Last week, Tom Nichols published an article in The Atlantic arguing that Donald Trump is exactly what George Washington feared at the dawn of the American democratic experiment. I'll relieve you from reading another redundant analysis of Trump, but Nichol's characterization of Washington is interesting both in what it omits and in the impression it leaves on the reader.

"I cannot tell a lie," confesses the child Washington in the popular myth about a damaged cherry tree. In popular culture, Washington is, if not godlike, as least approaches a divinity. He cannot speak falsehoods. He detests power, yet ascends to the fledgling country's most powerful post whilst also being perceived as above politics. He voluntarily relinquishes control of that post and rejects a hereditary monarchy, setting a precedent that would last hundreds of years.

Nichol's acknowledges only a single one of Washington's flaws-- slavery--- explicitly, leaving the rest of the president's "shortcomings" as an exercise to the reader. He tries to distance himself from the popular conception of Washington as an "avatar, too distant and majestic to be emulated," while painting someone who is just as much of an ideal.

Now, we all know George Washington wasn't perfect. He was reported to be a poor tactician, angered easily, and overspent. Nichols doesn't mention these deliberately, and not because he's being dishonest. It's because he is concerned with America's Founding Father and First President George Washington, not one of the many other hats that he wore.

"But wait!" the overeager reader calls out. "How is that any different than the 'avatar'?" A deity is one, a perfectly harmonious whole. Their whole being is imbued with its respective medium, whether that be religious or political. A role model is a slice of someone, a single perspective of their immeasurably complex character. This is obvious from the word itself: "role model." Someone who models a role. Not a complete life, not a perfect person, but a single role.

Real people have the unfortunate property of being indivisible. Try as we might, we are not encompassed by a list of the hats we wear: father, son, construction worker, sister, best friend, mentor--- some parts of us are over-represented, while some are omitted entirely. This is why you can separate the art from the artist, but only to a degree. A president who is unfaithful is unfortunate, but you can argue that infidelity is a minor crime compared to strong leadership, intolerance for corruption, and policies that make their nation thrive. It is harder to make this excuse for other groups, such as slaveholders, who perpetuated one of America's greatest shames. The most difficult scandals to defend are those that directly contradict the strengths of a figure's legacy.

Whether you agree with Nichols' assessment of Trump or not, his piece highlights the enduring power of the myths and ideals surrounding Washington in the American imagination. Washington has survived the felling of many other leaders from his era not because he lacks flaws but because his strengths are not entirely negated by his shortcomings. The painting "General George Washington Resigning His Commission" is titled like and fits right into a category of biblical paintings including "Healing of the Man Born Blind" and "David with the Head of Goliath." Its painter John Trumbull, and the American public at large, viewed the moment in essentially biblical terms; Trumbull considered the moment to be "one of the highest moral lessons ever given to the world".

No human being needs to be worshipped. The potential for abuse, or at the very least the appearance of misconduct, is too high. But aspirational role models which go beyond personal differences in political, social, or religious ideology can serve as bridges and keep people honest if we assume good-faith intentions. I said before they could not be worshipped, and I maintain that. But someone who has died, or is at the very least past their prime, can be idealized to an extent that is inadvisable for someone who is currently in power without running the risk of personal shortcomings like arrogance or delusions of grandeur.

I'm not necessarily arguing for new American mythological figures; the ones we have are more than sufficient to provide a guiding light. If we had figures from the more recent past who were universally viewed as stewards of our values, they would great candidates to incorporate into our societal story. We need not limit ourselves to political figures; poets, generals, scientists, and educators should serve as paragons for their fields in addition to representing positive social currents more broadly. In today's world, it is much more likely we will find one outside of politics, which is fraught with low-level disagreement and lack of consensus on basic truths. Wherever their background, the important thing is that they have established a legacy, are widely seen as beyond criticism in a narrow subfield, and that they are past their prime and no longer able to influence politics.

By idealizing these people, we make insurmountable mountains that drive our own behavior beyond the short-sightedness of immediate gratification. From Adams to Hoover, all presidents either chose not to seek a third term or were persuaded against it by their party because they believed following Washington's example would cement their place in the American story. They wanted the impossible, but their striving for is what elevated at least a part of their career to mythological status. It is the presidents who made statements antithetical to Washington-- such as Andrew Jackson with his contempt of the Supreme Court-- that we now view in infamy as contrarians to the American tradition.

We have gained much in the individualization of society, but shared values are still what bring us together. Doctors swear the Hippocratic Oath, taking upon themselves the incredible goal of doing absolutely no harm. We should normalize the taking of someone specific who embodied your values and raising them up on a personal pedestal to remind yourself of what can be accomplished.

Jordan Peele's shadow people in Us (2019) had a simple answer when they were asked who they are and by extension, why they were rising up: "We are Americans." Their shared belief in who they were, and the natural American response to unfairness and inequality, is what powers the horror in the film. The collective narrative that formed this self-perception comes from the quintessential American, formed from an amorphous soup of aspirational figures.

That narrative can be made positive or negative, so throw something good in the stew.