The author, TM Scanlon refers to the philosophical idea of “contractualism,” or, as he puts it, “what we owe to each other.” Pared down and simplified this concept concerns the morality of interpersonal behavior. When I first heard this as a question “What do we owe to each other?” an offshoot of the ubiquitous “What do we owe to ourselves,” I found that this version resonated deeply with the inherent notion that we owe it to ourselves to pay attention to what we owe others. In doing so, we add value to the relationships and exchanges that all human beings have. There is a level of accountability to self and to the human race when we ask ourselves that intimate question.
Many institutions, including educational ones, have tenets that pervade daily activities and interactions. Pillars of character and behavior, like integrity and humility, or values associated with the mascot of a school, values like fairness and empathy are taught, touted, and part of the “moral” training. For many, the company or the school is not merely a place to work and learn; it is a place where good citizens are raised, where employees treat one another with dignity and respect.
We learn this from an early age. Concepts like sportsmanship, holding your head up, or turning the other cheek instill in us a sense of measurable morality and thus, an accountability yardstick. Teachers, coaches, friends, and employers place an emphasis on “who” people are as much as “what” they contribute. Personal moral accountability may very well be the next section on a resume.
When I heard this question recently, it did not immediately hit me, not like I thought it would. I had an expectation that my pervasive sense of “right” would activate and elevate my sense of accountability to my fellow humans, that it would increase my sensitivity to the plight of those around me and those in distant lands, those who suffer, those who go without many of the necessities that I enjoy each day. However, it did not have that immediate effect. I sat for several days and thought about “what we owe to each other.” I reached back to my childhood, adolescence, and through my education and work as an adult, as a teacher, mother, friend, co-worker, wife, and as a woman, a human being.
I have come to realize that what we owe each other is defined by what we owe ourselves. When we feel as though we have grounded our individual mind and soul in the morality that shapes our behavior, only then can we consider the broader obligations. It would be akin to coaching skilled athletes in a sport you have never played. You may have seen games, but you have no depth of knowledge about what to do and how to do it.

By that standard, when you begin to know yourself and are at peace with who you are, you can extend that knowledge to others, sharing in both the wonderous nature of discovery and the troubling, even dark moments that challenge you, the moments that demand action, both defining you and choices you will make, and, the same goes for me.
As the mother of three sons, I have been proud and sometimes irritated by the lessons they have come to internalize and that they have taught me. One afternoon this month, I was going through old notes and letters, deciding which to keep and which to secretly recycle. I came across a brief note from one of my sons. It reads, “I am always proud to tell people that you are my mom.” No need to pause for effect here. Anyone who is a mom, who has or has had a mom, or who might be a mom someday, along with, well, anyone who has some semblance of feeling, understands the impact a statement like that can impart.
He gave it to me several years ago. It has remained tucked away in my journal, between the pages I open when I need an “uplift.” I remember thinking about what the statement implies, and I have since shared that wisdom with others, particularly newer parents. For my son, I am someone whom he respects and, in that, he is unapologetic about being happy to have others know that I am a part of his life. Where does that begin? The pride. The respect. How is it taught? How can it be quantified? I became acutely aware that my son carries his own expectations for what being proud of his mother means and that I somehow met his criterion.
I recognized that I owed it to myself, and to my family, to my sons, to be a person who would make that statement true. I have lived a life shaped by mistakes, humor, and many failures, but I have held fast to my integrity. There are times when I have been unable to be honest about what I thought for fear of disrupting relationships or the callous idea of destroying another with hurtful words that would not solve a given dilemma. Believing you are a person of integrity means realizing that perfection is unattainable and that, sometimes, the best you can do is try to temper how you feel with an expression of palatable honesty, without the goal of harming someone.

By that standard, when you begin to know yourself and are at peace with who you are, you can extend that knowledge to others, sharing in both the wonderous nature of discovery and the troubling, even dark moments that challenge you, the moments that demand action, both defining you and choices you will make, and, the same goes for me.
As the mother of three sons, I have been proud and sometimes irritated by the lessons they have come to internalize and that they have taught me. One afternoon this month, I was going through old notes and letters, deciding which to keep and which to secretly recycle. I came across a brief note from one of my sons. It reads, “I am always proud to tell people that you are my mom.” No need to pause for effect here. Anyone who is a mom, who has or has had a mom, or who might be a mom someday, along with, well, anyone who has some semblance of feeling, understands the impact a statement like that can impart.
He gave it to me several years ago. It has remained tucked away in my journal, between the pages I open when I need an “uplift.” I remember thinking about what the statement implies, and I have since shared that wisdom with others, particularly newer parents. For my son, I am someone whom he respects and, in that, he is unapologetic about being happy to have others know that I am a part of his life. Where does that begin? The pride. The respect. How is it taught? How can it be quantified? I became acutely aware that my son carries his own expectations for what being proud of his mother means and that I somehow met his criterion.
I recognized that I owed it to myself, and to my family, to my sons, to be a person who would make that statement true. I have lived a life shaped by mistakes, humor, and many failures, but I have held fast to my integrity. There are times when I have been unable to be honest about what I thought for fear of disrupting relationships or the callous idea of destroying another with hurtful words that would not solve a given dilemma. Believing you are a person of integrity means realizing that perfection is unattainable and that, sometimes, the best you can do is try to temper how you feel with an expression of palatable honesty, without the goal of harming someone.