After teaching historical sociology for the past quarter century at the Department of Defense’s military bases in Europe and Asia before retirement, I now observe America from the objective framework of one who has come home.
In this perspective, I am struck by how violently unhappy America has become as a nation and, at the same time, how proud Americans are as a people — and the two are connected. Unlike Old World nations that are proud of their collective heritage, we Americans are proud of ourselves as individuals, and, naturally, as prideful individuals we are easily irritated with one another even at the slightest of provocation. Surrounded now by such intolerant and distrusting neighbors, strangers and citizens all around us, we call on our animal instinct — fight or flight — to anticipate trouble and protect ourselves.
The most famous symbol of this lifestyle in the American jungle is President Donald Trump, who lives by the “never apologize” principle. His obsession with pride is so irreversible that he has imprisoned himself in a “Pride Alcatraz,” in which he is never wrong. From this perch, Trump is stuck in his own cruel and inhuman prison from which he can be freed only upon his death.
For ordinary working Americans, the biggest “Pride Alcatraz” is their killing loneliness, as pride allows no easy acceptance or communion with other human beings. In their unyielding pride, instead of searching for human bond with each other, they would rather endure loneliness. Economically, in pitiless capitalist competition where only few at the top succeed, these proud masses are set up to fail by capitalism’s own logic. In their minimum-wage tightrope existence, there is no margin of error: Just one mishap here or one misfortune there, and they come face to face with bankruptcy and suicidal depression. But, having been spoiled by “no tragic sense of life” (Max Lerner), most Americans are wholly unprepared for their routine failures and swing wildly between fantasy and misery.
Now, as destructive as pride is in America, its antidote — humility — is conspicuously absent in American life where even minimum wagers are exhorted to be proud (mostly as proud consumers). But, unlike pride, which threatens you even at the peak of your success, humility cushions your unavoidable failures and protects you from life’s inevitable vagaries. A humbled perspective on life sustains you through trials and tribulations and helps you forgive yourself when you stumble. Best exemplified by Socrates (“Know thyself”) and Jesus (“turn the other cheek”), even death is a triumph in a humbled life. In pride, you are always facing a possible hard fall, but in humility, all failures are soft landings. In short, pride kills and humility saves. But, for most Americans, humbling yourself is not easy.
Indeed, stories of destructive pride galore: New York Times columnist David Brooks tells about his close friend, a successful eye surgeon, who killed himself. Brooks tries to understand what had fatally affected his friend and writes, “(He) plunged into depression. Time and again Pete would talk about his great fear that someday he would lose his skill as a surgeon, that he would cease to be a healer, [and] that he would lose his identity and self.” Pete had described his fear as “shapeless darkness and terror.”
Anxiety and guilt are inevitable for the prideful, and Pete’s ordeal is typical: His constant struggle against the phantom worry eventually drove him to suicide. Pride prevented Pete (as it does all haughty people) from finding satisfaction in the very fact that he was already serving the medically needy.
Humility, on the other hand, recognizes that your best effort neutralizes such debilitating anxiety and guilt. After your best effort, all is left to Providence — unless you are trapped in incorrigible pride.
Consider two other famous tales of pride and humility: One in Joseph Conrad’s seagoing fiction “Lord Jim” and the other the real case of Michael Boorda, the U.S. Chief of Naval Operations. In Conrad’s story, Jim, an ambitious second mate, loses his seamanship in a moment of freak cowardice. Five active captains act as judges and find Jim guilty, which destroys his career. One of the five captains, agonizing over his role in Jim’s misfortune, goes out to sea afterward and inexplicably throws himself overboard. When Conrad’s narrator, a fellow judge, hears of the captain’s odd behavior, he murmurs to himself, “He must have thought very highly of himself.” In short, too much pride.
In our real story in 1996, Michael Boorda, a four-star admiral who rose from a seaman to the Navy’s highest position, gets embroiled in an insignificant question of whether he legitimately wore one particular medal, called “V.” Amid the media fuss over the issue, the Navy clarified that it’s up to the admiral to decide whether to wear the medal or not: case closed. But the admiral, fearing that he had dishonored the Navy, killed himself. If Conrad’s narrator was asked why the Navy’s top man took his life over such a trifling matter, he surely would have said, “He must have thought very highly of himself.” In other words, too much pride.
In all three cases — the doctor, the captain, the admiral — they obviously didn’t allow themselves to be humble about their own frailties, or recognize their higher duty to humanity: If only the captain thought more about his ship’s mission, the admiral more about the nation and the Navy he served, and the doctor more about his medical service — and less about their ego and their own imperfections.
How do we escape from our own “Pride Alcatraz”?
Jon Huer, retired professor and columnist for the Recorder, lives in Greenfield and writes for posterity.