Individuality, and other Nonsense
My little sister and all her adoring fans voted me "Most Unique" in high school. Yearbook staff took my picture as I held a plastic lollipop and thought how much more unique the girl who had won "Most Artistic" was.
My older brother was told that he had "divergent thinking." That's just a flattering way of saying that he has a unique perspective. He wasn't an intellectual sheep. Daniel knows that he's smart.
No one every said that about me. I don't think anyone ever accused me of thinking at all. I just was. My existence was divergent, but not my intellect.
My first-grade teacher asked me and a fellow classmate named Michael to come to the front of the class and solve a problem. I could feel it coming together inside my head as I stared at the board, but I took too long, and she gave us the answer. She took away an opportunity for success and instead gave me decades of insecurity.
Was I smart or stupid? Pretty or Ugly seemed irrelevant. Rich or Poor could fluxuate. Ignorant or Educated would come with time, like Young or Old. Honest or Dishonest was a daily decision.
There are still days when I feel both smart and stupid. In moments I am so sure I'm mentally handicapped, and days later I will feel angry because someone can't keep up with me. So what am I?
Feminists are right; Queer Theorists are wrong. One event cannot define my self. Two or three events cannot either. I am complex, and simple. I comprehend everything and nothing. An action is wise under certain circumstances, another is foolish. Some things I do require and prove intelligence (sentience?), and some prove my unutterably human stupidity. I am both discerning and gullible, perceptive and foggy. I could tell you my numerical intelligence quotient. You could compare it with the millions of others who have taken identical or similar tests. They would still be perfectly capable of unutterable idiocy, and I am still capable of profound insight, and vice versa. The IQ becomes merely a statistic - producing an accurate range of results after the fact, but incapable of predicting the value of a single action.
In this, I am exactly like every other human being, and not unique at all. Yet I still frighten people and alienate myself. Individuality without subculture is suicide.
There are no true individuals. Everyone fits into many groups, however briefly, and every trait will be in common with someone else, somewhere. Some people will always fit into certain groups, and some people will never fit into any group for very long.
Difficulties arise with aiming for a niche. These kinds of aspirations require compromise. To fit into the intelligentsia, one must abandon a love of folk-rock and Waterhouse. Cheerleaders have to shave their legs. Cowboys have to like a little twang in their pop (that sounds kinky). Baptists don't burn incense next to a jade Buddha. Shakespeare professors date only their students. Nobody likes yodeling except me, and acres of little, old, Swiss men.
We do. At the end of our lives we'll count up the things we did and the statistics will show us if our lives were smart or stupid, kind or cruel, helpful or hindering. In the meantime, I'll be all Deconstructionist and stop trying to label everything as if life were a scattering of binaries.
My older brother was told that he had "divergent thinking." That's just a flattering way of saying that he has a unique perspective. He wasn't an intellectual sheep. Daniel knows that he's smart.
No one every said that about me. I don't think anyone ever accused me of thinking at all. I just was. My existence was divergent, but not my intellect.
My first-grade teacher asked me and a fellow classmate named Michael to come to the front of the class and solve a problem. I could feel it coming together inside my head as I stared at the board, but I took too long, and she gave us the answer. She took away an opportunity for success and instead gave me decades of insecurity.
Was I smart or stupid? Pretty or Ugly seemed irrelevant. Rich or Poor could fluxuate. Ignorant or Educated would come with time, like Young or Old. Honest or Dishonest was a daily decision.
There are still days when I feel both smart and stupid. In moments I am so sure I'm mentally handicapped, and days later I will feel angry because someone can't keep up with me. So what am I?
Feminists are right; Queer Theorists are wrong. One event cannot define my self. Two or three events cannot either. I am complex, and simple. I comprehend everything and nothing. An action is wise under certain circumstances, another is foolish. Some things I do require and prove intelligence (sentience?), and some prove my unutterably human stupidity. I am both discerning and gullible, perceptive and foggy. I could tell you my numerical intelligence quotient. You could compare it with the millions of others who have taken identical or similar tests. They would still be perfectly capable of unutterable idiocy, and I am still capable of profound insight, and vice versa. The IQ becomes merely a statistic - producing an accurate range of results after the fact, but incapable of predicting the value of a single action.
In this, I am exactly like every other human being, and not unique at all. Yet I still frighten people and alienate myself. Individuality without subculture is suicide.
There are no true individuals. Everyone fits into many groups, however briefly, and every trait will be in common with someone else, somewhere. Some people will always fit into certain groups, and some people will never fit into any group for very long.
Difficulties arise with aiming for a niche. These kinds of aspirations require compromise. To fit into the intelligentsia, one must abandon a love of folk-rock and Waterhouse. Cheerleaders have to shave their legs. Cowboys have to like a little twang in their pop (that sounds kinky). Baptists don't burn incense next to a jade Buddha. Shakespeare professors date only their students. Nobody likes yodeling except me, and acres of little, old, Swiss men.
We do. At the end of our lives we'll count up the things we did and the statistics will show us if our lives were smart or stupid, kind or cruel, helpful or hindering. In the meantime, I'll be all Deconstructionist and stop trying to label everything as if life were a scattering of binaries.
Comments
Post a Comment