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But did I really deserve anything other than suspicion? My focus on my relationship was unfocused and ill-planned. What early success I had achieved I squandered with self-centered and, sadly, all too typical behavior. No Superman indeed.

At least this would make the virtue of Humility easier to stomach.

CHASTITY

{CHAPTER 13}

Humility

Imitate Jesus and Socrates

REMEMBER HIGH SCHOOL? THAT GREAT SEETHING GALAXY OF hormones, emotions, angst, and drama? I remember my first day, walking through the front doors and making my way to the cafeteria, where a thousand other students milled about like a great herd of wildebeests fearing the arrival of the lions. It was Day 1, and I was a skinny, pimply fifteen-year-old. And I was afraid. As I stood among the other wildebeests, my hope—my most fervent hope—was that no one would notice me. Or at least not beat me up. It was one of the worst days of my life.

{He that falls in love with himself will have no rivals.}

It was one of the best days of my life.

That first day might have been a day of fear and anxiety and an overwhelming desire to run screaming from the school, but it gave way to the next day, which was better, and the next, which was better still. As time passed, there were sports and activities and girls and friends and dances and everything good that high school can bring. The bad came, too, of course—broken hearts and broken friendships and disasters great and small. These lows, however, were fewer and less memorable than the highs. Overall, high school was a fantastic experience.

That is, if you don’t count the day my favorite teacher staged an intervention for me.

One day in the twelfth grade, this teacher, my teacher, took me aside and said, “Cameron, you like yourself too much.”

That was Bob Gillis. He understood kids, he listened to us, and—perhaps most important—he cared. He wasn’t being mean or vindictive when he told me I was arrogant. He was trying to help. So when Bob (which is what he let us call him) warned me of my conceit, I should have paid attention. Every neuron should have been thinking of ways to right this character flaw. It should have been a watershed moment.

I’m not even sure it dented my ego armor.

I did not become more humble that day. I did not become more humble that year. I don’t know that I ever became more humble. The plain, simple, sad truth is that I have never mastered the virtue of Humility. I understand its need, its benefits, and the dangers associated with its opposite vice. But just as I cannot stop eating chips, I cannot (or will not) avoid liking myself. I probably could have written one of those seventies-era self-help manuals: I Like Myself and I Don’t Care What My Teacher Thinks. Maybe I could combine it with a nude encounter group.

So, then, Humility was a virtue that offered both hope and fear. It was certainly an area that offered the greatest possibility for improvement. Yet if my favorite teacher couldn’t stop my ego train, what chance did Ben Franklin stand?

One would think that after the previous twelve-plus weeks I’d have had this virtue locked down. The problem with arrogance, however, is that it does not dwell in the land of logic. It makes us believe the unbelievable. Despite ample evidence of failure, I had a steadfast, resolute, unswerving, and wholly unreasonable belief in myself. That is good. Confidence and self-esteem are the keys to success. But the universe is a place of balance. Too much of one quality and too little of another and the universe is without equilibrium. The yin to the yang of confidence is Humility. I needed a little of that yin to restore my balance.

Fortunately, Ben offered some specific guidance on this virtue. He said in his autobiography:

My list of virtues contain’d at first but twelve; but a Quaker friend having kindly informed me that I was generally thought proud; that my pride show’d itself frequently in conversation; that I was not content with being in the right when discussing any point, but was overbearing, and rather insolent,