Then, as I was scrolling, I came upon a short video of an interview that the author James Baldwin gave many decades ago. “There may not be as much humanity in the world as one would like to see, but there is some,” he said. “There is more than one would think.” He spoke with gravity and moral conviction, his eyes boring into the interviewer, who was off-camera. “Walk down the street of any city, any afternoon, and look around you,” he continued. “What you’ve got to remember is what you’re looking at is also you. Everyone you’re looking at is also you. You could be that person. You could be that monster, you could be that cop. And you have to decide for yourself not to be.” Excerpts from “A Humanist Manifesto” by David Brooks, (The Atlantic, Oct. 24, 2023)
David Brooks, opinion columnist for The New York Times, argues that James Baldwin is a defiant humanist. That is, he’s an individual who challenges the belief that there may not be much humanity in the world. He’s an individal who seeks [t]o try to see others in all their complexity and depth, to look to onself with humility, self-awareness, and compassion, and [t]o try to act in ways that are considerate, just, and discerning. Above all, to try to see the world from another person’s point of view. We see defiance daily in many forms as we tune into the news or scroll through social media. In the current landscape of defiance, I can only hope that the defiant humanist will prevail. If more of us walked through our days looking at everyone we met as though we were truly looking at ourselves, we might agree that the world as we know it would be a much better place.
Years ago when I traveled to Nigeria with the mission group in the photo above, I worked among defiant humanists, American and Nigerian. I recall a conversation with a Nigerian nurse in the small village of Bambur. She proudly showed our group the village pharmacy, which–much to our dismay–amounted to a few scant shelves of bandaids, rolls of gauze, bottles of Tylenol, and tubes of antiseptic cream. When we asked her about her work as a nurse, she admitted that it was good work, even though she hadn’t been paid for two years. Later in the van on our way back to our lodgings, we marveled at a woman who worked joyfully without pay, who explained that she worked faithfully with the hope that she’d be paid someday. If not, she confessed, I’ll continue nursing because the people need me. If I’d had Baldwin’s words then, I’m quite certain I’d have turned to my group and said, There may not be as much humanity in the world as one would like to see, but there is some.
Brooks cites a 2021 McKinsey study in which their consulting firm asked business executives why their employees were quitting. The executives explained that employees left their firms in search of positions that paid more. When the consulting firm asked the employees the same question, however, they answered candidly: they didn’t feel as though their employers recognized or valued them. Quite simply, they didn’t feel seen. It goes without saying that to be a defiant humanist, you’d have to be one who genuinely sees others.
When I was teaching English at a small rural high school, a parent confronted me during her parent-teacher conference. What are you doing specifically for my son? she challenged. It was the only time I cried during a meeting with a parent. Through my tears, I said, Not enough, not nearly enough. With 120 students daily, I was quite certain that I wasn’t meeting the individual needs of each of my students. I was painfully aware that I didn’t see each of them in the fully human way they desired to be seen and I desired to see them. If they were quiet quitting in my course, I understood that their reasons may have been like those of the McKinsey study employees: They didn’t feel seen.
One might argue that we just can’t see everyone. Much as I’d like to argue this, I concede that it’s more rationalization than anything. In Brooks’ “A Humanist Manifesto,” he quotes novelist Frederick Buechner who marveled at how the Dutch painter Rembrandt saw people. Buechner noted that even subjects with plain faces are so remarkably seen by Rembrandt that we are jolted into seeing them remarkably. A defiant humanist looks with such eyes, seeing others remarkably.
According to Brooks, the defiant humanist seeks to develop keen ears as well. One man with such ears was the early 20th century British stateman, Arthur Balfour. Brooks cites John Buchanan who explained his friend Balfour’s unique skill of making each person feel seen and heard:
I remember with what admiration I watched him feel his way with the guests, seize on some chance word and make it the pivot of speculations until the speaker was not only encouraged to give his best but that best was infinitely enlarged by his host’s contribution. Such guests would leave walking on air.
Sadly, the art of conversation today often involves one-upmanship. It’s about getting the conversational upper hand, using another’s comments as a springboard into your own brilliance. It’s about dazzling the crowd with your oratorical prowess, lacing your conversations with witticisms, allusions, and more facts than others would ever care to know. In short, it’s about you. But the defiant humanist purposely seizes on another’s words and encourages them to expand and expound, offering their very best. Those who converse with defiant humanists, like Balfour, leave walking on air, convinced they’ve been truly heard and that they matter.
Most of us can probably recall at least one such conversation. I’ve been blessed to have held many conversations with my parents, siblings, and friends that left me walking on air. They validated me by looking directly into my eyes and asking for elaboration. When they spoke, they often repeated and expanded on what I’d said in ways that affirmed me. These are conversations that buoyed me, convicting me to pass it on, to make sure that I did my best to leave others walking on air after we parted.
Defiant humanists prefer, too, that their conversations be storytelling conversations. Brooks explains that while much of our conversation is practical and informative, [s]tories capture a person’s character and how it changes over time. Stories capture how a thousand little influences come together to shape a life, how people struggle and thrive, get knocked about by lucky and unlucky breaks. People often share more openly through storytelling.
In my first college teaching position, I recall a young mother who pulled me aside after the first class to inform me that she hoped to be able to complete this course but that, regrettably, she might have to withdraw at some point in the future. Offering no details, she made this announcement, thanked me, and exited the classroom. Weeks later as we were conferencing over her first essay, she told me the story of her life, a story I’ve never forgotten. She recounted the savage details of her marriage to a man she claimed had committed a murder that had gone unprosecuted. As she told her story, the portrait of a woman-on-the-run emerged, a mother desperate to protect her daughter from the man who continued to hunt them years after their escape. As our conference came to an end, she looked at me and said, So, you’ll understand if I don’t show up to class one day. You’ll understand what this means. I understood. Over the years, this story shaped how I looked at and dealt with other female students. At times, I may have been too permissive, too eager to accept excuses, but each time I questioned my judgment, I had only to remember the story of the young mother on the run.
In addition to being a good conversationalist, Brooks contends that the defiant humanist is a good friend. He turns to essayist and poet David Whyte who insists that friendship is not improvement, neither of the other nor of the self. Instead, Whyte insists that the finest friendship has quite a different foundation:
[t]he ultimate touchstone is witness, the privilege of having been seen by someone and the equal privilege of being granted the sight of the essence of another, to have walked with them and to have believed in them, sometimes just to have accompanied them for however brief a span, on a journey impossible to accomplish alone.
To be a witness is both a responsibility and a privilege to those who seek defiant humanism. For witnessing demands that we see the essence of another and that we have walked with them. . . on a journey impossible to accomplish alone. To be a witness is to celebrate with others, acknowledging and honoring them for all they are. But it also requires that we grieve with them, suffering with them as they work through disappointment, sorrow, and loss. Such a witness is no fair-weather friend but rather a true friend who walks with you in all seasons–dark and light.
I confess that as I read the news of war, military conflict, immigration challenges, poverty, and oppression of all kinds, it’s often difficult to deny that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Bombarded with images and stories that push us further into darkness, it’s difficult to muster the courage and conviction to raise our heads and train our eyes to see the humanity around us. It’s there, and it begs to be seen and valued, to be lifted high, as Brooks insists, because it’s the right banner to raise.
I’ll let David Brooks have the last words here, for he writes passionately to a world that hungers for more defiant humanists:
Every person is sacred. Every person deserves to be seen, and given just and loving attention. We may later decide that the person we are looking at is venal or cruel or wicked—but at least we will have tried to fully understand them before making those judgments. The rot that pervades our democracy comes in large part from our failure to do this. Despite the prejudices of the postmodern ideologues, history shows us that it’s possible to enter into a compassionate understanding of people who are different from ourselves.