Monday, June 28, 2004
Wasn't the idea to honor our fathers on Father's Day?
By Russell King
When the fat Sunday edition of the newspaper arrived on Father’s Day, I opened it to see what sort of tribute would be paid to American dads in 2004. The pickin’s were slim.
The Father’s Day materials were both buried (nine sections in) and anemic (one feature, one column and one recipe—yes, recipe). The column carried the remarkably uninspiring, but poetically revealing, headline “Don’t forget Dad today,” which, apparently, the newspaper editors almost did. The column contained a letter about an ex-hubby who was a rotten dad. The recipe was for the writer’s father’s favorite coconut cream pie. So what? Exactly. The feature story at least offered what the writers considered “good” things to say about their dads.
“Dad always said…” was the headline, and the story was nothing more than a baker’s dozen of recollections of “wise” things people remembered their fathers teaching them. Some were genuinely wise, some were downright touching.
The cartoon used to illustrate the feature was less than flattering to dads, showing a balding, bespectacled, bow-tied dad talking--with one hand behind his back and one pointing in the air, as if delivering some pompous, impersonal speech—to two teens wearing expressions of bored disdain. The balloons above his head had him saying “Naughty you can reform; stupid is forever,” and “Use your head for more than a hat rack.” How nice: Not only are we dads full of ourselves and out of touch, we’re rude and insulting as well.
I complained about this coverage to Rhonda and she suggested I compare it to the newspaper’s coverage of Mother’s Day. Perhaps, she suggested, the editors simply take a lighter approach to these recognition days. She was right, moms warranted only five stories and they, too, were buried nine sections deep. Still there was an important difference.
The angle, attitude and content of the stories on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were tellingly different. While the big story on dads was about what they’ve taught us, the big stories on mom was about how they loved us—and how they loved us no matter how unworthy we were. Dads teach incessantly; moms love unconditionally.
A second story gave advice on buying gifts for stepmothers on Mother’s Day, and another told us that we spend $10.43 billion (yes, billion) each year honoring Mother’s Day. The head of the National Retail Federation mercifully noted only that “far fewer people honor Father’s Day.”
Finally, the moms got a feature story on Heidi Murkof, author of What to Expect When You’re Expecting 21 years ago. Murkof, bless her heart, pointedly noted what she called “a cultural evolution”: While the first edition of her book mostly give advice to mothers, the current editions are gender-neutral, except for the pregnancy and breast-feeding sections, because fathers are taking a much more active role in child-rearing.
Oddly enough, dads took it on the chin in some other media during the month of Father’s Day, as well. In a magazine I usually hold in high regard, Spirituality & Health, I read the story of a depressed woman’s search for solace in the image of Mother Mary. The men in the story of her life were uniformly scum, and she concluded her article with the assertion that “We can never get too much of the unconditional love only a mother can give" (emphasis added), carrying an echo of the newspaper story a step farther.
Mother’s love isn’t just unconditional, as in the newspaper, it’s the only love that is. The statement is both bigoted and unsupportable. As a father, my unconditional love is not merely a daily truth for me, it is the essence of my life--and so it was for my father and my father's father. I’m guessing we aren’t alone.
Then, there’s this, from the June edition of the Oprah Magazine: “…men almost never consciously want to have children.” (The article said some other ugly things about men, but this is a family column so I won’t repeat them.) This statement is so far removed from the truth that it’s not insulting, it’s laughable. I suspect the problem is that because O is written by and for women, the folks who work at O haven’t spent too much time getting into the psyche of men (a point hinted at in another article by the token male, surrounded by 53 women, on staff).
The fact is: One heck of a lot of American dads cherish fatherhood, love unconditionally and are intimately involved in the lives of their children. Next June, let’s give them their due, shall we?
Note: You can now shop for American Dad signature gifts, for yourself and others, by clicking on the link to the right of this column.
By Russell King
When the fat Sunday edition of the newspaper arrived on Father’s Day, I opened it to see what sort of tribute would be paid to American dads in 2004. The pickin’s were slim.
The Father’s Day materials were both buried (nine sections in) and anemic (one feature, one column and one recipe—yes, recipe). The column carried the remarkably uninspiring, but poetically revealing, headline “Don’t forget Dad today,” which, apparently, the newspaper editors almost did. The column contained a letter about an ex-hubby who was a rotten dad. The recipe was for the writer’s father’s favorite coconut cream pie. So what? Exactly. The feature story at least offered what the writers considered “good” things to say about their dads.
“Dad always said…” was the headline, and the story was nothing more than a baker’s dozen of recollections of “wise” things people remembered their fathers teaching them. Some were genuinely wise, some were downright touching.
The cartoon used to illustrate the feature was less than flattering to dads, showing a balding, bespectacled, bow-tied dad talking--with one hand behind his back and one pointing in the air, as if delivering some pompous, impersonal speech—to two teens wearing expressions of bored disdain. The balloons above his head had him saying “Naughty you can reform; stupid is forever,” and “Use your head for more than a hat rack.” How nice: Not only are we dads full of ourselves and out of touch, we’re rude and insulting as well.
I complained about this coverage to Rhonda and she suggested I compare it to the newspaper’s coverage of Mother’s Day. Perhaps, she suggested, the editors simply take a lighter approach to these recognition days. She was right, moms warranted only five stories and they, too, were buried nine sections deep. Still there was an important difference.
The angle, attitude and content of the stories on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were tellingly different. While the big story on dads was about what they’ve taught us, the big stories on mom was about how they loved us—and how they loved us no matter how unworthy we were. Dads teach incessantly; moms love unconditionally.
A second story gave advice on buying gifts for stepmothers on Mother’s Day, and another told us that we spend $10.43 billion (yes, billion) each year honoring Mother’s Day. The head of the National Retail Federation mercifully noted only that “far fewer people honor Father’s Day.”
Finally, the moms got a feature story on Heidi Murkof, author of What to Expect When You’re Expecting 21 years ago. Murkof, bless her heart, pointedly noted what she called “a cultural evolution”: While the first edition of her book mostly give advice to mothers, the current editions are gender-neutral, except for the pregnancy and breast-feeding sections, because fathers are taking a much more active role in child-rearing.
Oddly enough, dads took it on the chin in some other media during the month of Father’s Day, as well. In a magazine I usually hold in high regard, Spirituality & Health, I read the story of a depressed woman’s search for solace in the image of Mother Mary. The men in the story of her life were uniformly scum, and she concluded her article with the assertion that “We can never get too much of the unconditional love only a mother can give" (emphasis added), carrying an echo of the newspaper story a step farther.
Mother’s love isn’t just unconditional, as in the newspaper, it’s the only love that is. The statement is both bigoted and unsupportable. As a father, my unconditional love is not merely a daily truth for me, it is the essence of my life--and so it was for my father and my father's father. I’m guessing we aren’t alone.
Then, there’s this, from the June edition of the Oprah Magazine: “…men almost never consciously want to have children.” (The article said some other ugly things about men, but this is a family column so I won’t repeat them.) This statement is so far removed from the truth that it’s not insulting, it’s laughable. I suspect the problem is that because O is written by and for women, the folks who work at O haven’t spent too much time getting into the psyche of men (a point hinted at in another article by the token male, surrounded by 53 women, on staff).
The fact is: One heck of a lot of American dads cherish fatherhood, love unconditionally and are intimately involved in the lives of their children. Next June, let’s give them their due, shall we?
Note: You can now shop for American Dad signature gifts, for yourself and others, by clicking on the link to the right of this column.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Note: You can now shop for American Dad signature gifts, for yourself and others, by clicking on the link to the right of this column. I know it's what you've all been waiting for! (The variety of items from which to choose is small right now, but it will grow so keep checking.)
A Father's Day tribute
By Russell King
On this Father’s Day I’d like to tell you about my own American dad. My initial image of my father comes from a photo of him as an infant. He’s small, tender and vulnerable, as babies are, but he’s cradled in the powerful hands of a handsome man with wind-blown hair, bib overalls and a smile of unrestrained joy—his father. The photo says good things about my grandfather, but something about it defines my father.
The photo speaks of both great strength and great gentleness, and these are the first two words I’d use to describe my dad. It’s not gentleness despite great strength, as if the power had to be restrained for the gentleness to be expressed. Nor is it a cohabitation of seeming opposites (opposites, at least, in the way our culture views things). This is not an act of balancing, but an act of birthing: The gentleness is born of the strength. This is how Dad has lived: Any failure to be gentle is a failure of strength.
As a child, my father plowed fields behind a team of horses. As a teen, my father played both offense and defense—never leaving the football field—for the great Bob Devaney. As a man, my father preached from the pulpit of a denomination that makes Jerry Falwell look like a secular humanist—but developed a series of sermons on compassion, not on condemnation. These are examples serve as symbols of his life. They’re also feats of strength I will never have to match.
This gentleness born of strength gave my father something I call, for lack of a more precise term, “grace.” Grace makes my father at ease with you and puts you at ease with him. From theologians to roofers, from real estate tycoons to cement workers, all are drawn to his grace. They like him, they trust him, the respect him. Part of it must be that they quickly sense that he likes, trusts and respects them. When you’re strong enough to be gentle, you’re strong enough to accept others without judgment or fear.
I often thought: that judgment and fear of others is at the root of most bad thoughts and bad behaviors; that the world could use a much larger supply of my father’s sort of grace; and that as much as I admire, even covet, his grace, I’ll likely never be strong enough to know it as my own.
The photo also speaks of great happiness and pride in family. This, too, defines my father. Nothing has brought him greater joy than the love of his family; nothing has brought him greater pain than his family’s failure to love—except, maybe, the moments of pain and tragedy in the lives of his family members. The bottom line for Dad was always this: No matter what other issues, concerns or values are involved, family is always the primary consideration.
That a photo of my grandfather tells us about my father makes perfect sense. My mother tells me she first wanted to date my dad because she loved his father—within their community, he stood out as an especially good man among common men. Mom figured that a view of the father gave a glimpse at the future of the son.
She was on to something. I remember Dad telling me that, as a child, he was eager to do his chores early and well, because he loved his father and wanted to please him. This was my motive, too, when I was a child. I see Danny, Logan and Jaden watching me now, learning how to be a man, a husband, a dad; at 45, I still have an eye on my father, still watching, still learning.
I know this description is not my father, but my experience of my father. I don’t have the skill with words to capture the essence of another person, but that’s OK. It’s the experience that matters.
I know Dad is human, with the usual set of foibles, but he found a way to set an example even with his weaknesses: When my older brother asked Dad why his parenting had changed in the years between his first and third sons, Dad replied, “I learned along the way.” When he recalls his years in the ministry, he tells me he wishes he’d had greater spiritual maturity then: He’s still learning.
My father’s legacy to me, I’ve learned, is the set of core values his example etched in me: true strength is always gentle, family comes first, and we never stop learning. Thank you, Dad, and happy Father’s Day.
A Father's Day tribute
By Russell King
On this Father’s Day I’d like to tell you about my own American dad. My initial image of my father comes from a photo of him as an infant. He’s small, tender and vulnerable, as babies are, but he’s cradled in the powerful hands of a handsome man with wind-blown hair, bib overalls and a smile of unrestrained joy—his father. The photo says good things about my grandfather, but something about it defines my father.
The photo speaks of both great strength and great gentleness, and these are the first two words I’d use to describe my dad. It’s not gentleness despite great strength, as if the power had to be restrained for the gentleness to be expressed. Nor is it a cohabitation of seeming opposites (opposites, at least, in the way our culture views things). This is not an act of balancing, but an act of birthing: The gentleness is born of the strength. This is how Dad has lived: Any failure to be gentle is a failure of strength.
As a child, my father plowed fields behind a team of horses. As a teen, my father played both offense and defense—never leaving the football field—for the great Bob Devaney. As a man, my father preached from the pulpit of a denomination that makes Jerry Falwell look like a secular humanist—but developed a series of sermons on compassion, not on condemnation. These are examples serve as symbols of his life. They’re also feats of strength I will never have to match.
This gentleness born of strength gave my father something I call, for lack of a more precise term, “grace.” Grace makes my father at ease with you and puts you at ease with him. From theologians to roofers, from real estate tycoons to cement workers, all are drawn to his grace. They like him, they trust him, the respect him. Part of it must be that they quickly sense that he likes, trusts and respects them. When you’re strong enough to be gentle, you’re strong enough to accept others without judgment or fear.
I often thought: that judgment and fear of others is at the root of most bad thoughts and bad behaviors; that the world could use a much larger supply of my father’s sort of grace; and that as much as I admire, even covet, his grace, I’ll likely never be strong enough to know it as my own.
The photo also speaks of great happiness and pride in family. This, too, defines my father. Nothing has brought him greater joy than the love of his family; nothing has brought him greater pain than his family’s failure to love—except, maybe, the moments of pain and tragedy in the lives of his family members. The bottom line for Dad was always this: No matter what other issues, concerns or values are involved, family is always the primary consideration.
That a photo of my grandfather tells us about my father makes perfect sense. My mother tells me she first wanted to date my dad because she loved his father—within their community, he stood out as an especially good man among common men. Mom figured that a view of the father gave a glimpse at the future of the son.
She was on to something. I remember Dad telling me that, as a child, he was eager to do his chores early and well, because he loved his father and wanted to please him. This was my motive, too, when I was a child. I see Danny, Logan and Jaden watching me now, learning how to be a man, a husband, a dad; at 45, I still have an eye on my father, still watching, still learning.
I know this description is not my father, but my experience of my father. I don’t have the skill with words to capture the essence of another person, but that’s OK. It’s the experience that matters.
I know Dad is human, with the usual set of foibles, but he found a way to set an example even with his weaknesses: When my older brother asked Dad why his parenting had changed in the years between his first and third sons, Dad replied, “I learned along the way.” When he recalls his years in the ministry, he tells me he wishes he’d had greater spiritual maturity then: He’s still learning.
My father’s legacy to me, I’ve learned, is the set of core values his example etched in me: true strength is always gentle, family comes first, and we never stop learning. Thank you, Dad, and happy Father’s Day.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Who am I?
By Russell King
My children are not their reproductive organs. Nor are they the culture around them or the culture of their ancestors. My children are neither their sexual desires nor the color of their skin (in our case, a range from very dark to very pale). They are not their money. They are not victims.
OK, if that’s who they are not, then who are they? That’s being decided as I write—by them, if I can arrange it.
The most important job a kid has to do while growing up is answer the question: Who am I? They get plenty of help answering from people outside the family—most often in ways that are good for the helpers, but not so good for the kids. Keeping the influence of these uninvited helpers to a minimum is a big deal for this dad.
It’s not that I want to define for my children who they will grow up to be—beyond some broad traits, such as healthy, happy and loving—it’s more that I want to keep the doors of possibility open for them. I don’t want the others to define them before they get a chance to define themselves.
My list of things they are not isn’t random. It reflects the identities our culture’s most pervasive influences try to impose on children. More then 20 years ago, when I was in college, almost any freshman orientation included a crash course on how important it is to define oneself by class, color, sex, sexual orientation and culture (which could be either the culture you have or the one your ancestors had).
The most useful and effective definition you could give yourself was as a victim by virtue of one or more of the other definitions. You didn’t have to be a victim in fact—it didn’t matter whether any person, group or institution had ever cheated you—all that was required was that you possessed one of the victim characterizations.
Nothing has changed since, except that my kids don’t have to wait until they’re college frosh before they learn to play the victim.
We’ve set things up so that there is great reward in being a victim. You get attention, sympathy and support. You’re entitled to things others are not. Now, I favor a moral system and a culture in which we feel sympathy for, and are moved to help, victims over those in which we do not, but there’s a dark side to all of this, too.
We allow victims, and their advocates, to go too far. As victims, for instance, we can ignore moral responsibility. We can act wickedly, even savagely, so long as we can claim that we are either fighting our own victimization or fighting on behalf of other victims. Ironically, we use our status as victims to make victims of others.
Hitler is an extreme example. His bloody campaign was rooted in the assertion of being a response to victimization.
I’m a less extreme example: In my teenage years, I learned I could be a bully so long as I claimed to be standing up for a victim. Because my victims were known bullies themselves my claims rang true, but the truth was that it simply felt good to unleash the angry animal inside and beat up “bad” people. (There was no pleasure in beating the good or the weak, perhaps a beneficial result of our cultural sympathy for victims.)
My four older children, ages 8 through 16, are examples closer to home. If they hurt a sibling, they immediately adopt the defense of victimization: “But she did (whatever) first!” Trying to teach our children to take responsibility for their own actions, we’ve imposed a second consequence: Scrub one toilet, for instance, for hitting a sibling and scrub another for trying to excuse your actions with what your sibling did first. The equation is, however, already clear to them: If I am a victim, whatever I do is OK.
Maya, 3, hasn’t quite got it figured out. Ask her, “Why did you hit Jaden?” She’ll answer, “He hit me back!” Is that a defense or is she working on a theory of karmic balance? She may be saying, “Because I’ve been hit back, the scales of justice are balanced and I need no consequence to restore harmony to the universe.” I won’t put it past her.
My children own—but are not owned or defined by—their sex, ethnicity, color, heritage or social standing. Who they are will be for them to decide. At least, that’s the message I hope they hear, above the differing din, from me.
By Russell King
My children are not their reproductive organs. Nor are they the culture around them or the culture of their ancestors. My children are neither their sexual desires nor the color of their skin (in our case, a range from very dark to very pale). They are not their money. They are not victims.
OK, if that’s who they are not, then who are they? That’s being decided as I write—by them, if I can arrange it.
The most important job a kid has to do while growing up is answer the question: Who am I? They get plenty of help answering from people outside the family—most often in ways that are good for the helpers, but not so good for the kids. Keeping the influence of these uninvited helpers to a minimum is a big deal for this dad.
It’s not that I want to define for my children who they will grow up to be—beyond some broad traits, such as healthy, happy and loving—it’s more that I want to keep the doors of possibility open for them. I don’t want the others to define them before they get a chance to define themselves.
My list of things they are not isn’t random. It reflects the identities our culture’s most pervasive influences try to impose on children. More then 20 years ago, when I was in college, almost any freshman orientation included a crash course on how important it is to define oneself by class, color, sex, sexual orientation and culture (which could be either the culture you have or the one your ancestors had).
The most useful and effective definition you could give yourself was as a victim by virtue of one or more of the other definitions. You didn’t have to be a victim in fact—it didn’t matter whether any person, group or institution had ever cheated you—all that was required was that you possessed one of the victim characterizations.
Nothing has changed since, except that my kids don’t have to wait until they’re college frosh before they learn to play the victim.
We’ve set things up so that there is great reward in being a victim. You get attention, sympathy and support. You’re entitled to things others are not. Now, I favor a moral system and a culture in which we feel sympathy for, and are moved to help, victims over those in which we do not, but there’s a dark side to all of this, too.
We allow victims, and their advocates, to go too far. As victims, for instance, we can ignore moral responsibility. We can act wickedly, even savagely, so long as we can claim that we are either fighting our own victimization or fighting on behalf of other victims. Ironically, we use our status as victims to make victims of others.
Hitler is an extreme example. His bloody campaign was rooted in the assertion of being a response to victimization.
I’m a less extreme example: In my teenage years, I learned I could be a bully so long as I claimed to be standing up for a victim. Because my victims were known bullies themselves my claims rang true, but the truth was that it simply felt good to unleash the angry animal inside and beat up “bad” people. (There was no pleasure in beating the good or the weak, perhaps a beneficial result of our cultural sympathy for victims.)
My four older children, ages 8 through 16, are examples closer to home. If they hurt a sibling, they immediately adopt the defense of victimization: “But she did (whatever) first!” Trying to teach our children to take responsibility for their own actions, we’ve imposed a second consequence: Scrub one toilet, for instance, for hitting a sibling and scrub another for trying to excuse your actions with what your sibling did first. The equation is, however, already clear to them: If I am a victim, whatever I do is OK.
Maya, 3, hasn’t quite got it figured out. Ask her, “Why did you hit Jaden?” She’ll answer, “He hit me back!” Is that a defense or is she working on a theory of karmic balance? She may be saying, “Because I’ve been hit back, the scales of justice are balanced and I need no consequence to restore harmony to the universe.” I won’t put it past her.
My children own—but are not owned or defined by—their sex, ethnicity, color, heritage or social standing. Who they are will be for them to decide. At least, that’s the message I hope they hear, above the differing din, from me.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
It's OK, he's a winner
By Russell King
Logan, 10, was batting in a little league baseball game. He’s playing now at a level where it’s entirely kid vs. kid (no more T-ball, no more coach-pitch), scores are kept and it seems to matter whether the game is won or lost. The game was tied at zero in the late innings and Logan’s team had the bases loaded with two out. The pitcher delivered the ball fast, high and inside, and Logan strained to get out of the way at the last second. The ball missed him, but the umpire did not see it. The umpire stopped the game to ask Logan if he had been hit by the pitch.
If Logan said “yes,” he would go to first base and the runner would score, giving Logan’s team the go-ahead run.
Would he, could he, at such a tender age resist the powerful peer pressure of his teammates who wanted so badly to win? Our culture tells us clearly and repeatedly that winning is what matters. Our culture even tells us winning excuses anything shameful that we may have done to gain the win. Logan could say the ball hit him, score the run, be the hero, gain the affection of his teammates and become that most beloved of American things: a winner. Or he could tell the truth.
Or could he? Would he? It seemed like a defining moment for him, and a moment of reflection on me. Which would be more important to this little boy: the inner rewards of honesty, honor and character or the outer rewards of glory, acclaim and victory?
It seems to me that an awful lot of us are having trouble finding our way through the swamps of these decisions.
I am mystified, for instance, that we have turned Donald Trump into a television superstar, an admired and emulated icon, when we all know what a despicable person he has shown himself to be in both is personal and his professional lives. His most visible characteristics have been his dishonesty, greed, ego and ruthlessness. But it’s OK, we don’t care, because he’s a “winner.”
I can recall complaining, at a workplace lunch table, about a local businessman who starred in his own television ads. In these ads, he not only insulted the intelligence and maturity of us, the viewing audience, but—worse—he degraded himself. It turned out that he also had as little regard for the law as he had for his own dignity, but none of this seemed to matter to my coworkers. “Yeah,” they said, “but he makes more money in one year than you’ll make in your entire life.” It’s OK, because he’s a winner.
The worlds of professional sports and politics—two powerful pieces of our shared cultural experience in this nation—are lousy with examples of winning as a whitewash.
Kobe Bryant, of the Los Angeles Lakers professional basketball team, is at best an admitted adulterer who stands accused of being a rapist. But he remains a star, a hero, reaping the rewards of fame and fortune because he’s led his team to the championship series. It’s OK, because he’s a winner.
Bill Clinton was an admitted adulterer when he finished his second term as president with the highest public opinion approval rating of any president and currently ranks third, behind Lincoln and Kennedy, in polls on our “greatest presidents.” He remains a star, a hero, because kept us out of major conflicts and led this nation to the richest, more prosperous era of its history—perhaps of all of human history. It’s OK, because he’s a winner. (Don’t even get me started on the lack of character within the current administration.)
As President Truman reportedly quipped: “Show me a man of principle, and I’ll show you a loser.”
So what did Logan do? He told the truth and then struck out to end the inning. I have never been more proud of him. I shouted praise and pride. I jumped around and waved my arms. I boasted to the other parents: “That’s my son who told the truth!” As a dad, my son’s rock-solid honesty in the face of enormous pressure makes me feel like a winner.
Millionaires, champion athletes and leaders of the free world are all lesser men than my 10-year-old son. He may never be rich and you may never hear of him beyond my columns, but he’s on his way to becoming a great man, an honest man, a gentleman. It’s OK, because he’s a winner.
By Russell King
Logan, 10, was batting in a little league baseball game. He’s playing now at a level where it’s entirely kid vs. kid (no more T-ball, no more coach-pitch), scores are kept and it seems to matter whether the game is won or lost. The game was tied at zero in the late innings and Logan’s team had the bases loaded with two out. The pitcher delivered the ball fast, high and inside, and Logan strained to get out of the way at the last second. The ball missed him, but the umpire did not see it. The umpire stopped the game to ask Logan if he had been hit by the pitch.
If Logan said “yes,” he would go to first base and the runner would score, giving Logan’s team the go-ahead run.
Would he, could he, at such a tender age resist the powerful peer pressure of his teammates who wanted so badly to win? Our culture tells us clearly and repeatedly that winning is what matters. Our culture even tells us winning excuses anything shameful that we may have done to gain the win. Logan could say the ball hit him, score the run, be the hero, gain the affection of his teammates and become that most beloved of American things: a winner. Or he could tell the truth.
Or could he? Would he? It seemed like a defining moment for him, and a moment of reflection on me. Which would be more important to this little boy: the inner rewards of honesty, honor and character or the outer rewards of glory, acclaim and victory?
It seems to me that an awful lot of us are having trouble finding our way through the swamps of these decisions.
I am mystified, for instance, that we have turned Donald Trump into a television superstar, an admired and emulated icon, when we all know what a despicable person he has shown himself to be in both is personal and his professional lives. His most visible characteristics have been his dishonesty, greed, ego and ruthlessness. But it’s OK, we don’t care, because he’s a “winner.”
I can recall complaining, at a workplace lunch table, about a local businessman who starred in his own television ads. In these ads, he not only insulted the intelligence and maturity of us, the viewing audience, but—worse—he degraded himself. It turned out that he also had as little regard for the law as he had for his own dignity, but none of this seemed to matter to my coworkers. “Yeah,” they said, “but he makes more money in one year than you’ll make in your entire life.” It’s OK, because he’s a winner.
The worlds of professional sports and politics—two powerful pieces of our shared cultural experience in this nation—are lousy with examples of winning as a whitewash.
Kobe Bryant, of the Los Angeles Lakers professional basketball team, is at best an admitted adulterer who stands accused of being a rapist. But he remains a star, a hero, reaping the rewards of fame and fortune because he’s led his team to the championship series. It’s OK, because he’s a winner.
Bill Clinton was an admitted adulterer when he finished his second term as president with the highest public opinion approval rating of any president and currently ranks third, behind Lincoln and Kennedy, in polls on our “greatest presidents.” He remains a star, a hero, because kept us out of major conflicts and led this nation to the richest, more prosperous era of its history—perhaps of all of human history. It’s OK, because he’s a winner. (Don’t even get me started on the lack of character within the current administration.)
As President Truman reportedly quipped: “Show me a man of principle, and I’ll show you a loser.”
So what did Logan do? He told the truth and then struck out to end the inning. I have never been more proud of him. I shouted praise and pride. I jumped around and waved my arms. I boasted to the other parents: “That’s my son who told the truth!” As a dad, my son’s rock-solid honesty in the face of enormous pressure makes me feel like a winner.
Millionaires, champion athletes and leaders of the free world are all lesser men than my 10-year-old son. He may never be rich and you may never hear of him beyond my columns, but he’s on his way to becoming a great man, an honest man, a gentleman. It’s OK, because he’s a winner.
