Those Patriot Front fellows seem confused about what ‘pride’ means

Rosenborg Castle, Copenhagen

     I'm white. I'm proud. Yet I'm confused about this “white pride” business.
     Because the two qualities seem to belong to different realms, race and self-esteem, without much intersection. My race is a condition of birth. I didn't have to work hard for it. I almost said it's like being left-handed, but I am rather proud of being left-handed, as it sets me apart and imposed a series of minor lifelong challenges that I overcame.
     That's what leads to pride: facing difficulties, accomplishing something hard, something that not everybody can do. Using right-handed scissors requires effort and a bit of dexterity, for a left-hander, but I am not especially proud of that because most people manage it.
     The things I am proud of tend to be endeavors that not only take effort but effort over time and produce a valuable result. They're also something that others fail at. I'm proud of making a living as a writer for the past 44 years, thinking of the lines of the Robert Browning poem, “Andrea del Sarto”:
     I do what many dream of, all their lives,
     —Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,
    And fail in doing.
     Include in there being married for 35 years, producing two fine boys — I won't bother ticking off all the ways they're superior to their dad — who launched well and easily transitioned into careers and families of their own. Plus 20 years sober, speaking of things that people try to do and fail, spectacularly.
     None of that fell into my lap. I had to work for it. Hence a certain pride. Not unseemly pride, I hope. I try to view my achievements with a humble practicality. My writing kept me alive but did not set the world aflame. No best-sellers, no Pulitzer. I'm not even the most successful writer in Northbrook — that's Bob Kurson.
     Yes, other groups have pride — Black Pride, Gay Pride — but that is interwoven with overcoming difficulties.

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