Apple Pie, by Frank Bruni

In the New York Times this morning (or, as I call it, "The Times") Frank Bruni writes on anyone in the public arena's burning desire to make us understand how they came from humble beginnings, no matter how far back in their ancestry this woe actually happened:

Candidates for elective office tell us not just how high they’ve climbed but how high they’ve climbed against all odds, as if that’s the only way accomplishment really means anything; as if survival itself confers great merit on the survivor; as if the bleak shall inherit the earth... Fetishized misfortune — hardship porn — has numbed them. That’s the biggest problem with it. It equates and mashes everything into one sentimental mush, cheapening uncommon suffering by showcasing it alongside the rest. It bends all life stories into identical arcs, no matter how different those stories are. Think back to the Republican convention in Tampa, where so many speakers peddled similar tales of heroic forebears and humble origins that genuinely inspirational narratives were lost in the clutter. One moment, Tim Pawlenty was talking about the early death of his mother, when he was just 16; another moment, Rand Paul was reaching back generations to tell the audience: “My great-grandfather, like many, came to this country in search of the American dream. No sooner had he stepped off the boat than his father died.”

But Xmastime", you say in the voice of Craig “Ironhead” Heyward from those soap commercials (RIP), “haven't you been saying this exact same thing for years?"

I think the need to feel like an oppressed underdog who has succeeded against all odds is as American as apple pie.  One thing America is fascinated by is the ruling class of the uber-wealthy, and the more uber-wealthier they get the more we're fascinated by them, and yet they always feel like they have to win some public relations war for our affection that doesn't exist, be it corporations crying foul on being asked to pay taxes, or NFL owners having to swallow only making a trillion dollars a day.  Nobody likes to admit out loud "part of my success is due to economic and social conditions cemented long before I was even born"; we must be made to believe that Successful Person X was left to die in a dumpster, then pulled himself up by his own bootstraps and became a real rags to riches story.  Nobody's happy simply to have been given the keys to the kingdom, they also hafta portray themselves as "victims."