Pride is strange. The good side is obvious. With our children, for instance, our heart swells with love, admiration, belonging. The bad side concerns ownership and a lack of humility. Who are we proud of? Sometimes it’s ourselves, even when we say it’s about others.
A few months ago, my daughter, Jessie, invited me to join her on a trip to Florence and Rome, where she’d be giving some talks at international conferences on infant mental health, her specialty. I have been a fan of my daughter for as long as she’s been alive and was being granted a place of honor during her march towards professional prominence. Who wouldn’t be proud? …proud of her; proud that she trusts and enjoys me enough to share this part of her life.
What I liked best, though, was the opportunity to see her in her element. Like other parents, I know Jessie, one to one. I know her as a family member,—as a daughter, of course, and, through observation, as a mother and wife. I would even say I know her as a friend. I haven’t really known her as a professional, except at a distance, through reports and stories. Yet she does spend 50 hours a week (I’m exaggerating downwardly here) at her work and it occupies a huge share of her mind, as well as her sense of self and fulfillment. So there has been a missing piece.
There were 1,700 participants at the Ergife Palace Hotel in Rome, just about every one of them eagerly networking with colleagues and potential colleagues, catching up with old friends, whirling around in a wild and perpetual motion. At the same time, I was invisible. Of the hundred or so people to whom Jessie introduced me—“This is my Dad”—not a single person asked: “What do you do?” Or, granting them the excuse that I looked old: “What did you do?”
But the invisibility provided me with an advantage: I could observe as an outsider; I could learn about my daughter without interjecting my own interests and, ordinarily strong—some might say, intrusive—personality. As a result, I got a pretty good look at how Jessie spoke to audiences, how she worked a room, how she collaborated with colleagues, how she listened and learned. Everyone seemed to like and respect her.
An easy admission: Before the trip, I was already a very proud father. Jess had clearly grown into a highly competent, confident pro, working hard in the service of traumatized children, standing for values we shared. So even if I struggled towards some kind of scientific objectivity in viewing Jess, I was bound to at least a little proud of her after sitting in on her world.
Sitting in the observer’s seat also gave me time to observe myself and to wonder: What does it mean that I’m proud of my daughter? Returning to where this essay began, there’s the good side of pride: Your heart swells. The feeling is partly physical. You feel enlarged. Whatever you are observing has enhanced you, too. And, of course, there’s something generous in being enhanced by the achievements of another.
But pride has connotations that cut the other way. There is something narcissistic about it. Sometimes we are proud of another because they make us feel good about ourselves. Their achievements are partly our own. We think that we have made our children into the people they are today. In other words, we are, at least in part, proud of ourselves. Not a terrible thing but maybe a little less generous than we might like.
There is something controlling about pride too. The implication is that, at least partially, we own the success, the beauty, or the sweet personality of the people who make us proud. If then, something in them changes, we might find ourselves embarrassed and even rejecting. “That’s not us,” we might think. “What made them stray?” In order to retain our pride, the other person might have to keep acting in a way that we approve.
And as many cultural and religious traditions tells us, pride touches on arrogance. A proud person might well have an exaggerated sense of her own capabilities or act as though she were better than others. In which case, the very act of pride is dangerous. Thus the saying: “Pride goeth before the fall.” Why? Because it reflects a self-centered attitude.
This said, I think that pride, in the best sense, is a good thing. This kind of pride is beautifully portrayed in an article Michael Chabon wrote for GQ in 2016. He had watched his son, Abe, grow into a teenager consumed by fashion, which confused and, in part, put his father off. As a bar-mitzvah present, Chabon brought Abe to Men’s Fashion Week in Paris. Instantly, Abe was in his element, gravitating to designers he idolized and attracting mature designers by his own stylish dress. Chabon, the father, was soon bored with the shows but held on for his son.
As he prepared to leave, Abe resisted. At first, Chabon, who would like to get home, was taken aback. It’s not the fashions, themselves, that have provided such joy, Abe told him. It’s the sense of being with people who ‘get’ him. He loved being with the designers, who made him feel at home, totally engaged, affirmed. The environment helped Abe to see himself clearly, and, by the end of the week, Chabon saw his son clearly as well..simply and deeply. At a certain level, he’d just met Abe; and he was very proud of his son.
Chabon’s article helped me see Jessie more distinctly. For a whole week, I watch her closely. Sometimes I had the normal array of feelings: that I love her; that my early and regular endorsement—and occasional push—had supported her confidence and drive.
But the stronger feeling I had was how different she is from me. How distinct, how separate. To state the obvious, she is a researcher, who loves data and policy and changing the ways that programs interact with and support children and families. She sometimes even deals in…RCT’s…randomized controlled trials, for those in the know. During conference sessions, Jess was rapt when people discussed statistical measures and techniques, while my eyes glazed over, from lack of interest and total ignorance. She thrives in building an international network of like-minded colleagues. I’m more of a local guy. I generally feel lost in conferences and reach my fill of people in small and large doses pretty quickly. She’s at home with social media. I’m a dinosaur who wished Facebook and Snapchat had never come to be. Her laugh is hearty, mine restrained. She’s funny; no one has ever accused me of being a comedian. I like broad, sweeping ideas, common to philosophers and historians in the 19th century. Jessie is more practical and deeply knowledgeable about her field, which is plenty broad itself..
One particular exchange was telling. I mentioned that I had participated in a similar professional revolution, shifting clinical emphasis from children to whole families. “I respect, even admire, what you and your colleagues did, Dad,” said Jessie, “but there might have been more flash than science. No one in your day proved that their approach was effective.” What can I say? The truth is that I would have been impatient with the need for proof through what I would have considered boring research activities.
She wasn’t being harsh or confrontational. Just stating her case and, for some reason, I didn’t take offense. As the days passed and our differences were highlighted, my love and respect for this very distinct person began to supersede my feelings of pride.
As pride slipped away, a maturing sense of intimacy moved in. I know this is a curious statement, so let me try to explain. When you step aside, take yourself out of the equation, you begin to see that even this very close person is neither you nor not you—but her own self. The conference experience was like being admitted to secret society, speaking an unfamiliar language. I observed her through her own eyes and through the many, varied eyes of colleagues. I could see the 47-year old, mature, working woman. I could see the full mix of confidence and uncertainty, assertiveness and reticence. The quirks, the intelligence, and the pure energy she gives off shone brightly.
Even as I write that sentence, I’m tempted to say (proudly) “And she’s my daughter.” And I’d be incapable of distancing myself completely from that feeling. But she’s not just my daughter, which is what permits me to know her and love her as she is.
Barry Dym 