Recently a professor at Princeton wrote about his professional disappointments and went so far as to publish a “CV of failures.” He bravely posted degree programs he did not get into and academic positions for which he was rejected. He wrote: “Most of what I try fails, but these failures are often invisible, while the successes are visible.” In a stunning display of humility and truth-telling, he wanted to give balance and perspective.
Many have reflected on this rather unusual publication by an academic, and with a sigh of relief, have been more willing to talk about their own faults. We all fail regularly. Sometimes we are directly responsible, and sometimes it is simply a constellation of other factors that preclude our success. Stochastic is the word professor Haushofer uses, which means a process shaped by guesswork.
In a similar vein, Stanford professor Gavin Jones, scholar of 19th-century American literature, observes the critical role of failure for America’s most celebrated authors. In his recent book, Failure and the American Writer: A Literary History, he argues that failure is one of the “central tropes of the American literary imagination.” Reviewing Poe, Twain, Melville and others, he concludes, “failure is a distinct and complex condition of American existence, of life lived in the shadow of impossible success.”
Not only did these writers experience personal traumas and disappointments at frequent intervals in their careers, they also made sure that the characters who inhabit their narratives reveal the same complexity of life. Rather than idealize or sweep flaws under the rug, these authors exposed the shadow side of what success in the new America looked like.
Following their example, especially their critique of the dream of perfect probity, I recount my most recent pilgrimage to Myanmar. I departed less than a week following Central’s commencement, and suffice it to say, I was a bit discombobulated. Somehow in my busyness, I failed to procure a visa, a necessity for entering this country. Having traveled there many times, I knew of this requirement, but it totally slipped my mind — and that of my assistant, whom I will not shame by naming.
My first inclination of trouble was when I tried to depart from Bangkok for Yangon. The agent asked for my visa, and I realized that I had forgotten this essential documentation. I had two options: I could either ask for an “inviting letter” to demonstrate my reason for traveling to Myanmar, or I could attempt to get a visa online in short notice. I managed to get the inviting letter and then talk my way onto Thai Air, a break from the usual protocol.
Upon arrival, I went straight to the “Visa upon Entry” booth in immigration where they sternly informed me that the letter of invitation from a colleague at Myanmar Institute of Theology was not sufficient to enter the country. I surrendered my passport and two hours of deliberation ensued. (I worried about whether my recent speeding ticket in Kansas might show up!) After an hour, I insisted that I be allowed to visit the restroom even though I had been instructed to sit down and not move. “Watch me,” I said. “I am only crossing the room. Escort me if you want.” After that I had a minder. She told me I was very fortunate to have entered the country at all, and she added, “You should be grateful that we are working very hard for you to stay.” Grateful I was.
Finally, with the assistance of my friend in Yangon and his connections, I was granted a visa. I then learned that they had been holding the Thai Air flight back to Bangkok in case they decided to deport me. As a good Southern woman, I surely hate to be an inconvenience to others, so I kept my head down when engaging Thai Air personnel for the duration of the journey.
This experience has reminded me of the human condition, especially my own. We simply cannot achieve the perfection toward which we erroneously aspire. One of the maxims of my childhood was “confession is good for the soul.” It does allow sober self-assessment and a window into our need for grace all the while. When we fail to confess our sin and the hubris that shrouds our actions, we cut ourselves off from the flow of God’s mercy.
Each evening when the Benedictines pray Compline, they confess their faults, their most grievous faults. It is an exercise of acknowledging failure and seeking forgiveness. It is a healthy practice that keeps ones human frailty ever in view. Given my recent experience, I need the daily reminder.