More than 60 years ago, sociologist David Riesman argued that American society was undergoing a dramatic set of changes, events that accelerated with the ending of World War II. Chief among those changes were the new ideas people had about who they were, what they wanted to accomplish in life, and what standards they looked to for guidance. As he saw it, the nation had become a “lonely crowd,” combining personal insecurity with clubby familiarity.
Nineteenth-century people
Prior to the 20th century, Americans lived predominantly in rural areas and small towns. They worked, for the most part, on farms or in other settings that required manual labor. Very few were college-educated.
The 19th century was marked also by rapid population growth, both from large families and immigration. People with European ancestry pushed across the continent, taking lands from Native Americans and building communities. That prospect of mobility led to the formation of what Riesman famously called an “inner-directed” personality type. Children, he observed, were given a small, but firm, set of moral and educational principles by their parents and teachers. These principles—a sort of moral gyroscope—were to last them a lifetime.
There is much to admire about those ancestors. They were resolved to the fact of life being hard; they were diligent and resourceful. They accepted obligations to their immediate family and neighborhood. They knew who they were. That said, they were often morally severe, narrow in their viewpoints, and crude in their appetites. Religion was commonly a weapon; racism, an everyday occurrence.
Twentieth-century people
The next century—and many of us are products of it—featured the growth of vast urban settlements and citified ways of living. Immigration, now from many parts of the globe, diversified culture. Circles of interaction widened dramatically as trains, cars, and planes proliferated. Telephones, radio, and television forged instantaneous connections. Increasing numbers completed high school and, after the war, college.
In advanced industrial societies, people made a living by performing specified jobs and paying others for services early generations had done for themselves. A key theme for Riesman was the rise of white-collar work, a vast array of office jobs in big businesses and government. Millions commuted from class-segregated suburbs to cities to occupy positions in professional and commercial establishments. They hoped these organizations would provide stable placements for their entire careers.
What principles guided this white-collar army and their families? Riesman called such people “other-directed”—that is, they looked to similarly situated peers at their places of business and suburban neighborhoods for standards. “Keeping up with” and, ideally, impressing these people was the life quest.
Children from those generations would commonly ask why their parents were so status-conscious and why they felt such loyalty to seemingly impersonal organizations. Answers, when they came, centered on the importance of making a living, being respected, and otherwise “amounting to something.”
Personality for sale
Nineteenth-century people thought of themselves as having “character,” some relatively fixed orientation to life that expressed who they were. Notably, character was a commitment to which one “lived up.” An overly flexible, permissive, or indecisive person was considered weak.
By the 20th century, ideas of character were being replaced by those of personality. Less a matter of fixed commitments than of behavior dispositions, personality expressed the view that at least some of our basic orientations could be changed. More than that, we might behave differently in different situations, depending on the task at hand and the mood of the group. “Getting on” with people, 20th-century children learned, meant being friendly, open to new ideas, and respectful of those who were different. Most people’s ambition, or so it seemed, was to “fit in,” and having done so, to make one’s way to the inner circle of status and power.
At a farm or factory, an easygoing personality is no asset. In the office culture of the mid-20th century, it was crucial, both to getting hired and to maintaining that position. Managing co-workers—or working together in teams—required a wide range of social sensitivities. Such abilities were even more critical for working with customers or clients. Companies realized that the real product being sold was not just some material good but rather the experience of purchasing it and the assurance of servicing it properly.
Just as “relationships” moved to center stage in business culture, so it became clear that the public face of the institution should be of a certain character. Managers must be trustworthy, stable, and friendly. They should support charities and otherwise play prominent roles in their local communities. Their spouses and children must also behave themselves. Everyone should know that they are never entirely off stage.
None of the above is amateur theatrics. The management class knew that their misdemeanors would “get around” and bring disrepute to their sponsoring organization. Ultimately, what employers paid for was a distinctive version of self.
Twenty-first-century people
I’ve discussed these ideas with my students through the years. That younger generation expresses wonderment that people really expected to be employed by one organization for their entire career. They feel that being trapped in an office setting for 40 hours—or more—a week is a dismal vision of life. So is having to spend time building relationships in a narrowly defined community—attending church, patronizing local businesses, belonging to assorted clubs, and the like. If once people were “happy to belong” to a defined social network, now they want a more wide-ranging set of involvements.
Are people still “other-directed”? On the one hand, students acknowledge that they are perhaps even more anxious than previous generations about their adult placements in society. And they remain preoccupied with the models provided by their peers—and now a range of quasi-peer “influencers.” On the other hand, the face-to-face, geographically local world has receded in importance. People still want emotional support, but now that support comes from many places. Oddly, they want this without the experiences of social entrapment. Can one keep people at a distance and still have friendship on demand?
When I’ve asked them what words they would use to describe current generations, they say “technologically directed” or “media directed.” Through social media, they put themselves into the world. In that setting, they acknowledge others and receive confirmation in return, make and cancel plans, and chat amiably.
However, the nature of social media means that one is never “fully present” in social situations. Instead, a version of self is turned on and then off. Personality becomes persona. People present themselves to others—think of the modern interview process—through online applications and video conferences. It is hard to sense the character of listeners’ reactions.
Moreover, because work and personal relationships are more fragile than before, it means that people must continually engage in self-promotion. Our social media pages announce us to be a person of a certain sort. Can the reality of who we are ever match that glittering image?