My family had its own exceptionalist myth. We thought we were special. I thought it was normal and that everyone felt that way. And the story wasn't arbitrary, not like we were chosen. We thought we were exceptional because we had standards. Because we were nice.
What's wrong with that? Blindness, if the story is too extreme. Blindness to what other people go through or might be going through, the seeds of being inadvertent assholes. I never enjoyed hurting anybody. I was appalled when I knew I had. But that has to change behaviors.
Or it doesn't mean anything. Grownup empathy is different. It doesn't only operate in restricted ways in space and time. It works across space and time. It has immersive aspects and abstract aspects. Elements of justice added to mercy. Wisdom, one hopes, and some intelligence.
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