Why You Need a Secretary of State
Do you like authentic people? Of course you do. With authentic people you always know where you stand. You know what they think and feel, what they’re doing and what they’ve got in mind. Such guileless individuals make no secret of what’s below the surface, which is why personal interaction with them is so intimate, so pleasant and efficient. No wonder authenticity is in vogue. These days you can barely squeak through a training seminar without a unit on it. No leadership book is complete without a chapter on “authentic leadership,” no secrets-of-success-type blog without tips about how to be as “raw” and authentic as possible. Just as it’s unwise to invest in a forged Picasso, it’s unwise to invest in people who aren’t “genuine”—neither time nor money.
But how authentic are we talking? Let’s run a thought experiment. Say you’re meeting your über-authentic friend Lisa for lunch. She turns up twenty minutes late, hair looking like a cat’s been scrabbling around in it. She mutters an apology then announces loudly enough for the whole restaurant to hear that she’s “not really in the mood” for lunch today, and “definitely not in some restaurant that used to be cool.” The diners at the next table lower their forks. After a moment of silence, Lisa starts complimenting your outfit, although she points out that your watch “doesn’t really go with it,” at least not the way you’ve put everything together. She leans across the table mid-flow, grabs the glass of wine you’ve just ordered, and downs it in a single gulp: “Sorry, I was soooo thirsty!” Having finished her starter, she then plonks her head down onto the table and goes to sleep—leaving you caught in the crossfire of strangers’ glances. Five minutes later, when the spaghetti is served, she wakes up and stretches with an animal yawn, laughing: “I’m just not myself without my power nap, you know?” Picking up one strand of spaghetti after the next, she dunks them into the sauce with her fingers then lets them fall into her mouth, declaring that it’s “so much more fun that way.” Then, because she’s “simply got to get it off her chest,” she tells you everything she dreamt last night, all of which is total nonsense—but you’ve already asked for the bill. And that, dearest reader, is a rough distillation of authenticity in its purest form.
In his book Mirror, Mirror, the British philosopher Simon Blackburn recounts the story of Charles Darwin’s burial in Westminster Abbey. William, the great biologist’s eldest son (and most important mourner), was sitting in the first row of the cathedral when he felt a sudden draught across his bald head, so he took off his black gloves and draped them over his bare scalp—where they remained for all to see throughout the whole service.
William Darwin may not have been as bad as our fictional lunch date Lisa, but it’s safe to say you can have too much authenticity. We expect a certain degree of propriety, of manners, of self-control—of civilized misrepresentation. Face-to-face, at least. Online we’ve long ago devolved to Lisa’s level. If you’re not sharing your innermost feelings in an online video before you go to bed, you’re considered stuffy and insincere. Yet fundamentally even the most authentic of these displays on social media remains artificial, stage-managed. And the users know it.
My recommendation? Don’t buy into the authenticity hype. For several reasons. One: there’s the simple fact that we don’t really know who we are. As we saw in the previous chapter, our inner voice is anything but a reliable compass. It’s more like a hodgepodge of conflicting impulses. We don’t understand ourselves, so what exactly is “authentic” behavior supposed to be revealing? Authenticity has a role to play in a romantic relationship or a very close friendship, but it’s out of place in a casual acquaintanceship, and certainly in public.
Two: you’re making yourself look ridiculous. Name one famous figure you truly respect—a statesman, a general, a philosopher, a captain of industry, a scientist—who regularly blurts out their innermost feelings. You won’t find one. People are respected because they deliver on their promises, not because they let us eavesdrop on their inner monologs.
Three: cells are the building blocks of life. Every cell is enclosed by a membrane, the purpose of which is to repel hostile intruders and precisely regulate which molecules are allowed to pass through. We see the same dynamic play out with the organism as a whole—and for the same reasons. Animals have skin, trees bark. An organism with no outer layer would die immediately. On a psychological level, authenticity just means you’ve given up on this barrier. You’re practically inviting people to exploit you. You’re making yourself not just silly but vulnerable.
General Eisenhower deliberately crafted a persona for the outside world. New York Times columnist David Brooks talks about Eisenhower adopting a “second self,” which is at odds with the common contemporary belief that there is only a single, “true” self. This second persona isn’t a contrived pose; rather, it’s a professional, consistent, and reliable outward-facing stance that leaves no room for doubts, frustrations or disappointments—those are for your diary, your partner or your pillow. I recommend you take a cue from Eisenhower and adopt a second self of your own. Restrict authenticity to keeping your promises and acting according to your principles. The rest is nobody else’s business.
If the mental model of a second persona doesn’t suit you, try putting it this way: think of yourself as a nation, with a State Department and a secretary of state. Write down the basic precepts of your foreign policy. You’ll have to play the role yourself—like a sort of personal union. You don’t want a secretary of state who broadcasts every thought in his head, who shows weakness or dissolves into self-doubt. You want a secretary of state who keeps promises, acts according to agreements, behaves professionally, avoids gossip, limits whining and stays polite. Check in from time to time on how well you’re doing your job as secretary of state. Ask whether you’d reelect yourself.
Whether you call it a “second persona” or a “secretary of state,” you’ll soon realize that this barrier, this skin, this bark, not only shields you from toxic influences but also stabilizes what’s inside it. Like all boundaries, this external structure establishes a degree of internal clarity. So even if other people—your employees or alleged friends—occasionally demand you show “more authenticity,” don’t fall into the trap. A dog is authentic. You’re a human being.