I’m not exactly optimistic about human nature. Yes, I certainly believe that human beings are capable of great good, but consider me in agreement with the Christian apologist G.K. Chesterton, who wrote that the doctrine of original sin was “the only part of Christian theology which can really be proved.” Or, to quote a more modern pair of thinkers, the Indigo Girls, “Darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable. And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.”
What is true of individuals is also true of cultures. Not long ago, my colleague David Brooks kicked up a hornet’s nest online with a column titled “What if We’re the Bad Guys Here?” In the piece, he took aim at the culture of elite American meritocracy and argued that it had a crucial role in creating this toxic American moment.
As David wrote, this class of elite Americans has many, many virtues, but it’s far from perfect. And he’s right. I’ve experienced this. I grew up in a small town in Kentucky. My family wasn’t working class (my father was a college professor, and my mother was a teacher), but I grew up in a working-class community, and when I left the South to attend law school at Harvard, I experienced both sides of the meritocratic elite.
It was intoxicating to meet people who were openhearted, brilliant and deeply public-spirited. I also met people who were remarkably arrogant, intolerant and, perversely enough (for all their education), ignorant. While I met and befriended many people who liked me in spite of our differences, I met many others who viewed me, a white, conservative evangelical, as an enemy to be vanquished rather than a new neighbor to know. In class, they were far more apt to boo me, hiss at me or try to shout me down than to spend any time in real conversation.