The Tides are Against Us

Standing Still in the Midst of Cultural Waves

“I don’t care.”

The words left my mouth before I had the chance to think. Honestly though, this is when I am most honest.

I have always had to be very careful about what I say and how I say it. It seems, for whatever reason (perhaps I’m an asshole, perhaps I never learned to properly give a shit, perhaps I am more evolved than the average person, perhaps I evaluate things on a different spectrum, perhaps it’s some combination of the above), I have a way about me which people tend to find upsetting, or you might even say off-putting. As a result I have internalized a need to self censor, to swallow my tongue (perhaps this is why I constantly need to clear my throat these days), to simply say less. But every once and awhile, either when I am caught off guard ( which is rare due to the amount of time I spend in my head rehearsing responses to imaginary situations), or when I have reached a point of exhaustion (most often the result of being overwhelmed), I simply say what I think.

A couple of things usually follow from these moments. The first is that what I say comes out sounding much harsher than how it sounds in my head. (I vacillate on the importance of tone in communication. I have noticed however those most focused on it seem to have the least awareness of their own.) The incongruence between what I consider a routine expression of my internal landscape and the brusqueness of the presentation is a bit shocking. Despite this, I must admit my predominant experience is one of profound relief, the kind which typically follows a good cry or epic bowel movement.

The relief doesn’t last though and is followed by hours of consternation and reflection. My shock shocks me into figuring out what the hell I actually meant, and whether it was “right” or “wrong,” by which I mean justifiable and/or defensible within the context of my values and world view. I am happy to report more often than not this process offers me further insights into not only who I am, but why I think what I think, and not to blow my own horn (even though you’ll come to find out that what you think of me is none of my business), but more often than not I have some pretty good reasons for what may have sounded offhanded or even offensive. The “I don’t care” being a perfect example of all these.

Getting Dirty.

I don’t know about you, but I loved lockdown. Unlike the majority of people who couldn’t wait for a return to “normal life,” I didn’t care if we ever went back. I have always craved and prospered during times of isolation, a real boon if you grew up Generation X. Setting aside the food and toilet paper shortages, the people dying, the social hysteria, the impending sense of apocalypse, and being forced to take my son home a few short hours after after his birth without a manual for his upkeep or basic survival, my greatest anxiety was when it would end and I would be forced to go back out into the world.

The forced isolation of lockdown also provided an unparalleled opportunity to bask in our current golden age of television. For me, the creme de la creme was “The Great Pottery Throw Down.” Yes, as you might’ve guessed, it is a rip off of “The Great British Baking Show” almost down to the scene, which is why it is fabulous. Don’t fix what ain’t broke, I always say. I binged every season. But unlike with TGBBS, TGPTD inspired me to want to get my hands dirty, or muddy in this case.

Turns out this was easier desired, than done. First, there was the lockdown. Then, I lived in England for 6 months. Then, as an introvert I had to find the courage to begin looking for a class. And finally, I discovered that getting into a class in Denver is really fucking hard, bordering on impossible. Many classes sell out before they open to the general public and the ones which don’t sell out in under a minute on average. So, you can only imagine my excitement when I finally got into one.

An excitement which tempered as I walked through the door of the studio to see an array of name tags laid out before me. I have a long and deep seated aversion to name tags. I don’t know why, I just don’t like them; despite the fact they are the only chance I have of remembering anyone’s name. My normal apprehension quickly transformed into trepidation when I saw these particular versions. In addition to the space for my name, there was a post-modern space at the bottom for “My pronouns . . .”.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs.

I begrudgingly scrawled my name across a tag and attached it to my shirt. I opted out on the bottom. Irritated, slightly unsettled, but committed to future pots, I made my way over to an empty wheel. As I settled in I was approached by a fairly basic, white, Zellenial woman. Let’s call her Tracy.

“Hi. I’m Tracy.”

“Hi Tracy. My name’s Thad.”

Tracy paused and without missing a beat looked down at my name tag (umm . . . my eyes are up here Tracy), which seemed odd since I had just told her my name. Seeing the pronoun section blank, she inquired, “And what are your pronouns?”

I should have seen this coming. I should have prepared. My mind raced to find the best, most complete, elevator sound bite I could compose. I settled on, “I don’t care.”

Tracy, perplexed and seemingly a bit annoyed, responded, “Well, mine are she/they.”

“Cool. Nice to meet you Tracy.”

And now you’re thinking. . . .well, okay actually, he is an asshole. Maybe, but remember, what you think of me is none of my business. And here’s the thing; I could go on at length about the hours of thought, reading, and reflection which led to this moment. And how none of what I think was reducible in the moment. And how, in short (very short in this case), “I don’t care” was the perfect encapsulation of what I do think, on some level. And we can agree or disagree about whether I could have communicated more clearly, or sensitively, or blah, blah, blah. And we could unpack how as designations applied to you (with the exception of “we” and “I”), pronouns aren’t for you; how you can’t “have them” in any meaningful sense. And finally, we could pry into my psyche and try to discover how and why, and whether it’s good or bad, that I honestly, sincerely, and from the bottom of my heart don’t fucking care what terms you use in reference to me. But that’s not what this is about.

This is about the difficulty of standing up and saying what we think in the face of almost certain rejection and relegation to the further reaches of society if we dare run afoul of the current culture of thought. Oddly enough, I had another exchange later that week which reinforced this point.

I found myself at a four year old’s birthday party, essentially the modern day Agora, discussing with some friends their home renovation. My friend began to tell me about the updates to the “primary bedroom,” and before she got past “more open floor plan,” I blurted out, “You know, it’s okay to call it a ‘master bedroom.’ There is no linguistic, historical, or cultural connection between the ‘master’ in ‘master bedroom’ and the ‘master’ in ‘slave master.’”

Her response, “I know,” but then if not in a whisper, at the very least in hushed tones, “but I don’t want people to think I’m a racist.”

Fair. I am not unsympathetic to this. No one wants to be seen as something they’re not, even if these perceptions aren’t something we control. But again, I can’t help wonder and worry; when did we become more concerned with how we’re perceived than with what we think, or even know, to be true? When did others’ opinions, sensitivities, fears, proclivities, or identities begin to take precedence over how we speak and what we say?

I am far from immune to these pressures as evidenced by the above. I was surprised and a bit ashamed by the internal struggle which led up to the “I don’t care.” I make a point of thinking long and hard about things before I open my mouth. So, when and if I say something, I am fairly confident and comfortable. But not in this case, despite putting in the theoretical leg work beforehand. So, for me, someone who prides himself on not giving a shit about others’ opinions, to have this much internal hemming and hawing, was unsettling.

And, keep in mind, I am privileged as the kids say these days. I am not dependent on remaining relevant and functional in society. I can essentially say whatever the hell I want and I will still have a roof over my head, food on the table, a car to drive, work to keep me busy, and private school for my child. There is no one who can fire me for posting, or saying the wrong thing on social media, or in person. I am not in any danger of loosing anything for “not caring” like I do. There is nothing to cancel here and that makes a difference. But, a lot of people, and by a lot I mean the vast majority, are not like me.

My friend surely isn’t. She has a job which she depends on to live and support her family. I am not sure if her employers would care about accusations of possible racism, but enduring a public shaming which could, and most likely would, include personal attacks, social media pile-ons, likely threats of violence, and the loss of some people she currently regards as friends in the least would not make her life easier, nor likely fast track her for a promotion. So, her situation is much more fraught than mine.

But, in the end, I think it’s our duty to act boldly . . . regardless our circumstances.

And, lest you think I harbor personal resentment, or a sense of superiority over my friend as a person for choosing to conform her speech to the predominant social paradigm of sensitivities over reality, you should keep two things in mind. First, in addition to it being none of my business what you think of me, it is also none of your business what I think of you, or in this case, her. I’m interested in actions, not individuals.

Second, an “n” of two doesn’t really tell us much. The fact that I acted, by today’s pathetic standards, audaciously in simply stating an opinion is laughable on one hand, and sad on the other. And you’ll remember, it did not come without internal strife. And, there is no guarantee I will make a similar principled choice the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that, and on, and on, and on. On the other hand, we know very little about the extenuating circumstances, internal mental states, or principles which led to my friend’s apparent obsequiousness. It could have been a fluke, a calculated choice, or a routine caving to the mob.

Regardless, the issue remains. The pressures exerted on all of us to toe the tribal lines are real, powerful, and sadly winning the day. And it doesn’t seem as though any of this is likely to change in the near future. But that’s fine, because what the present moment calls for more than anything is a commitment to exhibiting moral courage, and the demonstration of courage requires fear. Courage is action, the noble action, in the face of fear, which in this case entails standing up to speak our truth, which will occasionally even turn out to be the truth. The other option, the popular option if you will, is cowardice and a continual opting to cow tail our sentiments in a never-ending attempt to fly below the hyper-awareness radar.

Moral Courage

There is little doubt that it’s the current culture, intent upon cancellation of anything and everything deemed offensive, which makes standing up and saying what you think so damn hard. But, by way of perspective, it has never been fashionable to have opinions which run contrary to the mainstream. And while it may seem particularly risky, with the possibility of harsher and more severe consequences these days, perhaps we should pause and ask if this is really true?

All that is needed to show us the error of our perceptions is a short trip down history lane. There were times, after all, when speaking out could literally find you dead or worst. Ever heard of Socrates? And while there are still places where this could happen to you. Those places are not here. The time is not now. At least not yet. So, the good news is that you will not die for saying whatever the hell you want.

The bad news. Maybe someone will be offended. Maybe they will look at you crossly or embark on a diatribe of moralism motivated by a need to virtue signal. Perhaps they will even try to “cancel” you. To which you are free to say “So what?” Or perhaps even, “I don’t care.”

It seems our lives have become so superficial and lived on-line that it’s increasingly difficult to distinguish between a “social death” as in being canceled and a literal death? But, here’s the thing. There is no actual comparison. One occurs in a made up world and the other is lived and real. At the end of the harshest canceling or public shaming, you will still be breathing, thinking, eating . . . in short, living. It might be that our focus on this made up world is circumventing our ability to think and speak; to act with courage because we have failed to see the difference between what is real and what is only real in our heads. I contend, it is not the stakes which are higher, but our convictions which are weaker.

I don’t have the solution. I don’t know how to convince people not to be afraid, not to bend to the current of cultural winds, to give a whole lots less shits about what people think. All I do know is that if more of us don’t find it within ourselves to speak courageously, things won’t change. And they will most likely continue to deteriorate. Where that road ends, I don’t know. I’m not going to go full doom and gloom, but I do think there are serious, and increasingly more serious, consequences for the function and fabric of our society and the institutions which hold it together without a change in course.

Our times don’t need our silence, our acquiescence, our going gently into that good night. What they need is a willingness on the part of intelligent, well intentioned, rational individuals to demonstrate the courage of liberal conviction, the willingness and capacity to stand up and say, “no,” or “I don’t care,” or “whatever the hell you want.”