If you've got it, then know it

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Beautiful, talented people have a right to feel good.

Be more humble, Steven."

This had to be one of the more constant mantras of my childhood. More than just a relentless message from my parents, it was everywhere! The adults who raised and cared for my generation seemed to have one driving ethos, one overriding measure of whether they were faithful parents and good leaders of children:

Whatever else you do, make sure your children don't think too highly of themselves.

It was, like, the worst imaginable outcome. The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Celebrate Thyself.

It took me until about my 40th birthday to realize what should have been obvious. None of the people admonishing me to be humble had the slightest idea what humility was. Their definition came out "in the wash" something like:

"Steven, we'll call you humble if you pretend not to know what you know, if we don't catch you having too much fun being yourself, if you won't articulate any moments of deep satisfaction in excellence, if your gifts never force us to face our own envy, if, whenever anyone does offer a word of gratitude or praise, you pretend to be surprised at your own competence or maybe even chastise and correct the person praising you, reminding him/her that 'anyone could have done it' or that 'you were just lucky.' "

The "Ah, shucks" School of Humility.

Nobody tried harder than me to fit this definition. And frankly -- at the risk of thinking too highly of myself -- I think I largely succeeded.

Which is why, I think, those same people hoping I'd be "humble" then accused me of being phony.

(Here insert the sound of maniacal laughter.)

Ever hear two women talking in reference to another woman across the room? "She's beautiful, but she knows it."

Yeah? So? Why shouldn't she know it? Would you say about Bill Gates, "He's a billionaire, but he knows it"? Would you say about Michael Jordan, "He's a great basketball player, but he knows it"?

If you are in possession of some gift -- and beauty is the name of a gift -- affording you a disproportion of power and therefore responsibility, shouldn't you know it? And, better yet, what if you could both know it and enjoy it?

The thing I hope the most for Michael Jordan, seeing as how he was the best basketball player ever in the known universe, is that he knew it. And enjoyed it. Enjoyed being himself. Because I enjoyed him immensely. It was nice of him not to demur, hold back or pretend to be someone else.

Hiding your light from the world isn't humility. It's a joke. A game. A manipulation. And we try to pass it off as virtue.

I think we make a mistake to assume Jesus chooses a donkey for transportation on Palm Sunday because he is humble. What Jesus is is a brilliant satirist. Pilate enters Jerusalem through the west gate riding a decorated stallion. So Jesus makes a point by riding in through the east gate on a burro. And when the people shout "hosanna," religious folks -- why am I not surprised -- say: "Tell them to stop that! It's not humble!" And Jesus, in possession of true humility, says, "I suppose I could, but then the rocks would just start singing."

If I have to choose -- thank God I don't -- between raising painfully aggrandized, insufferably narcissistic children, and children who live in a posture of constant, crippled apology and self-consciousness for their brilliance and beauty ... well, I'll choose the former. My reasoning is simple: This world has lots of opportunities to confront and shave off the rough edges of hubris, but damn few opportunities to heal and offer a hand up to people crippled by self-loathing, self-doubt and fear.

My son walks out in a tuxedo. Tall. Dapper. "Geez, stud," I say, spontaneously. I drive him to school for his concert. Stopped at a light, I look over to the passenger side. My boy is holding back a canary-eating grin. His eyes dance and dart around. He looks like he's sitting on some delicious surprise, or really great news.

"What?" I ask.

He looks left, then right, as if to assure that we're alone. Then, face blushing, he whispers, "I look really good right now."

And I burst out laughing ... not at him, this is my own joy erupting. It was so sincere, so bawdy, so earthy and real. It's fun to feel attractive and confident. And I'm so happy that he knows it. And is enjoying it.

The simple truth? He does look really good right now.

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