Fame is a national preoccupation. We chase after
recognition like it's the last train out of Camden. Playing the game isn't
enough―you've got to dunk on ESPN. Getting elected to office requires raising
at least as much image as money or ideas. Even inanimate objects get
famous: when Hostess stopped making Twinkies, the public reacted as if we'd
lost a legend.
As pack animals, it's natural to want some form of
social embrace, an identity within the group. Clearly, I strive to be
noticed or you wouldn't be reading this; joining act and audience is
emotionally nourishing and completes the creative cycle.
Ego is a potent element, though, and becomes quickly
poisonous like as much chlorine. Self-confidence might drive a ballplayer to
the majors, but the team loses when he comes to value home runs and
sponsorships over the pennant. Some of our representatives enter public
service with service at heart, only to have years of self-branding so
thoroughly convince them of their own campaign slogans that they lose track of
their policies' greater impact.
A measure of humility must balance self-worth, or else
competition exceeds cooperation, and the ship sinks as everyone fights to
be captain.
That said, as a high school teacher, I want my
students to be proud and determined, to innovate, to lead. Of course.
At the same time they should be aware that, however brightly their
individual interest burns, it's a pixel in a larger screen that affects
everyone's picture, and there are times when the integrity of a task is more
important than taking credit for the result. Furthermore, if attention is what
they're after, posting shirtless selfies or skateboarding off a clock tower is
a counterproductive way to get it.
Periodically, we need a break from ourselves as much
as the greater good needs respite from our ambition. It's an act of
liberation, really, to relinquish title and be no one in particular.
