Milk Toast

I once found myself in a delirium of sweat and discomfort while attempting to participate in a yoga class after a many years’ absence. It was during one particularly long stint of “downward facing dog” that I began to consider the possibility that it would be better to quit than to continue in such a ridiculous manner. I felt silly being in a room full of people wearing inordinate amounts of spandex, trying to make my crusty physique bend and stretch in the oddest ways. At the end of class, as in most all yoga classes, we all bowed our heads, hands in prayer posture in front of our torsos, and said aloud “namaste”. This word always gets me musing. What does that mean, “namaste”? Basically, the Hindu translation is something like, “the divine in me, recognizes, or salutes, the divine in you”. I must inquire “really? Am I divine? Do I think you are divine? Does it matter?” It later occurred to me that after recognizing a general trend toward mediocrity in society, I myself had subscribed to the worse of two ways by which to respond to that discovery; That is, rather than seeing the divine in all people, I chose to focus on their “humanness”, and tepidity. It was almost a relief to expose this inadvertent superiority complex, but to correct this thinking proved a harder task still.

“Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men” -St. Matthew 5:13

I remember sitting on my comfortable, pious perch one evening at a party, thinking about the monosodium glutamate in the chips I was “savoring”. I thought of how fun it might be to sprinkle some over the people in the room, to “enhance” their “flavor”. I amused myself with the thought every time somebody said something bland or annoying. After consuming approximately twelve single-serving size portions of the nacho cheese delectable, I noticed that my tongue was numb and I could barely taste anything else for the rest of the evening. In my stupor of self-righteousness it never occurred to me that the kind of over-correction of mediocrity which would make everyone delectable brillianteers, would probably be more disastrous than if everyone were slightly less salty. The notion of treading all over some of the people I meet, I confess, is still an intriguing idea.

“I say, it’s the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I’m a woman phenomenally,

Phenomenal woman, that’s me.”

-Maya Angelou

If I have fought my own gravitation toward blandness, I have often opted to be an ass instead. Assuming, as is the ass’s way, that authorship and exceptionality were phenomena of the majority, I have hopelessly pined for the “days of greatness” or company of the great ones and overlooked just those qualities in many of my acquaintance. We only really read of and learn from those who have endeavored to write, record or convey, which is, in and of itself, an exceptional venture. It doesn’t stand, however, that the bland/flavor balance was any different at any other time throughout history or that the contemporaries of the “phenomenal” were superior to my own. Whereas Maya Angelou could easily be considered exceptional, even if not my favorite author, it was markedly short-sighted of me to have assumed that everything she writes is strictly auto-biographical. Maybe, just maybe, Miss Maya was acknowledging the inherent greatness in all women (and people for that matter). If that line of thought was at all correct, my ass-ism was all the more pronounced. It is, though, a worthy endeavor to ascertain what the draw toward mediocrity or away from exceptionality really is.

“A person’s true character is revealed by what he does when no one is watching”

–Anonymous.

Some of the blandness to which I am referring owes a large part to the ways in which people define themselves. A typical introduction these days often says more about what a person likes, what they have done or where they work: “Hi, my name is Jim. I work at MediaPlex, I have three children and I love reading”. In fact, there is nothing wrong with this, introductions aren’t friendly to personal details or lengthy bios, but it is amusing to contemplate whether anyone takes the time to answer that question to him or herself, and what s/he would say. Mainstream fanaticism has convenient answers for all those unwilling to dig too deep. Careful observation helps many a person figure out how to be accepted and mediocrity preys on the individual who isn’t comfortable being alone. It sits on a person’s shoulder, eating saltine crackers, telling them to “go over and see what everyone else is doing”. It reassures a person that they should be proud of their GAP jeans and their enthusiasm for Disney films-and goes further by telling the person that without them, there wouldn’t be any terribly strong connection with the other people that s/he must be hanging out with. Mass-flocking-gangdom is a social order of gargantuan importance to the luke-warm personality and essential for the none-too-happy-alone types.

When and if the individual suspects a literal gap where name brands and popularity used to be, mediocrity will advance to another level, and induce the individual to ally him/herself with interest groups or clubs, using the allure that they will add depth of character or, at least, purpose. These convenient grouping mechanisms are two-fold. There are some which could add to character and accomplishment, or they can circumscribe the individual into even smaller realms of influence and peerage. Fan clubs, for instance, are the quintessential way to dump one’s individuality and potential into the insatiable gorge of ego and/or abysmal void where all fan mail ends up.

“Lately Doc had been afflicted with a gnawing restlessness, a sense of something unfulfilled”

-John Steinbeck from Cannery Row

It is to complacency that mediocrity will refer the half-developed persons of little distinction. The finders-fee is that complacency will thence deliver the individual to resignation and consignment. But first, it must ensure that the person is comfortable and values that comfort over anything else. Without this assurance, people can sometimes attempt the radical shift from “fat, dumb and happy” to “healthy, creative and invested in life”. Although uncommon, it is precisely this shift which can excite similar feelings of enthusiasm in others, and upset the delicate social ratio of the standard and the extraordinary. The dangerous economic repercussions are obvious, no one would feel engaged enough by the perfunctory demands of their lives to do so much as hold down jobs or make their beds, and society would collapse on itself. Although the end of life as we know it is not necessarily a bad thing, the alternative to it or gross aggregates of innocuous personalities is simply recognition and encouragement.

“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dreams”

-Willy Wonka

The distinction of cognizance bears with it the responsibility of seeing the uniqueness of others and fostering its growth and spread. No one is going to save the world from the vapid-ites who people it, but there are those who are exceptional themselves enough to unearth the latent but beautiful personalities in the most unseemly of persons. For my part, I have to remind myself that there is nothing so exceptional about being judgmental or opinionated, and that if mediocrity is in the eyes of the beholder, it is probably best to don the rose colored glasses and see better.

Namaste!

My Serendipity

Short of floating in a cloud of twinkling glitter and a fairly God mother standing beside me, it was the most ethereal scene I could have dreamed up. But it was real. She was real; the fishnet stockings, the short, jean miniskirt, the magnificent, long, naturally curly hair-all real. It is impossible to think about that day without the most profound feeling of kismet and gratitude.

Leaving school for the long walk home, I bumped into the girl who I had met at a party almost a year earlier but hadn’t since seen. Our eyes met, we regarded one another, and there we stood in our bare, naked souls.

“Hey” she said, “what are you doing?” “I just got out of detention” I replied. “Want to come over to my house and have a coke?” “Sure”. That was it, that was all it took for her and I to know we could trust one another.

Plagued with personality at an age when it was not acceptable, large breasts at an equally conspicuous greenness, and a loudness and appetite for fun fare when it was more fashionable to be a miserable, quiet fit-in. I found it amazing that anyone at all could take exception to her altogether lovely being. I wondered what was so offensive. I could almost hear the thoughts of our peers when I perceived them sneering at her “how dare she laugh so loud, sing in public or speak up in class and not be ashamed of herself” or, “How dare she have her talent and not be more shy about displaying it?” or, my personal favorite “how dare she have such big boobs!”

It was true that she could nothing if she didn’t do it with panache. Her walk was a marriage of swaying and marching. Her comments in class, correct or not, were confident and full of flowery language. Her pastimes, which I can personally avouch for, were hair-brained and off-the-hook, sheer scientific inquiry. Her ambitions lay in theatrics and singing. Of course it was far more permissible to back-bite, cheat, grovel, suck-up, gossip and lie if one did it fashionably, which sadly often meant quietly, than it was to be unique. So with all of her charms, one could add to them a kind of true-ness, integrity, which for all their efforts, our classmates could not touch or take away. I loathed them then, but I pity them now.

When I say we could not have been more different, resist the temptation to say back that opposites attract. We were neither the same nor were we antithetical. I was not the side-kick, she was not the “leader”, but together, we shared a self-sustaining friendship that made Jr. and High School bearable, and freed us of any kind of cliché existence or ordinary experience. For all of the crap that the lesser youth at our school dished out to her, she had the most remarkably forgiving and trusting heart. She truly saw the good in people more than I was able, and I considered that one of my strong points.

If you were to ask me about myself I could share nothing after the age of fourteen that isn’t indelibly touched by my friendship with Aubrey Anne Adams. Hikes, concerts, restaurants, beaches, parties, performances, college, boyfriends, babies-they all bear the watermark of one of the world’s finest people. I cannot suppress a smile even at the slightest thought of her. She is one of the reasons I came to believe in a loving and very personal kind of God.