Have you ever been praised for the very conduct for which you are most disgusted with and disappointed in yourself?
I still recall how hideously my stepfather behaved toward me as an adolescent, now twenty years ago, ridiculing me for “faggotry” and “effeminacy” because I drew and painted, read and wrote poetry, listened to chant and polyphony and violin concertos, and appreciated language, letters, and the fine arts more generally.
Nevermind that he was fifty percent correct, when I did fall in love with a woman and had children with her, this was the answer he needed to all of his suspicions and he was positively enthused that he had not raised a homosexual. And, of course, I loathed myself for not having the courage to tell him that I was actually bisexual and he could fuck off.
Anyway, much more recently, I was praised for my “professionalism, integrity, and amazing creativity” under conditions in which the ethical thing to do would have been to denounce the utter lack of those qualities, as well as the concomitant abusiveness and exploitation, on the part of the person doing the praising; and that that was really an incredibly hurtful and insulting way to sugarcoat my passivity and forbearance in the moment.
But, of course, I accepted the “compliment” and hated myself for it. I wonder, though, how often we avoid confrontation and accept commendations for the very things that are weakest and worst about us? Or how often we agonize in it while the commenders go on to live obliviously, never called to account for their misapprehensions or made to reassess the false assumptions under which they act and influence and ultimately injure?