Last night I was thinking about shame.
When I was growing up, shame was a much-used parental and pedagogic device. Parents commonly called their children “bad,” for example. Teachers purposely made us feel ashamed – not necessarily with the old-fashioned dunce cap, but with ploys such as the favorite ones of a particularly nasty teacher of mine who thought nothing of cruel name-calling, and who would hand out our tests after she’d marked them and then call our names from the roll book as we were told to shout out what marks we had gotten and she would write them down. This public self-disclosure punished both those who had done well and those who had done poorly. The latter felt shame for their poor performance, and the former were then subject to the wrath of the latter and felt ostracized for their good performance.
No, it wasn’t a very good system. It had its pluses, but it also caused a lot of people to feel that their every move was wrong and that there was no redemption possible for them. A few years later, the idea emerged that it was better for parents and teachers to tell a misbehaving child that the child had done something bad, and could and should do better, rather than that there was something intrinsically bad about the child’s essence. That still seems to me to be the best middle ground of child-rearing.
Unfortunately, the pendulum then swung too far, into the self-esteem movement. Children were told they were great no matter what, and various excuses were made for bad behavior. Was that behavior even called “bad” anymore? I suppose it depended on what identity group a child belonged to, or whether the school was in a red or blue area. And now, children are even made to feel bad for their race once again, only now the races are reversed and it’s the white kids who are supposed to think they bear some sort of mark of Cain.
At any rate, the context in which the word “shame” occurred to me last night was somewhat akin to Robert Welch’s question during the McCarthy hearings: “Have you no sense of decency?” This time, I was thinking about people such as Alvin Bragg and Jack Smith and Fani Willis, who are perfectly fine with stretching the law till it’s unrecognizable in order to charge a political enemy in a transparently partisan move. They don’t care. They probably feel pride. I don’t know much about their backgrounds, but I do know that they are all about the same age: Bragg is 49, Smith is 52, and Willis is 54.
That’s not so very young, but it’s certainly a different generation than mine. My parents were born in the early years of the 20th century, and many of my grade school teachers were born in the late 1800s. Just writing that makes me feel like some sort of dinosaur. It wasn’t the Jurassic, but it was indeed a different world than the one we now inhabit.
