Self-pride is no longer a mortal sin, but it should be earned
Pride was once a Bad Thing – it came Before A Fall, and was a similarly stuck-up sibling to Prejudice. Considered to be the original and worst of the Seven Deadly Sins, it was also thought to be Satan’s most serious character flaw, and he certainly had enough to choose from.
But today Pride can rightly boast that alone of the Seven Deadly Sins it has been thoroughly rehabilitated and is no longer seen as a vice but a diverse, inclusive virtue. Gay Pride is in full swing; London just had theirs and Brighton is excitedly preparing, while my seaside city is also gearing up for Disability Pride next week.
Of course disabled people should believe they are as good as anyone else, and be given all reasonable assistance by the state to level the playing field, but I don’t see where being proud comes into it. I would venture pride needs to be a by-product of achievement to mean anything.
Even if it’s pride in the achievement of others? When we get a chance to feel oceanic about something, be it football or the NHS, those old feelings better suited to religion and politics – but now withheld from them due to the repeatedly revealed unworthiness of religious and political leaders – surge right back. The progress of the England football squad has given a conduit to previously suppressed feelings of national pride; even those who see the flag of St George as the serviette of incipient fascism have been hoisting the red and white bunting high. I’d be lying if I said that even I, who regards all sport with the mild dismay I generally reserve for the Lib Dems, wasn’t moderately enchanted by these freshfaced, fleet-footed, modest young millionaires. But I do find it odd that young men of the same age who lose limbs fighting in their country’s armed forces are spat at for wearing their uniforms, while a boy who kicks a ball well is a national hero. While vicarious pride in the achievements of others may be enjoyable, it seems a dodgy thing to hang one’s self-esteem on, with an edge of hysteria that is played out in the death threats made by enraged fans to fallen idols when the ball fails to hit the spot.
And then something comes along like the rescue in Thailand, and we see what real heroes look like: what it must be like to do something that would really make one proud. There was John Volanthen, who said: “I dive for passion, and always wondered if it would have a purpose. The last two weeks was what I prepared for my entire life.” There was Saman Gunan, who died taking oxygen to the boys, knowing that he might not have enough to get back himself.
What these men had in common was an instinct of straightforward, selfless stoicism, untroubled by selfdoubt and self-examination. Even my most cynical social-media mates were in appropriate awe of these men, who had decided at some point in their lives to make themselves useful in the service of others.
It is right to aspire to this old-fashioned idea of strength. I’m of the opinion that you can only be proud of something you do, not something you are. Pride should come from achievement rather than identity. It’s all very well to search for the hero inside yourself, but you’re far more likely to find him or her by doing, rather than merely being. Pride may no longer be a sin but it’s not always a shining beacon of splendour either; not a right, but a privilege, just waiting to be earned.