Mike Murray essay -- Small Things

27 November 2007

Small Things

--by Mike Murray

Thinking big is everywhere promoted these days. Perhaps it always has been. I recall the encouragement of adult after adult during my childhood: “Anybody can grow up to be president.”

The implication, I supposed, was that everyone – even I – possessed the potential for greatness. And that greatness is defined by accomplishing grand things, such as becoming CEO of a company or, better still, of the whole darned country. And that doing so is desirable, and within the grasp of anyone who is willing to knuckle down and work hard.

I wonder, is that really true? Do we all have the potential (and the opportunity) to become president of the United States? More important, is that something to which we all should aspire? Is bigger always better?

Presidential candidates today advocate the public funding of a college education for every high school graduate in America. The notion that “higher education” should be within the financial reach of all is hard to argue against. Academic opportunity surely should not be limited to the well-heeled (or the modestly heeled, burdened with obscene debt).

But what about the underlying assumption, that everyone should achieve a college degree? Providing opportunity is one thing. But is it reasonable to imply that personal worth is so heavily tied to academic accomplishment?

Are we saying today that a plumber needs a B.A. to work on a drain? That a master’s degree is required to shingle a roof or to frame a house? That electricians need M.B.A.s to wire our homes? Would tradesmen be better at their jobs if they were college educated?

Or do we not value craftsmen anymore? Do we no longer need them?

If you’re old enough, you remember the shoe repair shop in your childhood neighborhood. I well remember mine. The friendly old coot who owned it was a wizard. He could take the most pathetic pair of shoes and work magic.

When that old man finished with leather, it was flawless. He took beat-up footwear – holes in the soles, worn-down heels, severely scuffed uppers – and turned them into things of beauty. He was an artist. He was a modern-day cobbler. And he was darned proud of it.

He provided a valuable service to the many people of modest means in my neighborhood. No less than a doctor, a lawyer, or an accountant – or any other college-educated “professional” – he was respected. He was one of those people who took to heart the sage advice of old: “Whatever you decide to be, be a good one.”

I think of that man from time to time. I am lucky enough to have attended college. And I am even luckier in that I was able to go a little further, to eventually earn a master’s degree. I worked my way up from the bottom; I started in the mailroom and I ultimately reached the boardroom. But for all that, I wonder: Have I contributed as much to society as that proud but humble man who repaired shoes in my old neighborhood?

I recall a comment attributed to Herman Melville, in which he offers this advice to aspiring writers: “If you want to write a grand story, start with a grand theme.” His point was, I believe, that if you want to spin a gripping yarn, it helps to think big. Building your tale around a great white whale (or a killer shark, or a cyborg from the future) makes creating a compelling composition much easier than does telling a story about a tadpole.

For Melville, the crashing waves of an angry ocean made for better backdrop than did a tranquil backyard pond. He eschewed the mundane; he embraced the grandiose. Introducing things big, things bold, things grand into compositions, Melville believed, worked wonders in getting and holding an audience.

No doubt that’s so. Things of enormous proportion are hard to ignore. Melville’s stories have gripped readers – they’ve certainly gripped me – for decades.

Ken Burns is hailed for the documentary that is his greatest accomplishment: The Civil War. Rightly so. Still, how could Burns have gone wrong? How could he have screwed up something so stunning as the telling of the most compelling story in America’s history?

Everything about that tragedy is writ large. A country deeply divided. People enslaving people. Brothers maiming and killing brothers. Carnage the likes of which our nation had never before – and has never since – experienced. Epic battles that left in their wake thousands of acres of blood-drenched soil, and social and political wounds that have yet to fully heal.

Burns did well in bringing that profound event to the screen. But it was a theme impossible to ruin. It was just too dramatic. And it didn’t even need to be conjured up or imagined: it was factual. Historians had previously produced volumes on the subject. Surely, Melville would have approved.

But if we humans are overwhelmed by grand themes, so too are we moved by small ones. It is the routine give and take of everyday life that connects us all. The celebrated triumphs, the endured tragedies. The people who make us laugh and, sometimes, make us cry. The companions who bring with them so much joy when they arrive, and leave behind nearly unbearable grief when they depart.

The things that tie human to human are the common experiences of routine existence. We are lifted and deflated by events both large and small. We recoil at the widespread devastation of a hurricane, but we are no less troubled by the thought of a single child or animal trapped in a well.

We rejoice at the accomplishment of men who tread on the moon. But we are every bit as moved by the sight of severely injured patient whose difficult recovery triumphantly leads to the taking of her first wobbly steps.

We celebrate when the U.S. team wins a gold medal in basketball at the Olympics. But we are just as proud (perhaps more so) when the little kid down the street – the squirt who will never make it onto his high school team, much less into the N.B.A. – scores a rare basket in a youth league game.

Few will be forced to take up arms in bloody combat against their brothers, as our forefathers did during the Civil War. Nor will many of us find ourselves trapped on a ship like the Pequod, captained by a skipper obsessed with killing a nemesis “monstrous big.” Most of us will live our lives without once being placed into a situation of such epic proportion.

Still, each of us will be deeply moved – time and time again – by small things. We will know joy. We will know sorrow. Triumph and tragedy will both visit. We will rejoice in our accomplishments, and in the accomplishments of others we care about. We will at times celebrate. And at other times, we will despair.

My advice to aspiring writers is this: don’t overlook the power of modest themes. Large truths are often revealed by small things. Don’t ignore them. They, too, have the potential to move readers in profound ways.

And whether your ambition is to become a plumber, a poet, or a president, you will do well to follow the example of legions who have preceded us. Whatever you decide to be, “be a good one.”

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