The Structure of Gratitude

The New York Times is a paper world-renowned for the flatulence of its op-ed page. Yes, the Wall Street Journal's op-ed page might represent the opinions of a low-calorie, fat-free Hitler or Mussolini. But the Times takes the cake for providing a soapbox for the fanboys of inanity, from Frank Bruni's Olympic-level genuflection at the alter of corporations to Maureen Dowd's incoherent babbling about Uber and France. And at the heart of darkness of this enterprise is David Brooks: the sphincter from which it all emanates, the turd that follows the shart, the miasma of ass smells on the subway. I once heard him introduced as a "public intellectual" on NPR and almost sharted myself.

The David Brooks schedule is fairly predictable. As the reigning conservative on the page, every third column he freaks out about people of color or poor people gaining power, another third is dedicated to L'brals and their zany ways, and then the last third he reserves for Big Ideas and "Culture." Words like "structure" in the title give this away.

This last category is when the true sphincter-nuggets spew forth from the diarrhea canon on the porch of his $3.95 million mansion in D.C. And befitting a man of means, this week he writes about "gratitude," something one would imagine he would feel as a horrifying leech-man on the face of the Sulzberger empire. Yet our little Mr. Brooks struggles with even such a amorphous, capacious concept:

I’m sometimes happier at a budget motel, where my expectations are lower, and where a functioning iron is a bonus and the waffle maker in the breakfast area is a treat.

Not only does Mr. Brooks feel gratitude when he sees a waffle iron he gets to operate on his own, it makes him so giddy he is compelled to write this pair of smarmy-saccharine Lifetime-movie sentences:

Gratitude happens when some kindness exceeds expectations, when it is undeserved. Gratitude is a sort of laughter of the heart that comes about after some surprising kindness.

Take a minute to recover from that. (Reading that would make any ordinary human want to cover her eyes in her own ripped-out intestines.) But what could Mr. Brooks be getting at with such an odious sentence? Is he trying to tell us he isn't so bad? After all, who could begrudge a grown man who, when he sees a waffle make, thinks "What a treat! Making my own waffle, it amuses me so!" Don't be fooled, hateful readers.

The first clue is that what Mr. Brooks calls "gratitude," the rest of us call "surprise." Waffle iron? Neat. Gratitude? Ehh. First, it confirms he cannot feel gratitude. Don't kid yourselves that he has ever felt normal human emotions. Secondly, and more importantly, lurking behind the mealy-mouthed prose of a madman is a point. Not just a point, but a capital-L Lesson, a veritable North Star of Condescension that Mr. Brooks is kind enough to point out to us in the Sky of Platitudes to guide us through the maze of our small lives:

We live in a capitalist meritocracy. This meritocracy encourages people to be self-sufficient — masters of their own fate. But people with dispositional gratitude are hyperaware of their continual dependence on others. They treasure the way they have been fashioned by parents, friends and ancestors who were in some ways their superiors. They’re glad the ideal of individual autonomy is an illusion because if they were relying on themselves they’d be much worse off.

The basic logic of the capitalist meritocracy is that you get what you pay for, that you earn what you deserve. But people with dispositional gratitude are continually struck by the fact that they are given far more than they pay for — and are much richer than they deserve. 

Aaaahhhhh, we see! This was all a set-up! Mr. Brooks has managed to thread two of his favorite topics into one: 1. "You Yokels Should Expect Less of Life and Accept Your Lot because That is The Way Things Are" and 2. "Capitalism Works for Me (So Why Hasn't It Worked for You?)." You see, those with "dispositional gratitude," i.e. Those Who Know Their Place, are able to read Emotions and weave Relationships with Other Humans, their currency is their gut sense for survival. But what the fuck is he really talking about? Well, let's see.

But people with grateful dispositions are attuned to the gift economy where people are motivated by sympathy as well as self-interest. In the gift economy intention matters. We’re grateful to people who tried to do us favors even when those favors didn’t work out. In the gift economy imaginative empathy matters. We’re grateful because some people showed they care about us more than we thought they did. We’re grateful when others took an imaginative leap and put themselves in our mind, even with no benefit to themselves.

The point seems to be that "people with grateful dispositions" are virtuous, pre-capitalist mental dwarves who can see beyond the market economy. This can only mean some kind of some amalgam of elementary school librarians, "good" people of color, churchgoers in small towns, and someone who said "Hello" to him once on the street. They know to expect less than what the market  promises.

For Mr. Brooks, it is amusing to see How the Less Fortunate Get On and teach us about our pre-capitalist and pre-individualist selves. Sure, it's great being David Brooks because he earns what he deserves, but grateful people get even more. Magic! The grateful remind us of how we were before Harvard-Yale games, TiVo, and Greek yogurt. And most importantly, it provides a chance for Mr. Brooks to quote some soppy-stern chinless wonder he read at the University of Chicago:

Gratitude is the ability to see and appreciate this other almost magical economy. G. K. Chesterton wrote that “thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.”

One can almost feel the sadness he feels at not being able to connect with other human beings. But is is impossible to care when one is having so much fun seeing if Mr. Brooks can be intellectually honest or half-conscious for the duration one 800-word column. And the reward is already knowing he can't.

David Brooks: once stayed at a motel

Do you see the family resemblance?