
Fairfax, VA, USA. We Americans, you and I, spring from some Platonic conception of ourselves, forever remodeling our past even as we reconceive our multiple futures. The possibility of success, tempered by the memories our well accomplished failures, bedevils us until our dying days.
We worship a dual headed bitch goddess, pursuing fame, thinking it is success. [N1] In this, the early decades of a new millennium, we confuse our good intentions with actual accomplishment as if the act of aiming at a target is sufficient. [N2] We no longer actually have to hit the target to become famous. Being famous is enough, a well laurelled goal, in and of itself.
Success? Everyone wants success but no one admits to wanting it. If we achieve success, we are half apologetic that we climbed our own personal Mount Everest. The ideal American archetype is a Tin Star who, having just rid the world of the bad guys, responds to praise from the townspeople by casting his eyes down and mumbling semi-audibly Aw shucks, I was just doing my job.
{sidebar id=332}Visible, flagrant success is the biggest American sin of all, reminding others of their apparent lack of success. There is no hero so successful they will not be attacked for what they have accomplished, whose purity of intention will not be questioned and used to degrade their success. Proper, culturally approved ideology is all.
If anyone could achieve the success a hero achieves, we all would be successful. By definition, and as charged, a hero is an elite member of our society. Success provides access to an elite, undemocratic club whose sole membership criteria is success itself. The rest of us need not apply. Not so with fame. You can become famous without being successful, or even very good at what you are doing.
Look around. Take a good long look, a picture if you like. Anyone can become famous. You can be a relative failure and still be famous.
There are self-appointed leaders who appear to spend more time on retaining their personal fame and their supposed position of “leadership” than they spend actually achieving anything meaningful. [N4] A thirty second sound bite on national television becomes more noteworthy than two years of effort working the back halls of Congress. At its extreme, fame replaces success as a goal worthy of human endeavor.
The fame monster can devour you.
At first fame is novelty, then a given. It is not long after that you realize that fame can cause you to lose an awful lot of freedom. After the delight of being famous passes, you realize you have lost the ability to not be recognized.
You can no longer hide, nor should you expect to. You have to anticipate you are being watched. [N5]
Transition [N7] can be like that if you transition at your work place. There are days in the beginning when it feels like the eyes of the world, let alone Texas, are upon you.
Everybody knows.
You begin to suspect that every whisper, every turn of a head in a hallway is a comment about you (as well it might be). [N8]
Get used to it. You are famous of a sort. It will pass. [N9]
The most effective way to put a stop to the side effects of fame — the knowing glances and nodding heads — is to be successful at work. Success on the job, whatever that might be, facilitates transition.
The quicker you are quietly successful, the quicker you will become just enough woman or just another man. [N10] Your previous history will eventually be lost as much as the name of that secretary three secretaries back.
You won’t be famous. You’ll just be another average worker with a back story that few people ever take the time to know.
But that doesn’t mean they won’t point you out as being successful and speculate on how you got wherever it is you have gotten.
But I’d rather have the burden of success than the unrelenting glare of fame.

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