Prospecting

I sometimes have a problem with authenticity. My last boyfriend was Judgey McJudgerson and taught me how to quickly identify a frat boy (plaid shirt and backward ball cap), a Republican (driving an SUV), and a snobby Mormon girl (blonde hair, blue eyes, good grades...oh, wait...), and on top of that he taught me to scorn these undesirables accordingly.

Before him I was largely unaware of this method of hard-line categorization, and I certainly didn't get off on identifying particular species of humans, taking them down with a volley of generalized insults, and coming out the other end feeling oh so superior. Up until that point I had just gone along my merry way and not bothered with any of that. People did their own thing, some were good, some were bad, some were merely irritating. I had better things to do than make snide remarks behind strangers' backs.

Granted, when you grow up in a homogenous society based on a well-defined "in-crowd," it's often easier to just label yourself as Anti Status Quo and be a Hater of All Things than to actually develop a personality. A lot of my friends went that route. Whatever. I do love those guys I hung out with in college, but it now seems the sophomore disaffection hung on a little too long in a few of them, and I wonder if they're going to carry those chips on their shoulders forever. Time to grow up and get over your bad selves already. Bitter ex-Mormonism is soooo 1997.

That said, a bit of the judgemental spirit dug its way into my brain during those years and carved itself a little den from which to snark and snipe at the unsuspecting stereotypes passing by. The knots are loosening, but it'll take some serious undoing before I'm completely free of the inclination toward snap judgements. (In everyone's defense, the human brain is designed to categorize; it helps us quicky distinguish foes from friends and it keeps us safe from potentially dangerous situations. But, on the other hand, we are not the simple-minded hunter/gatherers we used to be, and tolerance of all people (or at least most of them) is a worthy goal. It's the golden ticket of our time.)

So Simon has been talking lately about the possibility of our moving to Chile for a couple of years. His business might need a project manager to open a biotech facility in Santiago, and he'd be one of two people sent down south for the job. El yikes-o.

Do I want to live in Chile? Not particularly. Do I want to be so far away from home so long in a country of people whose language I don't speak? Um, no. But do I want to be able to say at a cocktail party ten years from now, "Oh, back when we were living in Chile..."? Sure, I'll fess up to that.

And this is where I start to feel ashamed. I feel like the guy who buys a fancy sports car just so he can show it off. I feel like the girl who buys purses stamped with name-brand logos for the sole purpose of making sure everyone knows how much she spent. I feel like the high school senior who volunteers at the soup kitchen just so he can put it on his college resume. Man, I hate that guy. (TANGENT: But then again, I don't really care why you're volunteering at the soup kitchen so long as you're there. People are being fed. The community is being served. Since when are volunteer-based organizations so bowled over with help that they can be choosy enough to turn people away, well-intentioned or not? I mean, imagine if there were purity tests for such things. Think of all the tax-write-off deductions that wouldn't be made, all the charity fundraisers that would flop, all the Chinese babies that wouldn't get adopted by Hollywood superstars. Does it matter if Cambodian Infant is the new black, so long as a child has a home and is well cared for [even if it's by a cadre of nannies and personal assistants]? In conclusion, I don't care if you're doing charity work so you can get into Harvard. Just scoop that soup. /TANGENT)

Have you seen The One Where Phoebe Hates PBS? She donates to her local station and in return they send her a thank you in the form of a football phone. Here she was, trying to perform a selfless deed--an act of unadulterated goodwill--and then PBS had to go and screw it up by giving her something in return, thereby cancelling the core of selflessness. This sets her on track to discover if there is indeed a truly selfless act, and of course (of course!) hilarity ensues and Chandler cracks some jokes and Monica's voice gets all scritchy, but the relevant part to my story is that eventually Phoebe gets to the point where she questions if even the warm fuzzies she gets from doing a good deed are a kind of payoff that disqualifies the act as truly selfless.

And wouldn't you know it I had a similar conversation with my ex the time we were gathering book donations for underfunded elementary schools as part of an honor society project in college. When we personally delivered the loot to the schools and let each student pick out his or her very own book to take home, my then-boyfriend got all weird and uncomfortable because he was--gasp!--actually enjoying watching the kids receive their unexpected gifts. When we sat down on the floor to read with them in small groups, some of the kids cuddled up to him and--horror!--thanked him with hugs. THE HUMANITY.

The problem was that he felt like a phony. His overdeveloped sense of charity made him feel guilty that he was getting something out of an experience that was intended to be soley about the children. He questioned his own sincerity and, in turn, the sincerity of everyone involved in the project, and anyone who's ever done service work of any kind ever. In the end, what started out as an attempt to be honorable turned into a carnival of judgement, some of it unfair and most of it unnecessary.

Which brings us back to the beginning--my problem with authenticity. It's not so much that I question my own intentions--about volunteering for a good cause, about donating to the homeless, about moving to Chile--but that I worry others will question my intentions. I've said it before and I'll say it again: If you understand what I'm about and you don't like me, that's fine, but don't hate if you're not informed. That same ex-boyfriend once upon a time thought I was too snobby for him because I had season tickets to the opera. He reasoned that since no one actually likes opera, I must be doing it to show off and fit in with a certain crowd, and that meant I just wasn't the girl for him. Little did he know that I actually like opera, so there. Still, it bothered me to realize that here I was going to the opera for completely legitimate reasons and yet there were people out there who thought I was doing it to cultivate a certain image. Ick ick ick. That's not what I'm about.

What it comes down to, I guess, is that I can't really help what people think about me. Their hunter/gatherer brains will size me up, slap a label on my forehead, and throw me in a drawer with like specimens. This life is too big and my edges are too fine, my details too subtle, to be given the attention of a proper scientist. We are all seives--most of what we encounter merely passes through our consciousness. It is the big, obvious chunks that remain at the end of the day. They make us feel safe and wise, like we know our world.

What's underneath, though, the stuff that we filtered out and almost threw away...that's the soft stuff, the sweet, powdery dust that settles on surfaces and makes them shimmer. That's where we should be looking. That's where you find the real gold.

wrote Leah at 6:40 AM | Comments (6)