Exceptional Lies

 Many folks have come to see that “American exceptionalism” is a toxic mind-set. A philosophy that somehow the folks who live in the U.S. are freer, better, more rugged, more enterprising, and morally superior by virtue of our beautiful country and superior form of government. It’s a belief that somehow each of us carries an awesome destiny and purpose just because we are born here.

Open-minded travel to other countries proves this is a lie. It’s not that the U.S. doesn’t have some awesome qualities. It’s that other countries do too, and many things better. We also have a lot of flaws, but pointing that out disturbs our self-image, so we tend to ignore them. So why does this myth persist? And why are those who point out its unreality so roundly vilified? What do we get out of believing ourselves to be “exceptional?” And what does that really mean to us personally?

I’m not even going to try to debunk the myth of American exceptionalism, by the way. Lots of smart people have already done that. If you’re reading my blog, you’re probably quite familiar with them and their arguments. No, I’m going to talk about the personal side of things.

You see, most of us are taught from toddlerhood onward that we are exceptional. That we must strive and achieve. That we must outperform our peers. That we are made for greatness. Proud parents trumpet our achievements to friends and family. Anxious parents monitor our report cards and berate us for a poor mark or even a mediocre one. We’re signed up for sports and dance and orchestra and we’re coached and tutored and cheered. If you’re a parent, you’ve probably done all of these things. So what’s the problem?

The problem is that greatness is always externally defined. Worry about earning that validation takes the joy out of everyday living, fills us with anxiety, causes us to lose touch with our inner selves, and discourages us from doing the fun stuff in life.

An example. My oldest daughter went to an Irish dance performance at our local library when she was in middle school. She enjoyed it a lot and subsequently looked up a lot of Irish dance videos and determined it was something she wanted to learn. I found a local teacher and paid money I didn’t have for her to take lessons. We moved to a larger city and she found an Irish dance school there to join. She progressed quickly and showed an easy talent for learning the complicated step patterns.

Cool, right? But the problem is, the worldwide Irish dance community is built entirely around competition. There’s a highly structured progression – compete at a local feis, win 1-3 place, then progress to a regional competition, again placing 1-3, and so on, with the target being competing at the world championship in Dublin. Teachers and schools gain cache (and therefore more students) by producing champions. In the ever-spiraling strain of competition, fancier costumes and more intricate, challenging footwork is encouraged. Dancers spend thousands of dollars on glittering outfits and risk permanent injury from risky moves that put incredible strain on their feet and legs.

If you just want to dance, not participate in all this nonsense, there’s really no place for you in the Irish dance community. Dance as a celebration, as a community-based activity, as an exploration of Irish culture, as an expression of physical joy, is lost in the competitive furor. So folks like my daughter, who love Irish dance but don’t want to (or can’t afford to) play the competition game, just stop dancing.

“It’s such a shame she quit,” people tell me. “She was really good. She could have been a champion.”

And so it goes. Whatever we do, we’re supposed to excel. And excellence, of course, can be monetized.

I play violin. When was a teenager, I was quite good. I played solos and I played in competitions. It was expected that I would continue my music studies after high school. But I looked forward and saw how intensely competitive the landscape was. I didn’t want to end up teaching music in some middle school. I wanted to play Carnegie Hall, but I knew what the odds were. I gave away my instrument and joined the Army.

Recently, I started playing again. I’m happy to play second in our community amateur ensemble. I’m having fun and making music and getting better. My goal is to hit most of the notes and support my fellow musicians. I’m learning some reels and jigs to play for my daughter. Maybe we can just have fun with it.

We don’t even have to make a YouTube channel.

Thoughts of a Veteran

 It's veterans' day again, with the usual excessive flag waving and maudlin expressions of gratitude. On this day, lots of people recommit to the idea that veterans should have health care and benefits and housing. They don't necessarily vote for the politicians who get that done, but it's a fine, feel-good sentiment. Here's the thing though. As much as I appreciate "take care of veterans," the truth is that I don't deserve anything that every American doesn't deserve. I don't want Americans to take care of me. I want them to take care of each other. 

When I was in the Army - 

I always knew that I’d have a place to stay. It might be a bare-bones barracks room. But it would be clean and comfortable and free. And if I had a family to house, there was some on-post housing and housing allowances for those of us who had to rent “on the economy.” There was even a warehouse of home furnishings that you could borrow so that you didn’t have to buy a bunch of furniture and schlepp it around the globe.

I could get three squares a day at any chow hall. If I lived in the barracks, I’d have a meal card and eat for free. But even if I had my own apartment, I could still get a chow hall meal for a couple of bucks.

I always knew that I’d have access to health care when I needed it. I didn’t have to fool with insurance cards and deductibles and HSA accounts. I just went down to the clinic and saw a doctor or nurse or dentist as needed and got whatever medication they prescribed at the on-site pharmacy. Wherever in the world I went, my medical records went with me, so I didn’t have to worry about records requests and delays and paying fees to access information that belongs to me.

When I moved from one station to another, I knew that my belongings would be packed and shipped to me, whether this was a couple of suitcases and a bicycle or an entire household. My travel expenses were also paid for.

If I were stationed in a foreign country, I could rely on support for things like auto registration, driver’s licensing, and navigating the local real estate market. For families with children, on-post day-care and schooling was provided.

Wherever I was stationed, I knew that there would be a PX/BX where I could buy essential products, a commissary where I could get my groceries, a barbershop, a post office, a gym, a dry cleaners, a community center where I could have a soda and a game of ping pong with my colleagues, and a club where I could relax and have a beer and listen to music after hours. Often there would be even more infrastructure – a ski shop where I could get my skis tuned or buy discounted lift tickets, an auto-shop where I could get my car fixed or borrow the tools to do it myself, a dark room where I could develop and print my own film, maybe even a movie theater or a bowling alley. All of it affordable and accessible.

Each place I was stationed, I was assigned a sponsor who helped me get settled, made sure any paperwork or training I needed to complete was done, took me down to the supply room and the armory to help me get equipped, answered my questions, and showed me around. I knew when I showed up to work, I’d be given the tools I needed to do my job.

Training, both on-the-job and formal, was built into my schedule. I knew I’d have the chance to learn new skills and advance in my career. So long as I met minimum requirements, additional schools and certifications were always available.

Everybody, whether private or general, had 4 weeks of paid leave. Plus, extra days off were given for things like donating blood or volunteering or acing the PT test or just because local leadership felt like it.

The military goes beyond providing for the minimum, essential services. Why do they do all of this? Because they know that people are more effective and more motivated when their needs are met. Not living in fear of homelessness or hunger or medical bankruptcy is the bare minimum. We also need community and recreation and fitness and challenge and growth. With those things, we can excel, we are motivated to reach for more, and we can endure the hardships of our lives and our jobs with grace and resilience.

Everybody should have that.