So I’m home now. Still freezing, but trying to be industrious.
Mom wanted me to go through some old boxes, and in one of them were my journals from high school and college. Wow, was I an idiot. But I found this essay I wrote for a class on extremity during my Masters program that I ultimately dropped because my professor was nuts. I like it. I think it speaks to much of my personal philosophy on life and how I see things. I’ve been way introspective since I’ve been home–I need to write about that as well, but suffice it, for now, to say that a lot of things have been gelling and falling into place for me, things that people had been telling me but that I refused to believe about myself and about where I am at compared to before.
I’ve grown a lot. And shrunk a lot. But that’s another topic entirely.
So here’s my little essay–tell me what you think, if you’d like, or just let it be food for thought.
Extremity–the outskirts. The farthest away you can go while still being a part of something. Often, when thinking about extremity, I think not of the literal places, but of the more figurative locations in which we try to place ourselves–a culture, a class strata, a group of people. I think extremity is often erroneously thought of as exile, but it’s not in an important way. Though one might be on the outskirts of society, that person is still contained within the whole.
The word extremity brings with it immediate negative connotations–at least it did for me initially. The more I think about it, though, the more I recognize that, in my life, extremity has brought with it beneficial opportunities. The place where inclusiveness is most desperately desired, where it’s almost palpable, is high school. I never really fit in completely with any of the predetermined groups–I was smart, but uninterested in making school the center of my life; I was social, but unwilling to claw my way up the ranks of popularity. Instead of seeing my pseudo-misfit status as a problem, I used my place on the outskirts of each group as an opportunity to make a wide variety of friends from different groups. I chose to situate myself happily on the perimeter–and, because I chose it, it worked for me. Certainly there were times when I felt the somewhat mystical pull of the popular group (and still do, as an interjection), wishing that I could be a part of the inner sanctum that seemed to control everything important in high school–no honest 16-year-old girl would say any different–but the more I stayed on the outskirts, the more I realized that my distance shielded me from a lot of the pressures they felt. I never really felt the crippling peer pressure that often led members of my class to make really stupid decisions. I didn’t feel that a fight with a friend would obliterate me socially. I got all of the benefits of being a part of a large group–great friends, memorable experiences–without losing my perspective. The distance became a blessing, not a curse.
So, to a certain extent, I completely understand the allure of extremity that is present in today’s America. Everyone, it seems, is trying to be different, to separate themselves, to make a mark that’s wholly unique. Even television demonstrates this trend. The airwaves are cluttered with shows that feature ordinary people trying to distinguish themselves in a substantive way–to become the Ultimate Survivor, to be "the one" for the Bachelor/ette, to become the grand champion of one game show or another. Those of us who watch often share their dream, and live vicariously through those who manage to do so in whatever fleeting, 15-minutes-of-fame way.
The irony of that desire is that it’s impossible–our desire to become something or someone unique stems not from a desire to separate ourselves but from a desire to truly be a part of something. My secret dream of being a published author is not so that I can do something revolutionary with the written word–it’s so that I can see my work quite literally become a part of something else, a collection of works on a library shelf. I want to be published so that I can become a part of that enviable and admirable group of writers that I have studied and enjoyed so much. The same is true for the rest of us who, in our private daydreams, believe that we can be the next superstar or the next President. We don’t want to achieve these dreams so that we can be isolated and separate. We want to achieve them because we wish to be wholly embraced by the culture we are trying to differentiate ouselves from. To desire to be different is quintessentially American–and is, therefore, ironically conformist.
The thing I love about America is our great history of being courageous outcasts. Our country was formed and built by men and women who refused to compromise their beliefs in order to accomodate expectations. In the early days of our country, quirkiness and individuality were accepted, even encouraged. One of our greatest American authors, Henry David Thoreau, was applauded for turning his back on American life to go and "live deliberately" at Walden Pond. I wonder if that sort of acceptance still exists. Men who refuse to pay their taxes, call the government a machine, and criticize the foundations of American society now are often casticated (mocked?) in the press or, worse yet, ignored. Would a modern-day Thoreau be able to publish Walden? Or would a publisher instead prefer a cookie-cutter romance novel or a predictable thriller? I fear that the America of today does not honor the uniqueness of its citizens. Tolerance for those who really think, act, and behave differently is sadly lacking. That scares me.
Some of my greatest lessons were learned while I was on the outskirts, born of decisions that required courage and a willingness to go against what was expected or "smart" for me to do. With that distance comes perspective–that’s what Thoreau gained in his time at Walden. He was able to really decide what he believed. I wonder if our culture’s current press for conformity strips us of those opportunities. I wonder what lessons I have lost from making deciisons that allow me to fit in instead of relishing the outskirts.
