From a Sunday morning

For years it has been my habit to come into the office on Sunday to get a jump on the coming week. Usually, like today, I suspect that the security guard and I are the only people in the building. I like it this way; I work better without distraction. My email and other notifications are switched off.

It’s just you and me, kids.

I don’t know how many of you there are out there, but I’m sure there aren’t quite an many as there was a while ago. It used to be that you could count on people to at least look at the newspaper. Now I understand I’m talking to a self-selected elite, mostly people who feel vested in the community, who are older, more educated and more affluent than the population at large.

That’s a gift, insofar as this audience is capable of reading and comprehending at a much higher level than the fifth or sixth grade. You ought to respect your audience enough to not talk down or pander to them, though we’ve all seen plenty of evidence that talking down and pandering is an effective way to build a following or a cult. Tell people what they want to hear and they’ll fund your beach house. We know how it works. We see it in action.

And from time to time, most of us fall for it. I’m talking to the check-writing class, the people who fund cultural institutions and give to political campaigns. The well-intentioned class who still subscribe to newspapers.

If you’re honest, you’ve had your heart broken by political types. Now that he’s not running for governor, Asa Hutchinson can tell us exactly what he thinks about Donald Trump. But he thought the same thing in 2016 and wouldn’t say it. French Hill wouldn’t say it either. If I wasn’t a wised-up pragmatist I’d probably have had my heart broken by decent men doing the politically expedient thing because they did not trust their constituents to listen to reason.

If I hadn’t had my heart broken by Bill Clinton years ago, I might be disillusioned by the behavior of decent people. But I learned a long time ago that decent people are just like the rest of us; when it comes right down to it they’ll rationalize their way into doing what they think best for themselves, no matter what damage they inflict on the body politic. Genuine courage is rare; that’s why we esteem it so.

There is nothing brave about hazarding mean tweets and anonymous trolls trying to hurt my feelings in the comments section. Anybody wants to come down here … well, they’ve got to get past the security guard.

I’m here to tell people—smart people engaged with the issues of the day—how I think.

Not how they are supposed to think. I don’t care if you agree with me. I’m suspicious of all intellectual mascots; anyone who latches onto to a Maddow or a Hannity or a Carlson seems pretty uninteresting. People who want acolytes are suspect; I’ve never used this column to ask you to buy my book or follow me on a social media channel even though that’s what people who are interested in saving newspapers say all us inky wretches ought to be doing these days.

I’m lucky to have such a ridiculous job, and ought to have the grace to take it seriously and to be honest about the way I see the world. I don’t want to create a character or a persona—I’m not a reflexive curmudgeon and I’m not overly optimistic about where we are headed either.

The other day I exchanged several cordial emails with a reader who seemed to genuinely believe there exists overwhelming evidence that the 2020 presidential election was rigged. Because he was such a kind and unassuming correspondent, I asked him where he got his information.

He simply told me Donald Trump would not lie. All he needed was Trump’s word.

In 1938, Columbia University sociologist Theodore Abel published a book called “Why Hitler Came Into Power,” based on 700 autobiographical essays written by ordinary Germans in 1934, the year after Adolf Hitler was appointed chancellor of Germany. These essays were written before Kristallnacht, a full six years before the Panzers rumbled into Poland, setting off World War II.

In one of the essays, a German factory worker wrote:

“Faith was the one thing that always led us on, faith in Germany, faith in the purity of our nation and faith in our leader … Some day the world will recognize that the Reich we established with blood and sacrifice is destined to bring peace and blessing to the world.”

Another wrote that Hitler “was given to the German nation as our savior, bringing light into darkness.”

I do not know why so many of us seem so certain that we are made of stronger stuff than ordinary Germans of 90 years ago. I don’t know why we believe ourselves so special, so favored by God, especially when we seem so indifferent to the pain of others. We aren’t special; we’re just lucky. Lucky to have been born where and when we were, lucky to have had parents or others who looked out for us. Lucky to have our wits and whatever acumen we’ve amassed. You can call it blessed or graced so long as you understand that most of whatever you have achieved has been because you were set up to achieve it. That doesn’t mean life is fair.

Just ask Florida State University’s football team. They did everything they could, they beat every opponent put in front of them, and denying them a place in the college football playoffs is an unequivocal travesty. But I also believe that Alabama, Texas, Washington and Michigan State are better teams than FSU. (And so is Georgia.)

Had I been on the committee I would have probably left out FSU too. It’s not exactly a Sophie’s Choice. (It goes without saying that any sane society would have divorced minor league pro football from its academic institutions long ago.)

My point is you can do everything you’re supposed to do, you can live an exemplary life and pay your taxes and show up for work for 50 years and never cheat a soul. And that entitles you to nothing except maybe the respect we owe one another. We all need to get over the idea we’re so special—that’s not for us to decide.

Excellence — if you can achieve it — has to be its own reward.

So I go into the office on Sunday, to do the best I can.