It’s easy for any of us to dismiss others for their apparent small-mindedness. But in calling someone else petty, do we miss something about our own pettiness and about the brain’s intermittent obsession with trivialities?
When my wife, first child, and I moved into a rental at the beginning of my four decades of teaching in a college, we lived across the street from a retired electrician and his wife and next door to a nearly hundred-year-old and still very vital couple. The latter two tended to their house and garden the way NASA tends to its spacecraft like long-lived New Horizon, Voyagers I and II, and Pioneers X and XI, that is, maintaining upkeep so meticulously that the objects last for years in the best condition possible. Next door, the Ks had plastic covers on their decades-old living room sofa and chairs, windows so clean they could have been featured in a Windex commercial, and a garden that produced crops of peppers, tomatoes, beans, and squash so abundant that they exceeded the Ks’ canning needs and found their way to our kitchen through the couple’s generosity. And across the street, the Ls were equally generous, with Mrs. L providing her fresh breads and Mr. L providing wisdom by example and word. Like the Ks, the Ls also kept a very neat house, well-tended to daily. One might say that both families lived rather mundane and simple lives. During our five years as neighbors, the Ks weren’t travelers though they had migrated decades ago from Russia. The Ls did travel, occasionally to Florida, where Mr. L collected shells that for a hobby he encased in solid plastic cubes which, I think, composed the crop he grew in his basement workshop, the analog of Mr. K’s garden across the street, all his shells neatly arranged on shelves.
You will, of course, wonder, “Where’s he going with this? What’s it have to do with pettiness?”
Both elderly couples lived lives characterized by patience. Both had started life before WWI; both had lived through the Great Depression and WWII, and both had an identifiable appreciation of the moment. Their consecutive todays were episodes for focus. I suppose they had had their share of running headlong into tomorrows long before my wife and I were born. And I suppose that they, like so many others, had their moments of pettiness. Maybe impatient running toward the future and emphasizing trivialities are characteristics indicative of all youth, but in their later years the Ks and Ls lived in the present and seemed unperturbed by nuisances as much as anyone can live with such a focus. They seemed to have left behind most of the petty concerns that might once have occupied their minds.
I remember mentioning to Mr. L some petty faculty problem covered in long hours of heated debate either in a department meeting or in the faculty senate, and receiving his slow-paced advice to be patient. From my perspective today, I cannot recall what that problem was, but I remember Mr. L’s advice to be patient. Apparently, up to that point I had not fully learned that pettiness arises in every enclosed society from a workroom full of big-box employees complaining about bosses, work schedules, and procedures, to the offices and hallowed halls of every college, where people argue over chairmanships, intellectual territories like courses, promotions, tenure, and procedures. I believe I have even observed similar pettiness among members of religious groups, and certainly, I have seen it in political and special interest groups. In academia pettiness is often the product of hubris and the drive toward self-aggrandizement linked to in-house struggles for recognition and award. Impatient pettiness is an inevitable offshoot of pretense that grows like Mr. K’s garden vegetables. Those who work in ivy-covered ivory towers plant seeds of petty discord that in the garden of academia’s campuses grow pumpkin-size, the vines extending into standing committee rooms, faculty offices, campus coffee shops, and over long conference tables in administration buildings. Although I retired from academia, I believe from what I read and hear that similar pettiness continues unabated as a new generation of professors replaces my generation.
No doubt, in my youth I succumbed to such pettiness that I acknowledge years later and in memory of Mr. L’s advice to be patient. Am I still occasionally petty? Of course, but I remind myself every so often that whatever seems to be urgent is often petty and that in a hundred years, I’ll look back and laugh about what I now consider seriously. I also remind myself of that famous line at the end of Voltaire’s Candide that one should “cultivate” his garden. I suppose that had I, like Mr. K next door, spent time tending to my “garden,” I might have spent less time concerned with trivial matters either immediately past or future. I think of all those committee meetings and arguments I sat through, all those in-house reports I wrote for the department, the college, the Chancellor’s office, and all those faculty concerns that added to naught, concerns that no doubt still occupy the minds of the present generation of professors. Big-box company employees do the same; I’m sure of it. People in office cubicles, also. And, Holy Mother Milk of Magnesia, probably among the cloistered. My experience, limited as it is, tells me that petty concerns have always been the lot of humanity—all humanity, but particularly humanity in closed groups.
What’s the source of pettiness? Rather, maybe I should ask why we are so petty. Is pettiness the inevitable product of big brains that have the capacity to do much but that are offered only limitations imposed by others or self-imposed? Do natural or social limitations inevitably result in pettiness in a brain equipped to seek solutions to life’s riddles? Is the impatience associated with trivial concerns rooted in self-importance or in the desire to see that others are aware of our significance? Isn’t that vanity? Certainly, in academia the latter seems to be the driver of pettiness, especially since promotions are mostly in-house processes based on arbitrary traditions started centuries ago. I think of Carl Sagan’s not getting tenure at Harvard and Eric Segal’s not getting tenure at Yale. Pettiness serves as an underlying driver in the enclosed society of academia because few people are held accountable by objective and external Inspectors General of any kind. Pettiness emerges from the recesses of educated, but narrow minds.
Of course, I could argue that in tending one’s garden like Mr. K or shell collection like Mr. L, a person has time to think and that given a time for thinking, petty thoughts occur. Watching a garden grow or liquid polymers solidify isn’t a guarantee against pettiness. Staying in the present without pettiness is a difficult task for a complex brain in a quiet environment. However, both the Ks and the Ls seemed to have managed to maintain a life undisturbed by the petty concerns in the world around them. With my weaker mind, I sometimes need to engage in a risky task to focus, maybe not high-wire walking, but at least something that requires undivided concentration like using a circular saw. Using power tools puts pettiness on the proverbial back burner. A loss of concentration on the moment as the blade spins can result in injury or a board of incorrect length. In all those closed groups of incessantly arguing academicians and complaining big-box employees, real risk is rare. In its absence, the mind plants the seeds of trivialities.
As petty thoughts emerge in consciousness, the brain does have the recourse of considering them in context. A hundred years from now, that petty incident, someone else’s behavior, or a conflict which appears important will, in fact, be amusing—or pitiful. You’ll look back a century from now, wish you had been more patient, had more wisdom, and considered the significance of your past concerns. Maybe that’s what the Ks and Ls had done in less than a hundred years.
In looking back, I see that many of us have knowledge, but few have wisdom. Few of us have patience, also. Those with great learning, like my university colleagues, proved frequently to be petty individuals. Allowing myself in my youth to become wrapped in that pettiness was a difficult behavior to change. Having great knowledge does not guarantee the wisdom that patience yields. Becoming patient is not an easy lesson to teach the young or those who imprison themselves in the trivial concerns of a closed group.
If you try to recall your own encounters with trivial concerns, you might notice that the details and emotions of the time have faded. You might ask, “Why was I so worked up? Why didn’t I just walk away to let others waste their time on matters that I can only vaguely remember?” See, you don’t even have to wait a hundred years to look back on your past concerns and laugh.
When my wife, first child, and I moved into a rental at the beginning of my four decades of teaching in a college, we lived across the street from a retired electrician and his wife and next door to a nearly hundred-year-old and still very vital couple. The latter two tended to their house and garden the way NASA tends to its spacecraft like long-lived New Horizon, Voyagers I and II, and Pioneers X and XI, that is, maintaining upkeep so meticulously that the objects last for years in the best condition possible. Next door, the Ks had plastic covers on their decades-old living room sofa and chairs, windows so clean they could have been featured in a Windex commercial, and a garden that produced crops of peppers, tomatoes, beans, and squash so abundant that they exceeded the Ks’ canning needs and found their way to our kitchen through the couple’s generosity. And across the street, the Ls were equally generous, with Mrs. L providing her fresh breads and Mr. L providing wisdom by example and word. Like the Ks, the Ls also kept a very neat house, well-tended to daily. One might say that both families lived rather mundane and simple lives. During our five years as neighbors, the Ks weren’t travelers though they had migrated decades ago from Russia. The Ls did travel, occasionally to Florida, where Mr. L collected shells that for a hobby he encased in solid plastic cubes which, I think, composed the crop he grew in his basement workshop, the analog of Mr. K’s garden across the street, all his shells neatly arranged on shelves.
You will, of course, wonder, “Where’s he going with this? What’s it have to do with pettiness?”
Both elderly couples lived lives characterized by patience. Both had started life before WWI; both had lived through the Great Depression and WWII, and both had an identifiable appreciation of the moment. Their consecutive todays were episodes for focus. I suppose they had had their share of running headlong into tomorrows long before my wife and I were born. And I suppose that they, like so many others, had their moments of pettiness. Maybe impatient running toward the future and emphasizing trivialities are characteristics indicative of all youth, but in their later years the Ks and Ls lived in the present and seemed unperturbed by nuisances as much as anyone can live with such a focus. They seemed to have left behind most of the petty concerns that might once have occupied their minds.
I remember mentioning to Mr. L some petty faculty problem covered in long hours of heated debate either in a department meeting or in the faculty senate, and receiving his slow-paced advice to be patient. From my perspective today, I cannot recall what that problem was, but I remember Mr. L’s advice to be patient. Apparently, up to that point I had not fully learned that pettiness arises in every enclosed society from a workroom full of big-box employees complaining about bosses, work schedules, and procedures, to the offices and hallowed halls of every college, where people argue over chairmanships, intellectual territories like courses, promotions, tenure, and procedures. I believe I have even observed similar pettiness among members of religious groups, and certainly, I have seen it in political and special interest groups. In academia pettiness is often the product of hubris and the drive toward self-aggrandizement linked to in-house struggles for recognition and award. Impatient pettiness is an inevitable offshoot of pretense that grows like Mr. K’s garden vegetables. Those who work in ivy-covered ivory towers plant seeds of petty discord that in the garden of academia’s campuses grow pumpkin-size, the vines extending into standing committee rooms, faculty offices, campus coffee shops, and over long conference tables in administration buildings. Although I retired from academia, I believe from what I read and hear that similar pettiness continues unabated as a new generation of professors replaces my generation.
No doubt, in my youth I succumbed to such pettiness that I acknowledge years later and in memory of Mr. L’s advice to be patient. Am I still occasionally petty? Of course, but I remind myself every so often that whatever seems to be urgent is often petty and that in a hundred years, I’ll look back and laugh about what I now consider seriously. I also remind myself of that famous line at the end of Voltaire’s Candide that one should “cultivate” his garden. I suppose that had I, like Mr. K next door, spent time tending to my “garden,” I might have spent less time concerned with trivial matters either immediately past or future. I think of all those committee meetings and arguments I sat through, all those in-house reports I wrote for the department, the college, the Chancellor’s office, and all those faculty concerns that added to naught, concerns that no doubt still occupy the minds of the present generation of professors. Big-box company employees do the same; I’m sure of it. People in office cubicles, also. And, Holy Mother Milk of Magnesia, probably among the cloistered. My experience, limited as it is, tells me that petty concerns have always been the lot of humanity—all humanity, but particularly humanity in closed groups.
What’s the source of pettiness? Rather, maybe I should ask why we are so petty. Is pettiness the inevitable product of big brains that have the capacity to do much but that are offered only limitations imposed by others or self-imposed? Do natural or social limitations inevitably result in pettiness in a brain equipped to seek solutions to life’s riddles? Is the impatience associated with trivial concerns rooted in self-importance or in the desire to see that others are aware of our significance? Isn’t that vanity? Certainly, in academia the latter seems to be the driver of pettiness, especially since promotions are mostly in-house processes based on arbitrary traditions started centuries ago. I think of Carl Sagan’s not getting tenure at Harvard and Eric Segal’s not getting tenure at Yale. Pettiness serves as an underlying driver in the enclosed society of academia because few people are held accountable by objective and external Inspectors General of any kind. Pettiness emerges from the recesses of educated, but narrow minds.
Of course, I could argue that in tending one’s garden like Mr. K or shell collection like Mr. L, a person has time to think and that given a time for thinking, petty thoughts occur. Watching a garden grow or liquid polymers solidify isn’t a guarantee against pettiness. Staying in the present without pettiness is a difficult task for a complex brain in a quiet environment. However, both the Ks and the Ls seemed to have managed to maintain a life undisturbed by the petty concerns in the world around them. With my weaker mind, I sometimes need to engage in a risky task to focus, maybe not high-wire walking, but at least something that requires undivided concentration like using a circular saw. Using power tools puts pettiness on the proverbial back burner. A loss of concentration on the moment as the blade spins can result in injury or a board of incorrect length. In all those closed groups of incessantly arguing academicians and complaining big-box employees, real risk is rare. In its absence, the mind plants the seeds of trivialities.
As petty thoughts emerge in consciousness, the brain does have the recourse of considering them in context. A hundred years from now, that petty incident, someone else’s behavior, or a conflict which appears important will, in fact, be amusing—or pitiful. You’ll look back a century from now, wish you had been more patient, had more wisdom, and considered the significance of your past concerns. Maybe that’s what the Ks and Ls had done in less than a hundred years.
In looking back, I see that many of us have knowledge, but few have wisdom. Few of us have patience, also. Those with great learning, like my university colleagues, proved frequently to be petty individuals. Allowing myself in my youth to become wrapped in that pettiness was a difficult behavior to change. Having great knowledge does not guarantee the wisdom that patience yields. Becoming patient is not an easy lesson to teach the young or those who imprison themselves in the trivial concerns of a closed group.
If you try to recall your own encounters with trivial concerns, you might notice that the details and emotions of the time have faded. You might ask, “Why was I so worked up? Why didn’t I just walk away to let others waste their time on matters that I can only vaguely remember?” See, you don’t even have to wait a hundred years to look back on your past concerns and laugh.
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