The Road to Character

In the summer of 1945, as America celebrated victory in World War II, a remarkable radio broadcast captured the nation's mood. Rather than triumphant boasting, the voices of celebrities and leaders expressed profound humility. "Today, our deep-down feeling is one of humility," announced Bing Crosby, setting a tone that would define an entire generation's approach to achievement and character. This spirit of self-effacement stood in stark contrast to the culture of self-promotion that would emerge in later decades.

The men and women profiled in these pages embodied a different philosophy of living, one that prioritized inner development over external recognition, service over self-advancement, and moral courage over personal comfort. Through their stories, we discover timeless principles about building character in an age that often seems to have forgotten what character means. Their journeys reveal how ordinary people can cultivate extraordinary depth through struggle, sacrifice, and an unwavering commitment to something greater than themselves. These remarkable individuals understood that true fulfillment comes not from what we accomplish in the world's eyes, but from who we become in the quiet moments of moral struggle and self-examination.

The transformation from a culture of humility to one of self-celebration didn't happen overnight, but its effects have been profound. In 1950, only twelve percent of high school seniors considered themselves "very important people." By 2005, that number had soared to eighty percent. This shift represents more than changing attitudes; it reflects a fundamental reordering of values from external restraint to internal expression, from what might be called "eulogy virtues" to "resume virtues."

The earlier moral ecology emphasized what could be called "crooked timber" wisdom, the understanding that human nature is inherently flawed and requires constant vigilance and self-correction. People in this tradition practiced small acts of self-discipline daily, understanding that character is built through countless minor victories over selfishness, pride, and immediate gratification. They believed that true strength came not from asserting one's will, but from learning to govern it through patient cultivation of virtue.

This older tradition didn't suppress individuality but channeled it toward worthy ends. It recognized that lasting happiness comes not from getting what you want, but from training yourself to want what is good. The shift away from this wisdom has left many people morally inarticulate, capable of great technical achievement but uncertain about life's deeper purposes. They have mastered the skills that make them successful in the marketplace but neglected the qualities that make a life truly meaningful.

The contrast is visible in how we approach failure and success. The earlier generation saw failure as an opportunity for moral education, a chance to examine one's character and make necessary corrections. Today's culture often treats failure as a threat to self-esteem rather than a teacher of wisdom. Similarly, success was once viewed with suspicion, as a test of whether one could remain humble and generous, while now it's often seen as validation of one's inherent worth.

Understanding this shift helps explain why many accomplished people today feel a nagging sense that something is missing from their lives. The most admirable figures from history understood that the greatest victories happen not in the external world of career and status, but in the internal world of moral struggle and character formation.

Frances Perkins discovered her life's calling not through introspection but through witnessing tragedy. On March 25, 1911, she watched helplessly as workers leaped to their deaths from the burning Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York City. The horror of that day transformed her from a conventional young woman into one of the most influential labor reformers in American history, ultimately becoming the architect of Social Security and the first woman to serve in a presidential cabinet.

Perkins exemplified what might be called the "summoned self," a way of finding purpose that begins not with the question "What do I want from life?" but rather "What does life want from me?" This approach recognizes that the most meaningful vocations often arise from responding to the world's needs rather than pursuing personal fulfillment. The Triangle fire didn't just anger Perkins; it called her to a lifetime of service that would require enormous personal sacrifice and unwavering commitment to protecting workers from preventable tragedies.

Her journey from privileged Mount Holyoke graduate to political powerhouse required her to suppress many aspects of her identity. She adopted a deliberately matronly appearance to win the confidence of male legislators, calling it her strategy to remind them "subconsciously of their mothers." She endured decades of harsh criticism, including impeachment proceedings, while maintaining her characteristic reticence about her private struggles and focusing entirely on the work that needed to be done.

The summoned life demands a different kind of courage than the self-directed life. It requires the willingness to subordinate personal desires to a larger cause, to accept assignments that may bring more pain than pleasure, and to find meaning not in self-expression but in self-surrender to worthy purposes. Perkins spent her final years teaching at Cornell, living in a dormitory with undergraduate students, having given up wealth and comfort for the satisfaction of having served something greater than herself.

Her example demonstrates that the most fulfilling lives often emerge not from following one's passion but from answering a call to serve. This calling may come through witnessing injustice, recognizing a talent that serves others' needs, or simply seeing work that needs doing. The summoned self finds meaning not in getting what it wants, but in giving what the world needs.

Dwight Eisenhower's transformation from an angry, undisciplined boy to one of history's most trusted leaders illustrates the power of what his mother called "conquering your own soul." After a childhood tantrum left his hands bloody from pounding an apple tree, young Dwight received a lesson that would shape his entire approach to life: the greatest victory is the victory over one's own worst impulses. This philosophy of self-conquest was rooted in the understanding that human nature contains both noble and base elements, and that the goal was not to eliminate passion but to channel it constructively.

Eisenhower learned to transform his volcanic temper into controlled determination, his natural impatience into strategic thinking. He developed what might be called a "second self," an artificial but disciplined persona that could function effectively regardless of his inner emotional state. The cultivation of self-mastery required constant practice in small things. Eisenhower maintained perfect military bearing, spoke with deliberate courtesy, and never allowed personal feelings to dictate professional decisions.

This wasn't mere conformity but a conscious effort to build character through habitual self-restraint. He understood that in moments of crisis, people fall back on their established patterns of behavior, so those patterns must be carefully cultivated through daily practice. His approach to leadership reflected this inner discipline. Rather than seeking the spotlight, Eisenhower consistently deflected credit to subordinates while accepting responsibility for failures.

His famous unsent message taking full blame for a potential D-Day disaster exemplified his willingness to subordinate ego to duty. This self-effacement wasn't weakness but strength, the confidence that comes from having conquered one's need for external validation. The modern emphasis on authenticity often dismisses such self-discipline as artificial or repressive, but Eisenhower's example suggests that true authenticity might require the cultivation of one's better nature rather than the expression of one's immediate impulses.

The self that emerges from this process of conscious formation may be more genuinely admirable than the self that simply follows its natural inclinations. Eisenhower discovered that the highest form of personal achievement comes through the willing subordination of personal ambition to purposes larger than oneself, and that real strength often lies not in self-assertion but in self-restraint.

Dorothy Day's journey from bohemian radical to Catholic saint reveals how suffering can become a path to deeper love and service. Her early life was marked by restless searching, romantic turmoil, and a desperate loneliness that no amount of activism or artistic achievement could fill. Only through embracing poverty, sacrifice, and service to society's most vulnerable members did she find the peace that had long eluded her and discover a form of love that transcended personal fulfillment.

Day's conversion to Catholicism came not through intellectual argument but through the overwhelming gratitude she felt at her daughter's birth. This experience of grace led her to seek a framework for expressing her thankfulness through service. She chose to live among the poor not as a charitable visitor but as one of them, sharing their hardships and uncertainties while providing food, shelter, and dignity to thousands of desperate people who had nowhere else to turn.

The Catholic Worker movement that Day founded operated on the principle of personalism, the belief that social change must begin with direct, person-to-person service. Rather than building large institutions or seeking political power, Day insisted on staying small, maintaining the personal touch that allowed each individual to be seen and valued. This approach required enormous personal sacrifice, as Day lived in voluntary poverty and celibacy for most of her adult life, choosing love of humanity over conventional forms of personal happiness.

Day's understanding of suffering was paradoxical. She didn't seek pain for its own sake but recognized that meaningful service often requires accepting hardship. Her willingness to absorb the anger, mental illness, and ingratitude of those she served reflected her belief that love must be demonstrated through action, not merely feeling. She found that the discipline required to serve difficult people day after day gradually transformed her own character, teaching her patience, compassion, and humility.

Her example challenges contemporary assumptions about the relationship between service and self-fulfillment. Day discovered that the deepest satisfaction comes not from getting what you want but from giving what others need. Her life demonstrates that love is not primarily an emotion but a commitment, a decision to keep serving even when the feelings of affection fade and the work becomes difficult.

A. Philip Randolph and Bayard Rustin embodied a form of leadership that combined radical political goals with conservative personal conduct. Both men understood that in fighting injustice, activists risk being corrupted by their own righteousness, anger, and desire for power. Their response was to cultivate extraordinary personal dignity and self-discipline as the foundation for effective social change, recognizing that moral authority was their most powerful weapon in the struggle for civil rights.

Randolph's upright bearing and formal speech patterns were not affectations but conscious choices designed to demonstrate that African Americans deserved respect and equality. His incorruptibility became legendary; he turned down lucrative job offers and lived modestly even when his fame could have brought wealth. This moral authority gave him unique power to challenge presidents and corporate leaders, as they recognized they were dealing with a man who could not be bought, intimidated, or corrupted by the very system he sought to change.

Rustin's journey was more complicated, marked by personal struggles with his sexuality and past political associations that temporarily derailed his career. His mentor A.J. Muste's harsh criticism taught him that personal discipline was essential for moral leadership. Rustin learned to channel his considerable talents into behind-the-scenes organizing, accepting a role in the shadows so that the movement could advance without the distraction of controversy surrounding his personal life.

Both men embraced the philosophy of nonviolent resistance not merely as a tactic but as a way of maintaining moral superiority over their opponents. They understood that the civil rights movement's greatest weapon was its ability to absorb suffering without retaliating, thereby exposing the brutality of segregation while maintaining the moral high ground. This required extraordinary self-control from participants who had every reason to be angry and every justification for violence.

Their approach reflected a biblical realism about human nature that contrasted sharply with liberal optimism about inevitable progress. They knew that entrenched power never yields without pressure, that good intentions are insufficient to create change, and that even righteous movements can be corrupted by pride and hatred. Their combination of aggressive tactics with personal restraint offers a model for how to pursue justice without losing one's soul, demonstrating that the means we use to achieve our goals ultimately shape the character of those goals themselves.

The lives examined in these profiles reveal a common thread: the understanding that character is built through the daily choice to subordinate immediate desires to higher purposes. Whether through Eisenhower's self-discipline, Day's service to the poor, Perkins' response to social injustice, or Randolph's dignified resistance to oppression, each person discovered that true fulfillment comes not from self-expression but from self-transcendence. They found meaning not by following their passions but by answering calls to serve something greater than themselves.

These examples offer a different vision of the good life than what prevails in contemporary culture. Rather than maximizing personal happiness or authentic self-expression, they suggest that the deepest satisfaction comes from building character through struggle, service, and sacrifice. Their stories remind us that the qualities we most admire in others—humility, courage, compassion, and integrity—are not natural gifts but hard-won achievements that require constant cultivation and practice. In an age that often prioritizes external success over inner development, these remarkable individuals light the way toward a more meaningful and morally grounded approach to living.