Maybe we drained too many ponds

In my younger days, I came up with a theory of human behavior that (while probably too cute for its own good) serves as a useful frame for understanding part of the world.
I called it “resizing the pond.” The idea is that many people like to feel like the big fish in a small pond but operate in ponds that are far too big for that to be possible. So they resize the pond, convincing themselves that a much smaller universe is the important one, one in which they can be the big fish.
You know the type. The person in a small office who sets arbitrary rules and systems and insists that everyone else adhere to them on pain of excoriation. They are the big fish in that little pond — and they have convinced themselves that that pond is both important and significant. This gives them comfort.
This frame is a way of understanding the motivations of all of the little tyrants we encounter on a day-to-day basis. It is also understandable as something to which many of us often fall prey, obsessing about the importance of the thing we need to do. That is, after all, an incentive to do it.
This long-lost bit of pseudowisdom came to mind this week as my family and I have been on vacation in western New York. The area is mostly rural and, as is often correlated, frequently impoverished. What also struck me, though, is the extent to which it is an archipelago of small towns and local shops. There is a town of a thousand people separated from a town of 1,500 by five minutes of driving through farmland. Occasionally these stretches are interrupted by hardware stores or mechanics usually named after their owners.
It’s a lot of little ponds. Literally, sure, but also in the figurative sense. A town where you can be an elected official or on the school board. A place where people know your shop and your family. Places where significance and familiarity are accessible.
It strikes me that this is rarer than it used to be.
This is in part because people have moved out of small towns and into larger urban areas. There are still small ponds in big places; institutional D.C. excels at creating groups and systems in which one can be a chairperson or founder for résumé-related reasons. Pond-building. The nature of a big city, though, is that you can’t know everyone or be known by everyone.
The other reason this is rarer is that everything is nationalized, flattened. Anyone can become a national or international celebrity overnight thanks to social media and the internet. The collapse of local-specific information universes (newspapers, etc.) means that national issues and individuals comprise most of what we see. Here, too, there are still little ponds — lots of people have millions of social-media followers by focusing on specific niches — but this is neither a familiar nor particularly accessible means of becoming a big fish. Keeping up with the Kardashians instead of the neighboring Joneses.
This pond metaphor is generally a proxy for status anxiety, I admit. People want recognition that they find elusive.
But I also think this does a better job of capturing the desire for dominance that seems hard to escape in the moment. It’s not just recognition; it’s wanting to be the big man, the boss. There’s an obvious element of subjugation to big-fish syndrome, the ability to devour the lesser creatures that are swimming around you.
Then we extend the idea. If you feel as though you should be dominant but aren’t, if you see others treated as big fish in your stead, you might understandably be drawn to someone who promises to wreak havoc on those standing in your way. If you can’t be the shark, you might as well be the remora.
There are too many tidy solutions offered for the moment, and this one qualifies. It strikes me, though, that retaining more opportunities to be a big fish might have reduced the number of people to see the social order be devoured.
Photo: A house in Johnstown, Pa. in 2023.















































