Cabot Phillips

When I was a boy, I had the mother who, on summer mornings, would not let my brothers and me play outside or turn on cartoons until we’d written one page in our journal.Despite our protest, Mom held firm, assuring us that we’d appreciate it when we were older.Shockingly, as a seven-year-old, satisfying the nostalgic itch of future Cabot was not at the forefront of my mind.So, predictably, in a rush to get outside each morning, the pages of my childhood journal would often be filled with nothing more than the exaggerated exploits of my childhood self.“I am the fastest second grader at Barnwell Elementary School.”“I catch bigger fish than any of my friends.”“I am so smart. I could easily do my older brother’s fifth grade math homework.”Even as a young boy, I documented my supposed feats and accomplishments in an ironic fashion, finding humor in filling the pages of a private journal with over-the-top braggadocio.But as we now know, some among our nation’s elite see no irony in such private a