One great exception to the culture of life promoted by early feminists, I’ve learned, was Margaret Sanger, an early crusader for the use of contraception and the founder of the organization that became Planned Parenthood. In his book Liberal Fascism, Jonah Goldberg describes Sanger as “a liberal saint, a founder of modern feminism, and one of the leading lights of the progressive pantheon.” What Sanger’s liberal admirers fail to acknowledge, Goldberg writes, is that she was “a thoroughgoing racist” and an advocate of Nazi-style eugenics, culling the human race of its “undesirables.” Sanger advocated birth control to keep the “unfit” from reproducing—particularly blacks.
In sharp contrast to Sanger and her present-day admirers, the pro-life movement is strongly pro-woman, and pro-woman Americans are increasingly pro-life. These women and men of conscience are the rightful heirs to the foremothers who fought for our rights at the turn of the last century. These warrior souls show their dedication not only to women, but to the weakest among us: those with special needs, women without anyone to turn to, and children without a voice. They run the pregnancy resource centers, the counseling hotlines, the foster care facilities, the adoption services, and countless other outreach programs that offer compassionate assistance and friendship to women who are struggling.
Those few atrocious extremists who commit violence in the name of opposing abortion get all the headlines, but the real, unsung heroes are women such as the Sisters of Life, whose members not only pray for the protection of human life but do the hard, selfless work of caring for human life. They help mothers have and raise their children, and they counsel and comfort those who have made decisions they regret.
Another remarkable group of Americans who are not just talking the talk but walking the walk of life are the men and women of the website AbortionChangesYou, a safe, nonjudgmental place for women and men who are troubled after their own abortions or those of someone close to them. It’s beyond politics or proselytizing, a place that honors the legacy of feminists such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony by helping women heal.
Liberal feminists like to accuse women who don’t agree with them of trampling on the legacy of the women who fought before us. But it’s these women who have twisted and distorted the campaign for women’s rights into a campaign for everything from abortion on demand to government-run health care who have distorted the women’s movement’s legacy. Now they’re challenging the right of strong, accomplished women who just happen to believe in the sanctity of life to call themselves “feminists.” That’s their right, of course, and God bless ’em. But if they thought pit bulls with lipstick were tough, wait until they meet a mama grizzly.
Six
Are We Really the Ones We’ve Been Waiting For?
Everyone who has reached deep down to find the will to run one more mile or press one more set knows the feeling. You never forget that moment: the moment when you kept going even when you thought you couldn’t; the moment when you didn’t give up even though every nerve ending in your body was screaming for you to stop. That moment stays with you forever and it changes you. It literally redefines the possible for you. You become more for having experienced it. Maybe you don’t go on to win the race, but you have a much more important victory: a victory over self-doubt and self-imposed limitations. A victory for the possible.
I come from a family of runners. Running is something you don’t have to be particularly talented or coordinated to do—which is why I do it! You just put on your shoes and go. And the road, I’ve found, holds some important life lessons. It may sound odd, but I’ve discovered that one of the main sources I can draw on to teach my son Trig to overcome the challenges he faces are the lessons I’ve gleaned from a life-long love of athletics.
Over the years, I’ve learned that the real benefit of sports isn’t the glory of victory or the glow of physical fitness, although these are great things. The real benefit comes from that moment when you find in yourself the strength to do something you never thought you could. More than most, Trig will encounter challenges in his life. He will need to find that strength. For my entire life, running and playing sports have helped me find it for myself. Now it’s helping me help Trig push beyond the limits society will inevitably set for him.
The first of the life lessons I’ve learned on the road, and that Todd and I will work hard to teach Trig, is to take things one step, and one day, at a time.
Take the moment when you start training for a marathon. You can think only about the first mile. It’s impossible to look all the way down the endless road and find the will to finish. You have to pick a point—a fence post, a mailbox, or, in my case, a snowdrift—and stay focused. If you don’t, the challenge will feel too big. You’ll lose your determination in the face of the sheer magnitude of your ultimate goal.
I learned this the summer Track got his driver’s license. I was training for a marathon that year. On lucky days, he drove the route ahead of me, placing water bottles and notes of encouragement at points along the way.
Mile 1: “Run, Mom! Love ya!”
Mile 2: “Don’t give up!”
Mile 3: “You’re OLD—but you can do it!”
Ah, the love of a sixteen-year-old.
That summer, I ran note to note, water bottle to water bottle. I’d get tired or thirsty and I’d think, Just make it to the next one. Track taught me the trick of tackling the big things: Take it one mile, one note, one step at a time.
There’s another thing about the road: Most of the time, you’re alone. It’s just you out there. But it’s in those times—when no one’s looking, when no one’s cheering you on—that your character is revealed. When you think you’re at the breaking point—when you think, I can’t run another step. I can’t do it, and there’s no one but yourself to turn to for strength—that’s when you show what you’re made of. That’s when you discover the hidden reservoir of strength you can draw upon to endure and finish well. Some call it spirituality. Others call it personal resolve. Whatever you call it, I believe it resides in all of us. And when we need it most, it will be there.
Digging deep is a defining characteristic of people of accomplishment and nations of accomplishment. It’s really just the common sense that our parents and grandparents taught us: Nothing worthwhile comes without effort. And big things come with big effort. That’s what’s made America great. When you read the accounts of the women and men who tamed the western frontier, built our great cities, and ventured north to Alaska, you’re struck not just by the almost superhuman effort they expended, but by their rock-solid determination to push boundaries, to reach the better life that awaited them over the next mountain range or with the next mining claim. From our comfortable, safe existences in the wilderness they conquered and the communities they built, these Americans seem more like aliens from another planet than our national forebears. But their grit and their optimism are a part of us; they live on in our restless culture of striving and effort and idealism. They didn’t just build a great country, they built a great culture.
Few American leaders captured this spirit of greatness and grit like Teddy Roosevelt. Not only did he love the beauty and the wildlife of the American West, but he exemplified, in his life and his words, that large, ambitious spirit. He delivered one of his most famous speeches in Chicago in 1899, when he was governor of New York. He wanted, in his words, to talk about “what is most American about the American character.”
I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life, the life of toil and effort, of labor and strife; to preach that highest form of success which comes, not to the man who desires mere easy peace, but to the man who does not shrink from danger, from hardship, or from bitter toil, and who out of these wins the splendid ultimate triumph.
A life of slothful ease, a life of that peace which springs merely from lack either of desire or of power to st
rive after great things, is as little worthy of a nation as of an individual. I ask only that what every self-respecting American demands from himself and from his sons shall be demanded of the American nation as a whole. Who among you would teach your boys that ease, that peace, is to be the first consideration in their eyes—to be the ultimate goal after which they strive? . . . It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.
How far our leaders have come in the past 110 years—and not always in a good way. When I was growing up, nothing demonstrated the American ethic of innovation, enterprise, and striving—the “strenuous life”—more than the American space program. I wasn’t yet born when John F. Kennedy pledged in 1961 to land a man on the moon within the decade. But I have early memories of when that ambitious goal was accomplished in 1969. Like so many Americans, my family and I watched the moon landing on an old black-and-white TV set. As with Theodore Roosevelt, JFK’s ambition to put a man on the moon perfectly captured a nation that feared neither hard work nor failure. “We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy,” he said, “but because they are hard.”
I grew up in an America that strives to achieve noble goals, “not because they are easy . . . but because they are hard.” But fast-forward almost fifty years, and our national leaders seem to have lost all of Kennedy’s confidence and brio (for the greatness of America, in any case; they don’t seem to lack any faith in their own greatness). Instead of announcing ambitious new goals for the space program, we have the head of NASA telling Arab television that his agency’s “foremost” goal, according to President Obama’s instruction, is “to find a way to reach out to the Muslim world and engage much more with dominantly Muslim nations to help them feel good about their historic contribution to science and math and engineering.”
Hearing this new rationale for our space program had us scratching our heads. What? Holding hands and singing “Kumbaya” with Muslim countries? What does that have to do with our once proud and pioneering space program? One of my kids heard the NASA change in direction and shook her head. “It’s like that Sesame Street song, Mom,” she said. “ ‘One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong. Can you guess which thing doesn’t go with the others . . . ?’ ”
How condescending to Muslims. How sad for America. And how unsurprising coming from a man who is himself one of the leading exemplars of the new culture of self-esteem. From “paying any price” and “bearing any burden” to trying to boost other countries’ sense of self-worth by downplaying our own—all in less than five decades. Is this really supposed to convince our enemies that they shouldn’t attack us and our way of life? Is it really supposed to inspire my kids and other American kids to work hard and dream big?
When I finally reached my goal of running a decent marathon, I made it with only a few seconds to spare. It was hellish and brutal, and I consider it one of my greatest accomplishments, I suppose because it just hurt so bad. But it made me stronger, not just as a runner but as a mom, a leader, a citizen. It strengthened me because I learned more about perseverance, self-discipline, and focus—all things needed to progress in every area of life.
Todd and I know that, however much we try to protect him, Trig will confront real challenges in his life. Hard as it is to believe, some people will make life harder for him. It’s at these moments that he will need to find his inner strength—he’ll need to know it’s there, not because someone told him, but because he’s felt it and he’s experienced it.
Sometimes I think we try too hard with kids these days to substitute this inner strength with empty praise. Everyone’s into building their kids’ self-esteem by telling them they’re all “winners,” assuring them that every scribbled picture is a work of art and every chaotic soccer game is a triumph. I understand the good intentions behind this, but I also worry that we’re not giving our kids the chance to discover what they’re made of. Kids know the difference between real praise and empty praise. When we don’t let them fail, when we tell them every average effort is superlative, we’re keeping them from discovering that hidden strength. We may think we’re helping them, but really we’re holding them back.
In fact, we may be creating a generation of entitled little whiners. I came across an article recently that reported how growing numbers of employers today complain that many young job applicants exhibit all the signs of having been—there’s no other word for it—spoiled. These young people feel entitled to jobs and salaries they haven’t earned. They have unrealistic views of their own capabilities. They don’t take criticism well, and they demand lots of attention and guidance from their employers. They “were raised with so much affirmation and positive reinforcement that they come into the workplace needy for more,” said one manager. Another workplace manager describes seeing young employees break down in tears after a negative performance review and even quit their jobs. “They like the constant positive reinforcement, but don’t always take suggestions for improvement well,” he said. And lest you think this is the typical insecurity that comes with youth, the culture of undeserved self-esteem is getting worse. We are experiencing what columnist David Brooks calls “national self-esteem inflation.” He points to the result of a study in which American teenagers were asked if they considered themselves an “important person.” In 1950, 12 percent said yes. In the 1980s, 80 percent of girls and 77 percent of boys said yes.
As parents, it’s natural for us to want to protect our kids from the dog-eat-dog competition of life. But do we really have their best interests at heart when we shield their little egos, finish their science projects, and sell all their Girl Scout cookies for them? One of the things that has made America great, after all, is our work ethic. Americans have never been afraid to work hard, in the belief that even if we don’t necessarily see the fruits of our labors, our children will. But the ability to work hard and succeed assumes a lot of things; it requires a lot of life lessons that the family and our culture used to teach. One of the most important is the ability to defer gratification, to be able to wait to enjoy the rewards of your work.
Our basic understanding of self-discipline and our ability to work hard for an often distant reward are formed early, in strong families and communities that don’t confuse hard-earned self-esteem with unearned self-regard. For me and my siblings, these lessons began early with the performance of household chores and other duties assigned by our parents. We weren’t bribed with an allowance; we simply did as we were expected to do as part of the mutual effort required to keep our little family afloat, such as picking berries, hauling wood, and cleaning up after ourselves. Later on this attitude served me well when I had to earn money for college, and when I worked dirty and demanding jobs on a fishing boat or processing crabs and roe on a slime line.
But above all, it was athletics and competition that taught me the value and rewards of hard work and consistent effort. Like everyone, I have to battle with my own temptations to skip a workout and eat junk food instead. But my caring, athletic family taught me to make short-term decisions for long-term gain. I always, 100 percent of the time, feel better when I make the decision to go for a run versus skipping it. And bagging the fat and carbs I don’t need instead of consuming them feels better than the guilt-ridden, sluggish feeling I get when I eat a bunch of crap that slows me down. And I know that the choices I make aren’t just affecting me; they are teaching my kids. Once I gave up chocolate for an entire year—from January 1 to January 1—just because I wasn’t sure I could do it. I’m a borderline chocoholic, so it was one of those “if I can do it, anyone can do it” things I wanted to do, just so I could show my kids. Sure, it’s a petty example, but I believe this feeling of accomplishment is what everyone is created to crave. One of my favorite quotes is from former Notre Dame coach Lou Holtz: “God didn’t put us on this earth to be ordinary.” Everyone is created to be unique, but not ever
yone has been blessed with the life tools to get to that “extraordinary” place. To get there we have to have self-discipline and make the right choices. You have to have discipline. No one will do it for you.
Our failure to instill the virtues of hard work and deferred gratification does a disservice to all our kids, but it is the kids from low-income and broken families who often suffer the most. Unlike more privileged young people, they have fewer resources to fall back on when they enter the job market with a shrunken work ethic and an inflated sense of entitlement. Attempts to substitute empty “self-esteem” for the hard virtues of work and accomplishment, however well intentioned, are bound to fail. Just like in the competition of athletics, the competition of business, of the arts, of leadership—of life—doesn’t make exceptions for good intentions. Greatness isn’t rewarded to individuals who “deserve” it more because they come from more difficult circumstances. Reality is harder and more demanding than that. The greatness of America has come from striving to give everyone an equal chance at reaching the American dream, and then backing up that promise by instilling the virtues of hard work, thrift, and fair play. No one ever promised that everyone would succeed; just that they would have a chance to if they worked hard enough.
Our greatest American success stories are those of the least among us taking advantage of opportunity, working hard, and beating the odds. These stories are not in fashion today, but our popular culture used to be designed to give Americans a reason to aim higher. A movie like It’s a Wonderful Life taught us that working hard and doing the right thing pays off in the end, if not in material possessions, then in the love of your family and respect of your community.
Contrast that with a more contemporary movie like American Beauty, in which a middle-class suburban father �