The Myth of the Self-Made Man

“I personally think that society is responsible for a very significant percentage of what I’ve earned.”

— Warren Buffett, CEO of Berkshire Hathaway

“The opportunities to create wealth are all taking advantage of public goods–like roads, transportation, markets–and public investments… We are all standing on the shoulders of all that came before us, and creating a society for our children and those that come after us. We have obligations as part of that.”

— Jim Sherblom, venture capitalist and former chief financial officer of Genzyme

 

 

I recall a late night talk show where actor Nicolas Cage, who as a youth sold popcorn in a movie theatre, was asked how he ever managed to make it from working in a candy booth to acting on the silver screen. I don’t remember his response, but I do know that his explanation avoided mentioning that his real last name is Coppola, as in Francis Ford, as in the powerful and influential movie producer. Mentioning such a fact, in our western culture, would be the male equivalent to admitting that he “slept his way to the top”. Having confessed to using the well established means at his disposal, in the eyes of the public, would damage his credibility as an actor.

There is a sad irony here, that society expects, in fact, pressures a man, when he attains a certain level of success to “unacknowledge” the help and assistance that the very same society provided in order for him to achieve his goals. Nicolas Cage, a Hollywood movie actor, is a very appropriate example of this because nothing exploits the romance of the underdog/diamond-in-the-rough/American Dream more than Hollywood films.

Let’s face it, as westerners we all want the little guy to succeed, to overcome all obstacles and get the girl, the big house, the chair in the Oval Office. But, to be the little guy, to create these personal legends, we, man and often enough, women, have to either forego any kind of help from those around us and/or deny that we ever received help. We also feel that it is a public duty to frown upon those who openly accept the help of family and community.

Case in point: The National Post’s Rex Murphy, has written an article in which he sentimentalizes the Newfoundland of old, where people were self-reliant, industrious, independent and didn’t suffer from “the Oprah gene of emotional incontinence and reckless, exhibitionary self-worship.”

He cites an example of a 70-year-old man who built his own fishing boat. He portrays the man as humble and taciturn and completely independent from anyone else. “He needed no one. Had to ask help of no one. Took money nor grant from no one. This was his boat.” The gist of the article, following the spirit of those in a series of Post articles entitled The Death of Personal Responsibility, is that we, the average Canadians, should all carry our own water, fight our own fights, keep a stiff upper lip, and a litany of other tough-love platitudes designed to shame the users of character-sapping social programs and pesky beaurocratic human right councils.

The hypocrisy of the article and those in the series cannot be overstated. Rex Murphy makes a good chunk of his income giving commentary on CBC’s The National, and hosting CBC’s Cross-Country Check-up, both programs funded by tax dollars, mostly from average Canadians. Simply put, Rex Murphy is paid with tax dollars from average Canadians while instructing average Canadians not to rely on the benefits and programs made available through tax dollars mostly funded by average Canadians.

It doesn’t stop there. Conrad Black, publisher of the National Post, and enemy of most things welfare, was born into great wealth. And while he and his journalists currently attack the Canadian ‘nanny’ state, Conrad certainly didn’t waste time in reapplying for coverage under the Canadian Health Care system when he returned – cash strapped – from his rather long, um, vacation, in the US.

It could be that both these men reconcile the chasm between their actions and words with the rationalization that while applying for the use of – or benefits from – tax dollars is parasitic, using ones political and economic clout, or business acumen to extract tax dollars from the coffers of government can be considered entrepreneurial. Or perhaps it’s just that they know what they are claiming is pap, and just want more tax dollars for themselves.

That both men openly deride and take succour from the welfare state isn’t lost on the average Canadian reader who agrees with Rex’s article and others like it. With a brief glance at the comments section, one can easily pick our revealing sentences and phrases like “proud not to have gone on the dole” and “leftist socialist dogma”. The section is rife with anti-Trudeauisms, which shouldn’t be surprising. But nevertheless, most of the commenters seem lucid and astute, and appear to be up on current affairs.

Why do they omit these glaring contradictions?

Perhaps it’s something to do with that while we all know who Nicolas Cage’s uncle is, the last thing we want him to do is tell us that he used these connections – that we could never have – to advance his career. This would destroy the mythos his publicist has created for him. And if he destroys that mythos, than he also destroys the hope that if we wanted, we could also join him on the silver screen. Therefore, both the audience and Nicolas Cage quietly agree to omit the harsh facts, in order perpetuate the tantalizing myth of the independent underdog rising to fame.

Like Nicolas Cage, the Myth of the Self-Made is an static image. A cowboy smoking a cigarette against a setting sun, an old man building his own boat. It doesn’t matter if the cowboy accepted farming subsidies, or if Rex Murphy’s old man died peacefully in bed or drowned at sea or was eventually taken in by his family. What matters is that single snapshot, whose real-world value exists – like Santa Claus – only in the minds of the believers and those who knowingly perpetuate the belief.

Other People’s Poetry

Persuasion

 
by guest, Dawna Rae Hicks

 
Come back to my arms,
do not leave me just yet;
I am not done with you.
Leave the dishes in the sink.
There is a backdrop to everything –
a sheet of stars behind the noonday sky.
You must come and wonder at it with me,
just for a little while.

The coffee will make itself, given a chance.
Let us listen like the elderly do,
to the quiet room, to the breath of god
escaping our lips. A state of bliss
where we only own what happens.
Let the tinkerers rest
from hammering away industriously
at nothing

 

 

Dawna Rae Hicks is a poet, broker and single mother living in Toronto. After a long hiatus from writing she has returned to her first love, a bit more humble. She has been published in such books as Short Fuse (Rattapallax Press), 100 Poets Against The War (Salt) and Future Welcome (a Moosehead Anthology), and the e-book Poems for Madrid, which can be found through www.nthposition.com.

Namdaemun Sestina

Seoul, South Korea

 
Across from the waxed pig heads,
mothers and daughters gather at carts
loaded with assorted clothes.
Elbows deep, they churn up colours
while old ladies, rapped in fabric, sit on stools,
poised above red clay pots filled

with kimchi and large silver bowls filled
with silver minnows. Above our heads
UN flags hang from strings. Below, on stools
booth owners gather by music carts.
Cigarettes dangle and pop music colours
the sun swinging amid bars of designer clothes.

I am walking , and men are shouting and waving clothes
above their wagon loads, bending their tongues to the air filled
and turning with spice and meat and colours.
The sky turns the voices about our heads,
under the shoes of men stomping on carts,
and through the fabric of ladies poised on stools.

I walk, and though the men might rest on stools,
drinking deep the voice that fills their clothes,
these streets draw sky like the wheels of carts.
I breath, and my life is drawn about a lake filled
with twilight. We are the stars forming about our heads.
Poised in a tin boat, our whispers draw the colours

of skin as we shed our clothes submerge the colours
into the fabric of these ladies, poised on stools
breathing the sleep of children, whose heads
are cradled in the hands of fathers haggling over clothes.
Their dreams gathering the voice of memories filled
with men who chant from clothing carts,

music that crackles from music carts
and all the spice and meat and sewage and colours
turning the air about me into a single breath filled
with the stillness of the men resting on stools.
Sweat is soaked into the fabric of their clothes
an entire street is drawn up into their heads.

In a food tent, there are some empty stools.
Under the canopy, I can watch the colours
submerge into a lake of twilight, drifting above our heads.

 

 
As appeared in Freefall, Vol. XVI No. 2, 2006.

How to Make a Good Mug of Coffee

I’m stressed. Where normally I would be browsing the websites of major Canadian newspapers, lately, I find myself shunning them. My usual morning ritual of listening to CBC on the way to work in the morning has been usurped by a half-hour of soothing, mind-numbing music. As well, part of me is thankful that, as a teacher, I can shut out the outside world for hours at a time. And while I’m not writing, I’ve been giving the warrantee on my PS3 a run for its money. For the lack of a real word, I’m feeling kind of ‘escapy’ lately.

Of course, one large source of my worries is the political landscape of my fair country, its obnoxious players and ominous trends of late. A June 5th article in The Globe and Mail predicted a Conservative majority in 2011. Who needs to read that on a Wednesday? It’s midway through the workweek, for crying out loud; it’s cause for mild celebration. But nooooo, Andrew Steele has to rub his educated opinions in my face at 6:30 in the morning. Perhaps John Ralston Saul was right in stating that although we can remember singular events, the average person on the street has no linear memory, which would be very useful in remembering that our $13 billion national surplus occurred before our country’s current administration came into power, and the $56 billion deficit came after. But hey, I’ve got to live with my capitalist-no-free-handouts-except-for-me! friends, so I will digress, and in the spirit of Christopher Hitchens’ article How to Make a Decent up of Tea, I will lend some of my own advice on how to make a decent mug of coffee.

Yes, the irony of writing an article about being stressed while glorifying coffee isn’t lost on me. But as a Cappuccino-drinking, limp-wristed Toronto elitist, I would like to remind you of the deeper irony that people like me are often mocked for drinking espresso – coffee in its most concentrated form – by those who manfully pride themselves as fans of Tim Horton’s, a brew which couldn’t be more insipid if it came with training wheels and a set of water-wings by comparison. Or, as I say, coffee for bed-wetters.

First of all, forget everyday brands like Maxwell House, Folgers, and Van Houtte. Why? Because these are regular coffee. This is not an elitist thing, it’s a strength thing. What you need is something POTENT. I always go for Medaglia D’oro Caffe myself. You can find tins of it in most supermarkets; it has the colours of the Italian flag. If not, you can try some Lavazza. What? The names sound to uppity-European for you? Well, remember Rocky Marciano? He had a European last name as well, are you going to call him limp-wristed? Turkish coffee is also pretty good but, it’s a little too light for my taste.

Next, get yourself a French Press or one of these guys. I just bought one of the latter and WOW, I tasted the infinite. There is nothing like pressure brewed coffee. The first time tried it, it was too strong, even for me. And whatever you do, do not pack the filter. I learned the hard way, and my stove top suffered the consequences.

If you are, however, committed to your percolator, just take whatever you normally put in the strainer, and double it. If you can see sun through a freshly-brewed pot, than it is too weak. In fact, the coffee should be black enough that it absorbs any light from the immediate area. Oh, and I almost forgot, be sure to add a teaspoon of cinnamon to the grinds BEFORE you brew it. I know, I know, cinnamon. But it takes the edge off what is an extremely potent mug of coffee. I’ve also tried egg shells, and they work for the taste as well, but this is where cleanliness comes into play. If you’re the kind of person who tends to leave the old grinds in the filter while you go away on a trip, then I wouldn’t recommend it. If you’re the kind of person who has the dust-buster on standby while you’re eating cookies, then by all means, knock yourself out.

Lastly, if you like to sweeten your coffee, then I recommend a tablespoon of honey, or even better, genuine maple syrup. Don’t knock it till you try it. You’ve got to fight fire with fire, and what you have just brewed is something thick and bitter, what you need to counter the bitterness is something sweet and just as thick. Table sugar just won’t cut it. You’ll find it cowering at the bottom of the mug, dazed and blinking into the light. After that, it’s just a matter if you like your coffee creamed or not. But for me, dairy is just window dressing for the amateurs.

I hope this helps, and that I’ve managed to convert some of you ardent Tim Horton fans into trying out some REAL coffee.

Finally, I just like to mention to all the tea drinkers: quit fooling yourself. Warm tap water is cheaper, and just as tasty.