As a precocious smart ass in high school and in later stages of my life as a law professor, parent and boss, I thought it was my right and responsibility to make my friends wiser, my students smarter, and my children better by telling them better ways to think, clearing up their confusions and deepening their understanding and knowledge. I recognized the inherent arrogance implicit in my efforts to educate and improve others but I forgave myself because, well, I really did think I knew better. And, to be honest, I often did.
As a very young man I took on the role of a self-imposed mentor to my classmates, siblings, even my teachers, generously sharing my thoughts on just about anything. An early incident should have tipped me off that I was often overreaching.
As young law professor I was invited to a luncheon for prominent and potentially prominent folks. Seated at a table with six others, the topic of earthquakes came up (living in L.A., this isn’t as uncommon as you’d think). In an effort to impress my table-mates, I opined at length on the nature and likelihood of future quakes, probably with an air of confidence suggesting I really knew what I was talking about. A few minutes later, someone suggested we all introduce ourselves. Only then did I learn that the unassuming elderly man who listened politely to my lecture was Charles Richter, the world-renowned seismologist who devised the Richter scale measuring the intensity of earthquakes. He graciously said nothing about my comments, but I was sheepishly silent for the rest of the event.
This embarrassing moment did not dampen my zeal as “the great enlightener” and many of my interactions were filled with advice and criticisms, frequently on topics I really did know a lot about. Though the targets of my “let me set you straight” comments often disagreed or became defensive I truly believed that because my intentions were good, they would objectively consider what I had to say, with no offense taken.
My hubris was fueled by the fact that my keynote speeches, radio commentaries, writings and social media posts — designed to inspire people to build character in themselves and in young people — frequently elicited gratitude and praise. More than a few times I’ve been told something I said changed someone’s lives.
Ironically, my life was dramatically changed when I ran across a comment of the poet Maya Angelou, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Sadly, I was already in my late 60’s and much of the damage I’d done was irreparable.
Sure, I noticed and took pride in the way my words made someone feel when packaged in praise and affirmation. But with candor as my guiding standard, I took no responsibility if my remarks made someone feel bad — that was on them.
Prior to Ms. Angelou’s heart-exploding bolt of lightning, I didn’t connect my often insensitive habit of unsolicited advising, correcting and criticizing with the fact that I don’t have many friends. I’ve come to realize that my indifference to the impact of my words was a vestige of a very different thought by the political philosopher Machiavelli who counseled it’s better to be respected than loved.
That observation was like a key turning in a lock I didn’t even know was there. When I looked deeper into my relationships, I realized that even my wife, children and siblings shied away from conversations likely to yield the implied criticisms buried in my well-intentioned candor. I’m mortified to acknowledge that the praise and admiration I have lived on generally comes from people who really don’t know me. “To know me is to love me” doesn’t describe my impact on many of the people I care about most and who know me best.
I never considered that as a father, professor, and award-winning know-it-all, my opinion of people close to me — people who wanted my approval — was weighed more heavily than I realized. When my words carried a potent load of negative judgment, they hurt rather than helped. In many cases, they blocked any serious consideration of the substance of what I was trying to convey.
I’ve come to realize a trait I thought of as a virtue is no such thing. Though I have a very hungry ego that craves praise and admiration, I’m comfortable knowing that some people will not and do not like me — especially if I think (as I always do) that I’m right.
My peculiar ego is surrounded by a shell of self-confidence that allows me to accept even searing criticism as useful information, rarely affecting my self-esteem. In fact, I welcome it — or at least I think I do. If someone points out a mistake I’ve made or that I have bad breath or spinach in my teeth, my momentary embarrassment is overcome by a form of gratitude — thanks for telling me.
I assumed everyone felt the same way until Ms. Angelou shattered my shell. I am now deeply ashamed and regretful that I never realized how important it was to think about and care how my words made others feel.
How did I not know? Because most of the time, the lack of visible reactions reinforced my obliviousness. I detected no “Here we go again” words or looks; people didn’t tell me to shut up or mind my own business. But as I’ve learned, just because you don’t see the reaction doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. People were likely absorbing my words with varying degrees of discomfort, resentment, or hurt — and I missed it entirely.
I’ll admit, I still have a hard time not giving unsolicited advice. And I find myself unable to avoid spontaneous observations that have the impact of criticism or disapproval. But I’ve come to place a higher value on how my words make others feel for two reasons. First, because it’s kind and caring. That should be reason enough, but my preoccupation with reason and logic provides another practical reason to fortify my commitment to be nicer: kindness removes an obstacle to the acceptance of advice or criticism. When people feel valued, respected, and safe, they’re far more likely to engage with your ideas — even the ones that challenge their own.
Wait, does this mean that now I really do know it all?