I talk a lot about apathy and try to hang it on masculine expectations of emotional detachment or the shallowness of digital communication or whatever else. But the truth is that "cool" and "detached" are synonyms and have been for decades. I can't attribute it solely to Dartmouth culture or Greek culture, and I can't pretend it's part of a strictly post-Internet age. It's something larger than that a cultural erosion of sincerity.
Advertising used to make a friendly appeal to the everyman, taking the average person's desire for convention and conformity for granted and attempting to seriously convince Americans that a certain product is what they need for comfort, convenience or status. No more now it's all about the absurd, the ironic and the sarcastic, like that almost avant-garde Burger King dude or that whole "Taste the Rainbow" series of acid trips that Skittles calls commercials.
Popular television depicting "everyday" people has gone from a reflection of the fantasy ideal, to the hyperbolic sitcom, to the so-shallow-it's-a-parody of reality TV which makes it almost impossible to take ourselves seriously as members of the human race. Sincerity is so pass in our post-post-modern, ironic age. If you're sincere, you become the butt of the joke. I remember experiencing that revelation when I was seven years old, in a moment that is distinctly crystallized in my memory as "the moment I decided to be funny."
I was in my neighbor Maureen's backyard where all the neighborhood kids were playing, including our older brothers and their friends. I was a second grader and the important boy in my memory was a fourth grader, an age of enviable wisdom and power. I was in awe. I wanted so badly for my brother and his friends to like me, especially the boy who was a whole grade older than my brother.
Well, on this particular day the fourth grader (his name was David) made a joke at my expense. I remember all the boys laughed. The joke was a comeback to something I had said, probably involving the royal flush of insults, "I know you are but what am I?" I felt crushed how could he have so swiftly shut me down? It was so quick, so cutting that he couldn't have planned it.
At that moment I had an epiphany. I resolved to pay attention to what people said. I knew that my mind was quick when it came to learning complex concepts like multiplication (which I learned off the American Roadhouse children's menu, shoutout ATL), so why couldn't I train it to be quick at comebacks? That was power. Using other people's words against them for humor. The surprise and charm of real wit was irresistible, especially as I was new in town and had already found myself being embarrassed at my new school in Newnan, Ga., after not understanding what "fixing to leave" meant.
Maybe having thick skin and laughing it off, or better yet, being funny myself, was a way to avoid that awful hot feeling of not knowing what to say. The key to security.
And so it was and is and will always be. I learned quickly and now it comes so naturally to me to be funny that I would never know it was a choice I made if that moment didn't stick out in my memory for some reason.
Though it's an easy form of detachment, I don't consider myself an emotionally stunted person and I don't think most people at Dartmouth really are to any critical extent. But we all have our shields of choice, and the age of irony is so dominant that even when we want to, it's hard to do away with all the walls.
For instance, I can write this in The Mirror, but could I tell that story to just anyone's face? Probably not. Well, maybe, but only because I left out the part where I cried.
I can console myself about being a horrible friend and a failure of a human who always forgets to blitz people back (True Life: I use Web Blitz) by pretending it just isn't real, when I could never look someone in the face who is talking to me and just blow them off with no response.
I might have an extensive wine-tipsy conversation with you in Panarchy about poetry or wish you a happy birthday on Facebook, but don't expect a hello in Collis because I am socially crippled (PC?) when it comes to face-to-face small talk. You can thank David for that.
If you're wondering, David is a Marine tank commander now. You probably weren't wondering. But whoever said bullies don't contribute to society is a coddler. Without bullies, there wouldn't be comedians.
