The legend of the Balloon Boy, so-called, has been illuminating, and is useful to introduce a more serious discussion.
Americans increasingly treat themselves as a brand to promote relentlessly, and as a product to sell.
The predictable thing is to mourn for the future of Falcon Heene, in a family where his own needs are callously disregarded, and to direct indignation at his criminal charlatan of a father. Allegedly, of course.
But what is most surprising about the story of the boy who was not in the balloon is that it is improbably rare for an opportunist to seize the national consciousness.
Granted, the instinct toward self-improvement — in both person and status — has been characteristic of the American spirit. Each of our great industries and achievements began with an exceptional person, or group of people, with a vision for greatness.
But this idea that you, out of all the people in the world, are deserving of instant and ubiquitous fame simply for being You — for living Your Life, for being Yourself, for reveling publicly in your essential You-ness — this is another thing altogether.
There was a time, not so very long ago, when Americans were respected for what they produced, for what they contributed, for what they gave of themselves to the common weal.
For the Heenes, and the would-be YouTube stars, the millions undaunted, what is given to the world is the remarkable gift of themselves.
In a world where people treat themselves as commodities, several things begin to happen.
First, we treat our every move as a press event. Twitter, for all its charm, is a real-time repository of the wasting of American time, and it is intentionally, incessantly, public.
Next, we also have difficulty separating legitimate public emotion (death in the family, national tragedy, the Cardinals in the Super Bowl), from our personal, private store of feeling. We’re overusing catharsis here, and when even philandering politicians turn their confessional press conferences into confessional booths, as David Brooks notes, we’ve got a problem.
Third, we’ve elevated extroversion to a sacred necessity. If you can’t sell yourself, talk about yourself, aggrandize yourself, and love yourself loudly to anyone around, you’re not going to get ahead. The dignified introvert must either be immensely talented or immensely lucky to be discovered. And then, he or she will need to hire an extrovert.
In difficult times, dignity is often rediscovered. Perhaps we’re nearing a time like that. The old exhortation to “put aside childish things” rings true, today, in the face of war and recession.
Americans are sometimes a silly people, with strange and laughable psychoses, with larger-than-life ambitions, with vain and fantastic dreams.
We are caterwauling extroverts — clever salesmen of ourselves and our children.
But we are capable, when pressed, of liberating a continent, reaching the moon and countless cases of a more mundane heroism, the heroism of the dedicated teacher and the anonymous donor.
We are now being pressed.
Reach Will at wmunsil@asu.edu, or find him on Facebook. Kidding.
