Viewers of the first presidential debate between President* Trump and Joe Biden were given a gift, the rare glimpse of a human being lost in his own theater of narcissism, what Freud called our desperate absorption with ourselves. With his bullying, his ad hominem attacks, and his uncontrollable interruptions, Trump exposed his lesser angels and our own. 

Trump’s core value jumped through the camera and grabbed us by the throats—everything outside of himself doesn’t matter. His self-proclaimed “good genes,” superior bloodline, and “high IQ” were death-defying symbols displayed around him like flowers surrounding a casket at a wake; desperation and loss masked by fragrance and appearance. But the gift nestled inside the gore is the opportunity to see humankind’s inability to reconcile our heroic illusions with our frailty and neediness. Trump’s shit-show is an invitation to face our human dilemma. 

We need to feel self-worth. This need drives our narcissism. And like Trump, we all have our own symbols of cosmic significance that we employ to constantly compare ourselves to others in order to ensure we aren’t in second place. And if we come up lacking, we are overtaken by a gripping sensation of tragedy—we have failed to be unique, to rise above everyone and everything to prove that we count. The greatest gift of that “debate” was to witness another human gripped by the fear of death.

Most of us might not be as crass as Donald Trump to fully own our illusion that we are superior and deserving of the title “hero.” We might shy away from such a moniker. But deep down we crave the affirmation and mask our need for it by following our culture’s norms: a huge bank account, an expensive car, the best lawn on the cul-de-sac, children that we mold in our image to carry ourselves into the future, or no children to tether us so that we can travel the world just to post selfies on social media as if to say, “I was here.” But we cannot blame Trump for behaving badly. Our society has erected a scaffolding by which we build this hero image and we either worship or revile those who publicly embrace it. 

This cultural edifice can be structured around religion, science, fanaticism, magic; it can be civil or debased, it doesn’t matter, any form is a vehicle that transports us to destination Meaningfulness. But what would happen if we were honest about all of this? What would it be like if everyone was forthright in their desire to be primary in the universe? How would society and culture accommodate everyone’s need to be valuable? We see a hint of an answer in the struggle of social movements of the day where oppressed people groups are clambering for their rights and demanding equality. Minorities, LGBTQ+ communities, immigrants, women, are all really crying out for the return of what has been stolen from them—their primary place in society, the world, and on an individual level, the universe. And how do the other groups in the culture respond? They get really pissed off. They reassert their primary place through violence, rule of law, religious decrees, and by restricting access to power and agency. What are people so frightened of? How have we arrived at a place where a man-child—the penultimate symbol of this human condition—has been put into power and reigns largely unchecked, who is both adored and hated the world over? The answer is ugly.

It is painful to become aware of the games we play to win the feeling that we are important. It is terrifying to admit the lengths we go through to acquire self-esteem. But what we scratch and kick against the most is to question whether this cosmic value system that affords us meaning and validation is true and real. Without the symbols of our heroism who are we? Perhaps this is why we hate what we witnessed in Trump’s behavior during the debate (and saw over and over throughout his last four years in office). Our myths of significance are falling apart. Religion isn’t saving us, politics bring no relief, the pandemic has left us socially empty and we stand in our nakedness now more than ever. We are depressed and anxious about it.

So we carry on despite the glimpses of our dilemma and pretend we are robed in glory. We are gods with anuses, as Ernest Becker characterized us. Perhaps if we realize we can’t elect real heroes, we are unable to purchase enough things to feel worthy, that the right relationships or jobs won’t cause other people to favor us more than they wish to be favored, and that we will all feed the worms in the end as have our ancestors and so will our progeny, maybe then we could tip the scales of our condition and choose to reject the anxiety of death (which will never leave us alone) and decide to be brave in the face of it all. Maybe this kind of honesty would make us tolerant, inclusive, equitable, and authentically human.