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.
