weight of corruption and neglect.

To our local politicians: the Filipino people are not your audience. We are not props for your ribbon-cuttings or your photo ops. We are the ones footing the bill, the ones wading through waist-deep waters while you posture for applause. What we demand is not another staged performance, but real, measurable change. Deliver the infrastructure you promised. Guard public funds as if they were your own. Remember that leadership is not a role you play, it is a responsibility you either fulfill or betray.

We are not entertained.

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Mac Bergantin is a country manager and HR professional who grew up in flood-prone Hagonoy, Bulacan and now resides in Malolos. She writes about politics, culture and accountability, drawing from her experiences of how national issues directly shape local communities and everyday lives. She has witnessed first-hand the struggle of a drowning town.