(no subject)
I have often noted that I'm bad at complaining. I'm good at bitching. I don't mind whining for fun, or when it's not really relevant, or just to get on people's nerves. But I am terrible -- to the point of meekness -- at asserting true, legitimate complaints.
When it comes to things that actually matter, I am not assertive. The closest I can get comes off as seriously passive-agressive. I believe this is because there's always a little doubt in the back of my mind, a thought that says, "This isn't worth complaining about." The question, then, is why do I believe that some things -- serious things -- are outside the jurisdiction of my complaints?
Because some people have it worse. Because, compared to the rest of the world, the drama in my life just doesn't matter. And I want to be a gentleman, don't I? The gentleman lets the little things slide. Everything that happens to me is insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time everything is hugely significant precisely because it is happening to me. But the long view always wins. Better to be stoic about it; no need to be selfish.
This idea of selfishness has been haunting me as long as I can remember. I am forever certain that no one owes me anything, and that doing the slightest favor for me means that I have inconvenienced everyone involved.
I am convinced that, no matter how much I downplay it, my life has been a combination of fantastic luck and extreme privilege. I have been given everything; I have lacked for nothing. In terms of relative advantage, my life almost literally could not be better. Therefore, were I ever to open my mouth, I fully expect to receive a look from anyone within earshot. That look would say, "Who are you to complain?"
Here is an example. It is rather an extreme example, but I am agitated. Tomorrow I am visiting my old high school. An alum who works in the Development Office (that's code for fundraising) has asked to meet with me.
This year is the inaugural year for our school's Chinese program. Since I am good friends with the head of the language department, I was among the first people to whom she floated the idea of Chinese instruction. (She was interested in my feedback, since she knew I was taking Chinese at Chicago.) I was highly enthusiastic about the idea.
Near the beginning of the academic year, or perhaps the end of last year, the program was still up in the air: they weren't sure whether, after all, they would have the money to hire the teacher they wanted. (She's an amazing teacher.) So, since I believed the program would be hugely useful and awesome, I gave them some money.
Now, the guy from the Development Office will certainly ask me for money for next year. I do want to give a little bit, but I certainly do not want to give at the same level as I gave last year. Last year was, as The Onion might put it, a "wild endowment binge." Here's the kicker, though: I will have a hard time saying no. I am deathly afraid that, if I were to indicate my disinclination to give as much this year, the guy would, well, give me a look. That look would say, "Who are you to be so miserly?"
Who am I to complain? Who am I to be so miserly? What right have I to express anything, when, after all, my life has been a fairy-tale from the moment I was born up until the very present? Why not consider others for a change -- aren't they worse-off than I?
Perhaps, at the core, I am embarrassed by my life. The obvious solution, then, is to not draw attention to myself.
Now, in my own inimitable style, I will apologize for subjecting you, dear reader, to this rant. I don't know if it made any sense. Maybe it wasn't for your benefit, though.
When it comes to things that actually matter, I am not assertive. The closest I can get comes off as seriously passive-agressive. I believe this is because there's always a little doubt in the back of my mind, a thought that says, "This isn't worth complaining about." The question, then, is why do I believe that some things -- serious things -- are outside the jurisdiction of my complaints?
Because some people have it worse. Because, compared to the rest of the world, the drama in my life just doesn't matter. And I want to be a gentleman, don't I? The gentleman lets the little things slide. Everything that happens to me is insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time everything is hugely significant precisely because it is happening to me. But the long view always wins. Better to be stoic about it; no need to be selfish.
This idea of selfishness has been haunting me as long as I can remember. I am forever certain that no one owes me anything, and that doing the slightest favor for me means that I have inconvenienced everyone involved.
I am convinced that, no matter how much I downplay it, my life has been a combination of fantastic luck and extreme privilege. I have been given everything; I have lacked for nothing. In terms of relative advantage, my life almost literally could not be better. Therefore, were I ever to open my mouth, I fully expect to receive a look from anyone within earshot. That look would say, "Who are you to complain?"
Here is an example. It is rather an extreme example, but I am agitated. Tomorrow I am visiting my old high school. An alum who works in the Development Office (that's code for fundraising) has asked to meet with me.
This year is the inaugural year for our school's Chinese program. Since I am good friends with the head of the language department, I was among the first people to whom she floated the idea of Chinese instruction. (She was interested in my feedback, since she knew I was taking Chinese at Chicago.) I was highly enthusiastic about the idea.
Near the beginning of the academic year, or perhaps the end of last year, the program was still up in the air: they weren't sure whether, after all, they would have the money to hire the teacher they wanted. (She's an amazing teacher.) So, since I believed the program would be hugely useful and awesome, I gave them some money.
Now, the guy from the Development Office will certainly ask me for money for next year. I do want to give a little bit, but I certainly do not want to give at the same level as I gave last year. Last year was, as The Onion might put it, a "wild endowment binge." Here's the kicker, though: I will have a hard time saying no. I am deathly afraid that, if I were to indicate my disinclination to give as much this year, the guy would, well, give me a look. That look would say, "Who are you to be so miserly?"
Who am I to complain? Who am I to be so miserly? What right have I to express anything, when, after all, my life has been a fairy-tale from the moment I was born up until the very present? Why not consider others for a change -- aren't they worse-off than I?
Perhaps, at the core, I am embarrassed by my life. The obvious solution, then, is to not draw attention to myself.
Now, in my own inimitable style, I will apologize for subjecting you, dear reader, to this rant. I don't know if it made any sense. Maybe it wasn't for your benefit, though.