Tagged: life

Review of Quiet, by Susan Cain

The film V for Vendetta has a line which goes, “Artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up.”  Growing up, I was under the impression that internalizing the latter sentiment was required in order to call yourself an American.  In other words, when I heard the line, the idea that politicians lie was nothing new.  But I can’t say I had ever heard the first part, the part about artists deliberately using lies for good, until I watched that movie.  Neither a politician nor an artist, Susan Cain attempts to simply tell the truth in her book Quiet.  However, Fyodor Dostoevsky (artist) has this to say about telling the truth in his classic Crime and Punishment: “If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble.”  My experiences have convinced me that Dostoevsky speaks the truth.  What we want to know, though, is how does Susan Cain do?

As best I can tell, Cain’s thesis in Quiet is that between the two major and decidedly different personality types (extrovert and introvert), in America the extroverts have convinced everyone that their type–their personality–is the ideal personality.  More simply, Cain would like to be Luke Skywalker for introverts and return balance to the force.  Unfortunately, there is quite a bit more than a hundredth part of a false note in her book.  Two of them warrant attention here.  

First, there is a section where she attempts to demonstrate that The West has a history of valuing extroverts, while The East has a history of valuing introverts.  How does she go about this supporting this claim?  Like any rhetorician, she uses proverbs.  One of The East’s proverbs she provides comes from the reputable founder of Taoism, Lao Tzu, and reads, “Those who know do not speak.  Those who speak do not know.”**  Fair enough.  The provided proverb for The West, on the other hand, comes from Ptahhotep.  What Westerner doesn’t have a few ol’ Ptahhotep’s sayings memorized?  For the fuzzy, Ptahhotep said in 2400 BCE, “Be a craftsman in speech that thou mayest be strong, for the strength of one is the tongue, and speech is mightier than all fighting.”**  With writing being a relatively new form of communication back then, this guy may have just been saying the what-might-actually-be-a common western proverb, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  And, from where I sit, that has nothing to do with extroverts or introverts.  

Maybe Cain just made a little mistake, but still understands the big picture?  I wanted to believe so, too.  But then she added, as her concluding proverb for the perpetually extrovert-loving West, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”  Now, I am under the impression that a proverb is prescriptive in nature, not just a true, clever sentence.  I have never heard anyone use that truism in a genuinely prescriptive manner.  Maybe I’m sheltered.  I’ve told people, mockingly, to squeak if they want something, sure, but I’m pretty sure they understood the tone of my advice included that I thought they’d lose a part of their soul for doing so.  I think the bigger problem is that, by definition, there aren’t any proverbs that advise self-promotion and talking endlessly.  Quite the opposite.  The thing about proverbs is they have to stand the test of time to earn the title.  In her research for western proverbs promoting extroverted characteristics, I find it hard to believe she didn’t stumble across “the empty can rattles the most.”  But, then, had she included that one in the book, her thesis would’ve lost some bite, I think.  

The second false note, which is not exactly false, though it definitely calls into question the gravity of the entire supposed problem, is deep into the book.  We find ourselves in the midst of a lover’s quarrel.  It seems that extroverts and introverts are often attracted to each other, which can sometimes result in marriage.  This causes problems, it seems.  For Greg and Emily, the problem is dinner parties.  Greg wants to host them.  Emily does not.  As it turns out, once Greg and Emily learn that Emily’s introversion is not wrong or bad, a compromise can be struck.  Cain’s advice?  Don’t focus on the number of dinner parties, but the format.  She says, “Instead of seating everyone around a big table, which would require the kind of all-hands conversational multitasking Emily dislikes so much, why not serve dinner buffet style, with people eating in small, casual conversational groupings on the sofas and floor pillows?”**  A friend of mine recently enlightened me to a witty phrase that defines Greg and Emily’s situation and I think fits here: White whine.  Seriously though, ladies, if you have multiple sofas and throw pillows that you don’t mind replacing every other weekend after your friends prove they’re not the refined diners you’d like to believe they are, then I can already tell you’re beautiful–we should chat.

Is there an extrovert ideal in America?  Has a (perhaps unintended) consequence been that introverts get lost in the shuffle, or worse yet, believe they should strive to change a part of themselves which cannot be changed and live with the resultant shame?  Susan Cain believes so.  I’m not convinced.  Maybe I’m not her target audience.  In any case, I’m attempting to navigate life using something a good friend taught me recently: “Every person has a story.  If you listen to it, you just might avoid judging them.”  When that doesn’t work, I fall back on Billy Joel’s, “Don’t take any shit from anybody.”  But a bibliography containing only two entries probably isn’t robust enough to get published and entice readers.  I guess if I hope to ever be published, I’ll just have to make it up as I go.

****

*Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950. Print.

**Cain, Susan. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. New York: Crown, 2012. Print.

 

A View From The Top

“I guess it had to happen sometime.  Wait, no it didn’t.  I can’t believe it happened at all.  Can not,” he said, over-emphasizing the tuh in not.  The car slowly pulled away.

“Was she pissed?” G- asked.

“Huh?” he responded, waking from contemplation.

“The old lady you just talked to,” G- clarified.

“Oh, no.  Well, not about her car wash.  That’s the weird thing.  But she called me a pussy,” he said, still working his way back to reality.”

“What?” G- asked.

“Not just me, actually,” he said.

“So what happened?”

“Let me see.  I guess the best place to begin is with the fact that it is supposed to snow tomorrow.  If we start there, the next step is to divide the residents of this city into two groups, for the purpose of this story.  Group one: residents who, today, think, ‘Gee, it’s a great day for a car wash.’  Group two: residents who do not.  Now, G-, you and I are clearly in group two, right?” he asked.

“Right,” G- answered.

“That old lady, on the other hand, is in group one, right?” he asked.

“Yep, she sure is,” G- responded, enjoying the banter.

“Good.  It’s important that we agree,” he began again.  “Anyhow, I’m sure you heard that she had a dog with a pretty ferocious bark.  When I saw the guys signal that her car was ready, I trotted towards it, meeting her along the way.  I was hoping–as usual–to use engaging small talk and piercing eye-contact to distract her from inspecting their work.  So intent on my mission was I, that I forgot my surroundings; forgot them, that is, right up until the dog that was now standing directly at my side let out another very loud bark, unexpectedly.  This startled me, as I think you can imagine.  I mean, quite literally, I jumped at the sound of it.  Then I began laughing at myself and recounting the moment to the old lady.  I told her, ‘Man that scared me.’  All I got back was a look that I couldn’t place.  I ushered her towards her front door, and that’s when she stopped and said dryly, ‘I think you all are kinda pussies for being scared of my vicious  dog.'”

“She actually said ‘pussies’?”

“Yep.”

“What’d you say?”

“Before speaking, I looked at her hard, because, remember,” he paused for effect, “she’s in group one.  Then I decided her imbalance wouldn’t likely result in violence, and frankly said, ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I deserve to be called names today.'”

“What did she say back?”

“I could tell that she felt my meaning with her heart, but she didn’t back down much at first.  Then she went on to explore, in a dry, lamenting manner, how it surprised her that her dog could cause such fear in so many people.  I explained that I didn’t mean that I was scared of her dog, but startled nonetheless.  It seemed that maybe I wasn’t the first person to comment on the animal today, and she remained in a state of silent query after my explanation,” he continued.  After a breath, he resumed, “I then tried to clarify that, perhaps, unlike the other people she dealt with earlier, I just don’t like dogs anyhow, nothing against hers.  Admittedly, I couldn’t help myself and added, ‘I don’t understand you people anyhow.  Toting your dogs around in your cars and all that.’  I mean, seriously, G-.  Did I tell you I saw a lady with a litter-box, as in a functioning, full of kitty litter litter-box on the floor beneath the passenger seat in the front of her car earlier today?  Dubble-yoo tee eff?”

“How’d she take that?”

“Judging by her expression, I’d say she was genuinely shocked to discover that there exists a human being whose conclusions differed from her own.”

Laughing, G- responded, “Sounds like a pretty big moment for her.”

“We can only hope that the depth of the experience compensates for the brevity.”

 

 

 

Entitlement

I first heard the term “entitlement nation” somewhere between 2005 and 2008.  I can picture some article hanging on the wall somewhere at work.  Or maybe it was the back page of a magazine at work.  In any case, entitlement was about–so I thought–the general public wanting something for nothing.  As in, people wanting money for not working, people wanting healthcare without paying for it, people wanting to retire without saving for it.  Little did I know how wrong I was.  Perhaps it is more accurate to say little did I know how small a part of entitlement those big social programs were.

Want to know what entitlement is?  Entitlement is driving too close to a semi-truck that kicks up a rock that chips your windshield and believing the semi-truck should pay for the damage.  Entitlement is believing that you should only have to stand in line a certain amount of time at a store.  Entitlement is believing that your food should come out in a timely manner at a precise temperature, and if it doesn’t, the restaurant should pay for the meal.

Learning is defined as a change in behavior based on experience.  Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.

By the time a person is old enough to drive he has heard stories of large trucks kicking up rocks which can chip windshields.  Learning has not occurred when a person drives too close to a large truck.  Learning has occurred when a 16-year old gives a large truck enough space for some other moron to drive too close to it.

By the time a person is old enough to be in a line at a store by himself he has to have seen the correlation between number of items and people and the length of the wait.  Learning has not occurred when this person freaks out or allows his emotional state to change because he just can’t believe he has to wait so long.  Learning has occurred when an impatient person stops shopping during the busiest time of the day.

By the time a person is old enough to be at a restaurant and pay their own way he has to have seen the occasional slip up by the staff.  Learning has not occurred when this person demands their food be free and throws a temper-tantrum.  Learning has occurred when this person pays their bill and never returns to the restaurant *or* returns but has lengthened the expected wait time and lowered the expected temperature of the food.    

Learning is changing.  Insanity is sameness.  Entitlement is sameness.  Entitlement is insanity.

Quit being insane people.

Mommies Are Not Alive

Her new nearly-florescent neon tennis shoes did little to distract him from feeling the sting of what she said next.

“Mommies are not alive,” she purported.

“Mommies are not alive?  I don’t think that’s right H-,” he returned.

“They aren’t alive.   Mommies are not alive,” she said.

“What is a mommy?” he asked, seeking context at the least.

“K- is my mommy,” she answered.

“Hmm.  So you know K- is your mommy, and that she’s alive, but you still maintain that mommies are not alive?”

“Yep, they’re not,” she said.

“Well,” he took a breath, “I hate to break it to you kid, but mommies are very much alive.  Your mommy is alive.  My mommy is alive.  They’re alive,” he lectured dryly.

“Mommies are not alive,” she continued, a perfect stubbornness showing through.  “Skeletons aren’t alive either.”

“Skeletons, eh?” he said.  “Oh!  I get it.  Not mommies, mummies!  Muh-muh mummies are not alive.  You’re trying to say that dead bodies wrapped in tape are not alive, right?  They’re called mummies, muh-meez, not mah-meez.”

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes betraying her brain’s increase in activity.  “Bodies wrapped in,” she paused, “in tape,” she finished, her nodding head and squinting eyes calling out his inaccuracy.  “Mommies-”

“Muh H-,” he corrected,  “muh-meez.  Mummies are not alive.”

“Mah-”

“Muh-”

‘Mah-”

“Muh-meez H-,” he said, feeling his patience about to buckle. “Forget it.  Can you say reanimated?”

“Re-ami-nated?” she asked.

“Re-ani-mated,” he repeated.

“Reanimated,” she said.

“Good.  Now say ‘mummies are reanimated, but mommies are alive.'”

“Mommies are reanimated, but mommies are alive.”

“Perfect.”

The Last Transmission

“This is the last transmission we received sir,” General Moberly informed the President.

“Play it.”

Click

“I feel so immature, but if you must know, my last thoughts here are of the ending of the most recent War of the Worlds film.  The one with TC.  You know the part I’m talking about, right?  The part when nature does what man couldn’t do.  Yep, that’s what I’m thinking about right now.  It’s kind of funny really.  Three nine-month one-way trips to a distant planet.  Three successful landings.  And we’ve been here for six years, nearly thriving.  All twelve of us.  And now this.

“No, it’s not martians that are going to wipe us out.  No, it’s not bacteria.  No, it’s not a lack of supplies.  What’s killing us is an asteroid that’s arriving in a few minutes.  Of course, it’s not going to hit us directly.  Instead of a nice clean death, we’re being told that we’ll see it, feel the Mars shake beneath our feet, and then within minutes the aftermath of debris and shock-wave will rip apart everything we’ve worked so hard to build.  First, the dust will erode the domes, then our suits, then our skin, and finally our bones.  Apparently the cosmos doesn’t like us humans squatting wherever we damn well please.  Well, I say fuck the cosmos.  Sorry ma.  But whoever’s listening needs to know that everyone here knew the risks and is content with this end.  Don’t stop exploring.  You can’t let this change anything.

“Okay, this is it.  Wow.  It’s so bright.  I didn’t expect it to be for another two-minutes.  I’m sorry for everything!  I don’t want to die!”

Click

“Is that it?” asked the President, “Everyone’s dead?  The base is destroyed?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, then.  It seems to me there’s only one thing to do,” the President continued.

“What’s that sir?”

“We’re going to honor their wishes.  Get me NASA.  And schedule a press conference.  We’re going to Mars.”

“Yes sir!”

Mac ‘n’ Cheese’s Home Date

“How’s your mac’n’cheese H-?”

“It’s far away,” she responded matter of factly.

“Huh?  How’s your mac’n’cheese?”

“It’s far away.  It’s in Townsville,” she said, finally elaborating.

“Wait what?” he asked, shaking his head.  More curious than ever to discover where this would lead he again asked, “How’s your mac’n’cheese?”

“I told you daddy.  It’s far away.  It’s in Townsville.  On May 10th.  That’s my birthday,” she said, nodding her head while staring at the dish.  Searching eyes exposed her thoughts more than words ever could.  “How can I be more clear?  I think I’m being clear,” she thought.

“Your mac’n’cheese is far away, in Townsville, which is on May 10th?” he asked, attempting for clarification.

“Yep,” she answered, delighted by his demonstration of understanding.

“Oooookay then.”

Sounds of Life

His fingers slid along the front side of the envelope.  He recognized the sender as one capable of bearing no news or bad news.  The fear of bad news might be why he heard his fingers as they slid, a sort of low hiss.  He was near his breaking point.  His body was on full alert.  Finding a slight opening near the seal, he heard the envelope tear as he wondered why anyone would ever buy a letter opener.  He unfolded the pages, hyper-extending the crease with a pop.  Next, the sound of paper against paper filled his ears as his left hand unveiled the second page.

Then, there was no sound.

In that moment, in that void, he did what any good soul does when receiving bad news.  He used the limitless silence to escape.  He filled the silence with questions, with doubts, with denial.  That led to him filling the silence with Lawrence Fishburne’s voice.  “You have to let it all go Neo.  Fear.  Doubt.  Disss-Bee-lief.”  Finally, he filled the void with a smile.  Because the truth was–the truth was that from rock bottom there is only one way out.  Up.

Then, as always, laughter broke the silence.

Why I Write

Actions speak louder than words.  I really want that to be true.  I remain unconvinced.

Growing up in a Southern Baptist church and having a healthy competition in me, I really soaked up the power of the preacher.  I memorized bible verses better than my peers, took pride in reading out loud better, prayed better, and spoke more.  Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk–all in naïve earnestness.  I walked the walk as well.  It wasn’t a fear of hell, but more a genuine wish to show people it wasn’t that difficult to avoid sin as I understood it.

Of course I was sinning all the while (“making mistakes” if you heathens prefer).

Until I graduated from college I had never read for pleasure.  Simply movies for me.  And I was as evangelical about movies triumphing over books as I was about saving souls.  Catch-22 fucked that all up.  I fell in love with reading as quickly and madly as Yossarian fell in love with the chaplain.  After the last word, I literally had the thought, “If this is how good reading can be, I wonder if there are other books like it?”  Obviously, there were.  One of them being Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.  In that gem, there is a part about telling the truth to people vs. using flattery on people, and the point is listeners are awful picky about one while rather forgiving with the other.  Given that I had the gift of gab, I made errors left and right that my listeners had no problem pointing out.  My strong character and integrity-first approach to life seemed to bail me out of most situations when I strayed from the truth in large ways, but I slowly began to realize that writing might be a better outlet for my ideas than talking.  With writing there is proofreading, and re-writing.  As a writer (versus speaker), I have time on my side.  So I started writing.  This was 8 months ago.

There is something more, though.  In the story that I tell myself to make sense of this crazy, crazy world there are some written words which have changed the world.  Specifically, there are books that exposed how someone felt about life.  Books that took courage.  Upon publication, the reading public needn’t have said a word.  They simply had to show their support through a purchase.  And then life as we know it changed.  I understand one of these moments to be the release of The Feminine Mystique.  Within its pages, a woman wrote about an unnamed problem, that being women feeling unsatisfied as housewives, and it soon became clear she was right.  I am shocked every time I contemplate that women back then could have been too ashamed to admit to each other how they were feeling about life.  At the same time I am so hopeful.  Consider what life might be like if enough of us shared ourselves via the written word.  Maybe we could start doing this life we’re given better.

And so that is why I talk, and that is why I write.  No one should have to live in shame.  No one should be hiding behind social graces.  For whatever reason I don’t mind if others find out I was wrong or stupid.  It’s kind of exciting to me when it happens, as it is so rare.

In sum, I write first to reduce shame, second to reduce mistakes that happen when talking, and lastly, I write because people who read what I write tell me I write well and I am compelled to believe them.

Now you know.

Error In Yesterday’s Captain’s Log

Yesterday’s post, “White Hot Flame”, contained a copy of a back-and-forth between a fellow student and myself.  The trouble, however, is that there was a typo.  Where I wrote “Hey S-“, it should’ve simply read, “To Anyone Who Feels Like Reading At The Moment:”

Now, you might be wondering, “What’s the difference?”  Well, I’m exceedingly happy to share the answer, the difference, with you here.  

If I wrote that post to “S-“, who, like you and I, is a real live person struggling to find her way in this crazy, crazy world, it would have been an attack on her character.  It would’ve have been an immature, undignified, and disrespectful personal attack.  And I don’t do that.  At least, I don’t do that to strangers.  For someone to get me to deliberately and proudly sacrifice my character in an effort to attack theirs, well, that requires a special bond.  To be specific, that requires the bond that only family can form.    

But if the post was written “To Anyone Who Feels Like Reading At The Moment”, then it reveals itself for what it really was.  It was a rant.  And I’m allowed a rant.  

See the difference?

So, a stranger wrote something that pissed me off, and I had a lot I wanted to say about it.  Because I write a lot these days–because it was late and I didn’t have anyone to talk with about it–I wrote (typed up) what I had to say, and was quite pleased with how it turned out.  So pleased in fact, that I wanted people to read it.  I wrote something, and I wanted people to read it.  At this point, no error has been committed–no attack.  Posting what I wrote to the class discussion board, with S- as the addressee, is the mistake.  That’s the moment my words transformed from “rant” to “attack”.  I see that now.

Some of you who don’t know me personally might think this is all bullshit.  That I’m backpedaling.  You’d be mistaken.  Just ask the people that do know me.  To a man, they’ll confirm that my one true goal in life is to get you to love me as much as I love me.  They’ll confirm that for a while I nurtured the goal by hoping that my smile would be enough to do the trick.  When that didn’t work, I focused on my body.  When that failed, I tried my voice.  That I write to you now illustrates that while I’m 0-3 in my quest, I am not giving up.  

Did I want S- to read my post?   Yes.  Because at least then I knew I had one reader.  Did I want to attack S-?  No.

So here I am, again writing.  I’m exploring the feeling of remorse.  Some of you might recognize these words as an apology.  I can buy that.  But for me, there is something more going on here.  For me, this was a breakthrough.  For me, this was growth.

Thanks Ma.

And thank You.

The only way to get there is together.

The Small Things

“Can you turn off the car daddy?” she asked.

“Oh.  Yes I can.  Thanks for asking,” he responded.  “Looking to get into the house, eh?  Sorry, I just was enjoying the song.  Here we go.”

Racing to the door, she called out her victory upon touching the glass.  He proceeded towards her, fanning out the three keys necessary to enter the house.

“Daddy, can you turn on the light?”

“You can do it H-.  You’ve done it for over a year now.  Just reach for it.”

They each began to remove their jackets and begin their respective rituals.  Stopping his, he realized he hadn’t hugged her yet today.

“H-,” he called, squatting down low, “what haven’t we done today?”

Only just a little, she bent her knees, unsure if mirroring him was necessary.  Then it hit her.

“Hugged!”

Walking briskly towards him, her head mechanically assumed the cocked-right position as she opened her arms.  They embraced.  He stood, lifting her into the air.  She let her legs hang.

Upon putting her down, she immediately beckoned, “Pick me up daddy!”  He complied.  This time, she was intent on staying and said so.

He hadn’t seen her for days, and wanted to be sure she knew the meaning of a hug.  Taking a moment to get the lesson right in his head, that a hug is a way to say “I love you” without words, he was interrupted by her.

Pointing towards the counter, she said, “My phone!”