Wedding Day Jitters When You're Not Even Getting Married: An Introverted Tale

My brother has done it.  He finally tied the knot.  

For years it’s just been the three singles.  The strangely autonomous children who were all in their thirties and still unwed.  Brother broke the cycle.  

There was a show on television called “Married at First Sight” where a panel of 6 experts match people up.  The matched couple then agrees to get married without having ever seen one another.  They have to stay together as a married couple for at least two months.  After which, they can decide whether to divorce or not.

Sounds like disaster waiting to happen, but alarmingly, the panel of experts has an astonishingly high success rate.  I’m not surprised.  I often think people can see other people better than they can see themselves.  Though I think the real crux of success in this situation is that they force the couple to stay together and make it work for two months first.  All the couples are disappointed and question their choice in the beginning, but by the end of the two months they realize why the experts placed them together and why it works so wonderfully.  This never would have happened in the real world.  In the real world, a first date never would have happened, let alone a two-month courtship. 

The show was successful enough the network opted for a second season.  Each season follows three couples.  When we heard they were doing a second season, I told my sister we should volunteer.  Three siblings, all around 30, unwed, Mormon, one red personality, one yellow, one white, one interested in women, one interested in men, one uninterested…as they say, you can’t write this stuff.  This would make for good television.  Now our chances at 15 minutes of fame and a life-long arranged marriage are shattered.  

I’m happy for him anyway.  Actually…I don’t really care.  It’s his life and his wife.  And, I like most anyone.  So, I’m more along the lines of if he's happy, then I'm happy.

  

The reception was difficult for me though.  I’m an introvert to begin with.  But, compound that with a wedding reception and I crave a hole to crawl into.  I asked my sister if I could go sit in the car.  She said she would allow me 15 minute increments: 15 minutes in the car, 15 out mingling.  I wanted to take her up on this offer, but I knew my mom wouldn’t appreciate it.  I bucked up and took this event as one of the requirements you have to make it through in life.

  

The reception was an ad naseum stream of relatives and friends of my parents whom I haven’t seen in 15 years.  These are people I have positive feelings toward, but not people I have an easy, natural, comfortable relationship with.  Not people I long to reconnect with.  People who cause me anxiety because interaction with them always follows the same pattern: wow!  It’s been so long.  What are you up to?  And where are you living these days?

  

I then feel forced to either divulge details of my lackluster, disappointing accomplishments and my alternative viewpoints and lifestyle, risking my eyes to deteriorating expressions of judgment and alienation…or I have to find a way to seamlessly step around them, which causes stress and its own set of difficulties.  Neither option is particularly pleasing.

This is where the bad taste arises.  As an introvert, these types of interactions syphon my energy.  It’s like the movie Hocus Pocus.  The witches brew a potion and feed it a pretty young girl.  She turns translucent and ethereal.  The witches lean in and suck the vapors of her youthful soul into their lungs.  The witches feel rejuvenated; having been exploited,however, the young girl dies.  It's not that I dislike the people attending the reception, it's that I don't have a way of withholding them from taking my energy, even though they do so unintentionally.  For most people reconnecting is invigorating.  They are happy to see one another and catch up.  For me, it's exhausting.

I know I should return the favor and request information about them and their lives.  However, as I mentioned earlier, I’m not invested in their lives.  With good reason.  I haven’t seen them in 15 years.  Even then, our relationship didn’t extend beyond seeing you speak to my mother, or riding home from school in your carpool van where I quietly sat in the back.

More than that, it feels as though my energy has already been plundered by your own questions.  Once I've finished answering your questions, all I want to do is run away and hoard what little energy I have left.  Therefore, the chance to voluntarily offer up more by catalyzing further conversation is not terribly appealing.

Had it been up to me, I would not have engaged conversation in the first place.  Not because I'm shy, not because I dislike you, but because I'm in an African watering hole situation.  I'm desperate to replenish but the pathway there seems entangled with tricks, traps, and jaws.  I feel awkward, uncomfortable, unsuitable, and terribly drained.  So, the moment conversation begins, my mind is thinking how to escape, not how to stay. 

There are people I can see after years with no contact and we pick up right where we left off.  But, these rare gems are people who know me as me.  This means they have to have known me at some point after I learned to know myself.  AND that I felt comfortable enough with them and the situation to share myself.  Which pretty much negates anything before college. 

When I was in college I remember telling my mother that when I get married the only people that will be there are me, my spouse, and the person marrying us.  She did not care for this.  A strange combination of upset and emotional came over her that manifested itself mostly through becoming defensive.  With the finalizing power of a period, she stated she WILL be there; that it was her right as a mother.  I didn't care much at the time.  The idea of marriage was so far away, plus I figured her persistence would waiver as she was bound to disapprove of whomever I married.

The idea of other people being there seemed superfluous.  I knew my mother would require the punctilio of extended relatives being in attendance, and I didn't want these near-strangers sponging my special day.  Remember that as an introvert other people don't bolster and infuse my experience, they truncate it.  I told her I saw marriage triangular: it was between my, my spouse, and God.  Therefore, only those three were allowed to be present.

As I sat in the front row of the small assemblage gathered together in the attic of Brigham Young's home for my brother's wedding, I felt all the eyes of the people behind me watching them, and I realized I was right.  I don't want the distraction of those eyes at my wedding.  I don't want to be onstage.  All I want is to gaze into my love's eyes and have that connection.  Then I realized, not only was I right, I might also be wrong.  Not only do I want my wedding intimate, I may not want a wedding at all!  

I was supposed to be there supporting, sending positive wishes and loving vibes to the joyous couple being wed.  Instead, I sat there thinking how much this was everything I didn't want.  My mind was warped.  Astonished!  Since my early twenties I've always planned on marriage.  I was so simply sure I wanted it.  Now, sitting in my own brother's wedding, a moment when I should be swept up in nothing but happy emotions, I felt my feelings on marriage crumbling.

I listend to my uncle leading the service.  Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, look unto this man and none other, etc...the list seemed to go on and on.  I've never been a firm fan of marriage vows.  This is because I am slave to accuracy, and I don't believe it possible for anyone to accurately answer the marriage vows affirmatively.  These are worse than crystal ball predictions, they are crystal ball promises.  At least predictions are allowed the grace to be untrue.  No one minds when a prediction doesn't come through, but when a promise is broken, it's catastrophic.

I understand that's the whole point of marriage.  Moving your relationship forward from prediction (I predict we will always be together) to promise (I promise we will always be together) is what elevates the relationship from common to supernal.  However, with promises come expectations.  And, expectations are what lead to disappointment and resentment.  

To say--to promise even!  With 100% surety--that you will always feel, and behave the same way as this one particular moment in time, that you will never change, or that if you do change you will only change in similar and proportionate ways is a beautiful ideal, but completely irrational.  No one can predict the future.  No one knows what will be brought upon them, what they will encounter, and how that will affect them as individuals let alone a couple.  Things change.  People change.  And, to promise that they never will--to build up that expectation--is foolish.  

I believe the best one can do is make the promise, "I want to always love you.  I will do my best to honor, and cherish you.  I will try my best to keep us together."  Phrases that carry the same sentiment, but also the understanding that people are human.  Something that says I'm aiming for the stars, but we may land on Jupiter, and if we do, it will still be worth the ride.  While I believe in always striving to be better, I also believe there has to be an allowance for people to be people.  It is unfair otherwise.  If we don't allow people to be people, then we are really doing a disservice to both us and the other person.

  

Be that as it may, I watched my brother take his wife by the hand and promise everything the crystal ball asked him to.  It felt intrusive.  It felt privy to a private, intimate moment which made us all voyeurs, even if we were invited.  In the background I could hear pots and pans being readied.  One couldn't blame them, they were serving the wedding dinner the instant the ceremony was over.  Yet, somehow, it seemed so disrespectful to the moment.  Here these people were pledging their lives together.  There should have been angels singing, or utter stillness at least.  But, there it was: a reminder that no matter what momentous thing we do with our lives, the world doesn't care.  It doesn't stop.  It rolls over our small, insignificant lives and keeps going.

I consider marriage to arguably be the most intimate of all things.  Marriage is combining.  It's a union.  It's not just sharing a life together, it's a splicing of souls.  I understanding wanting to share your happiness with those you love, but to include others in that--the most personal of moments--seems...indiscreet.  We would never gather a crowd together to watch us consummate the marriage on the wedding night.  That would be inappropriate.  Yet, that involves bodies.  Something held less dear than our inner being.  Whereas, marriage entwines our very cores and, for that, we have no problem allowing an audience. 

I understand sex in a loving marriage transcends the physical and becomes something more.  It becomes making love.  Sex is just a physical action, but making love combines a couple together in way nothing else can.  Even so, when I commit myself to someone, I want to be as far removed from the world as possible. 

I began to have visions in my head.  Standing isolated on the shores of Ireland.  The easy comfort of the rolling green hills on one side, the magnificent, tempestuous power of the ocean on the other.  From the cliffside, we can look down and feel the thrill of the jump below, or look to the ridge and feel the excitement of the climb ahead.  We stand in the middle.  On the threshold.  Holding hands, embracing, looking into each other's eyes.  And, there, we share our commitment.  Without the world, we promise everything we can.  We say what's in our hearts.  We accept the other person as our love, our partner, as the person we choose to be with.  We accept them for everything they can give, and as importantly, everything they can't.  We cherish their presence, their love, our relationship.  This is my marriage.  Sharing our profound and personal moment intimately.  

But, it's not a marriage, you say!  I know, I know.  It's not legal.  There's nothing to say it actually happened.  It's nothing more than Tony and Maria singing "Make of our hand, one hand.  Make of our hearts, one heart."  But, for the first time in my life...I don't mind.  It seems to be enough for me.  Somehow my version of marriage holds more weight than the stock I put into a signed civil certificate.  Of course, I wouldn't mind putting my John Hancock down on a marriage license once we return.  But, people must have married themselves together one way or another before civilization swept in.  Who's to say my exclusive wedding on the edge of glory provides a less official marriage than anyone else's?

Marriage is what you make of it.  And--like a little school girl planning it out in her first diary--I've made mine.  And, I'm delighted :-)   

Why I Think the Fight for Gay Marriage Is Ridiculous

Recently, I've accumulated many articles on relationships as part of a project I'm working on.  I've been reading articles on all types of relationships, but one I came across the other day made me think.  It was titled 10 Reasons Gays Guys are Losing the Ability to Fall in Love.  That sounded horrible!  What could be worse than losing the ability to fall in love?  A ghastly epidemic.  My interest was piqued. 

Truthfully, I only made it through the first reason before my mind took off in its own direction.  The first reason the article listed was "We Get Too Comfortable Too Quickly."  

The article says that by week two of the relationship, the couple is already treating each other like an old married couple rather than letting the passion sizzle.  Essentially, giving me the image of a passion silo where your ability to have a long-term relationship is dependent on how well you ration it out.
  

This made me question.  Is this true?  Love is exciting and wonderful, particularly in the beginning.  Is it wrong to follow your heart when it's feeling that way?  Can peaking too soon burn up all the fuel in your love fire?  Would taking it slower be likely to extend the life of the relationship, or is getting comfortable a quick way of determining whether substance is there or not?

Perhaps it's because I originate from a "when you know, you know--why wait?" culture that--more often than not--has proved that to be true.  But, I don't believe in holding back in a relationship.  I believe in honest, open communication and behavior.  If that means I think about you all the time, I'm going to let you know.  If I enjoy spending time with you, I'm going to try and spend as much time with you as possible.  And, why not?  We are trying to see if we want to spend the rest of our lives together, after all.  

Of course we all know the butterflies will fade.  But, if it's a good partnership, the core structure upholding longevity will still remain.  If a relationship goes from hot and fiery, to old married couple, to over and done in three weeks...then it's not because the couple blew their emotional load the first week.  It's because one (or both) of the partners doesn't have the structure to uphold it.

*Caution: this post is going to contain large generalizations.  I want to acknowledge I'm fully aware there are beautiful, wonderful examples out there and exceptions readily available.  Also, I am only basing this on what I have witnessed.  I have no empirical data to back up my hypotheses.    

In my personal observations (which are multiplied ten fold when taking into account all the stories and examples others have shared with me), the gay population is largely mercurial.  Always on to something new; something shiny; the next best thing.  This is why the gay population (though statistically very small) is such a massive contributor and driving force in pop culture.  Unfortunately, though, relationships are not fickle exempt.

*Note: I am also specifically speaking of gay male culture and not the entire LGBT community.  For whatever reason, these generalizations don't seem to apply as much in the lesbian culture.

I would guess this propensity for the next best thing arises from living on the surface.  People live on the surface when they can't fathom their own emotions.  Living on the surface means living among distractions.  It's a way of self-medicating.  Rather than dealing and learning to live with emotions that seem overwhelming, people shove the emotions in a closet and shut the door before the emotions can fall out again.  To keep their mind off the bowing, burgeoning, mushrooming closet, they go out on the town.  This provides plenty of distractions.  Ooo!  Alcohol.  Ooo!  New clothes.  Ooo!  Pop star's new album is dropping.  Ooo!  Reality television.  Etc.

Not at Home in Homeroom

I have this condition where I don't know I'm nervous.  I'm cool, calm, and collected most of the time--blasé as my friend calls it--so, I don't FEEL nervous.  However, over the years I have learned to RECOGNIZE when I'm nervous.  I can tell when I get nervous because I start to sweat.  My palms go first, my underarms second, and my brain is third.  My brain is actually surprised every time it happens.  "My palms are clammy.  My underarms are hot.  Oh, hey!  I guess I'm nervous!"

Last June my three-piece Italian style suit and I sat in an office.  I was being interviewed for a job.  It was the first time I'd interviewed for a job in 4 years and it was probably the most prestigious job for which I'd ever been interviewed.

It was summery warm.  The office was glass and no bigger than a shoebox.  Small enough that the three of us inside the office (myself and the two interviewing me) had to sit with our knees touching one another.

As they probed me with questions, I began to sweat.  Profusely.  No way to hide it, running down my face, had to wipe it away, somebody hand me a handkerchief perspiring.  Which was mortifying.  Which only made the situation worse.

I thought the job was no big deal.  I thought I didn't really care about it.  If this job didn't pan out, another one would.  It wasn't until I was walking away in my damp dress shirt, dejected with disaster, I realized I must have wanted it much more than I thought.

I bring this up because--looking back--I realize high school must have been one never-ending, anxiety-filled mess.  I didn't feel like a mess.  I felt quite put together.  Academically, I excelled--and if the bullies were seeking scapegoats they never checked the black box theatre.  But, I've never been very good socially.  And high school is a social pressure cooker.  One period of gym and 7 more periods working out your nerves.  

In summer I would blame it on the heat.  In winter I'd blame it on the fleece.  I even wondered if it was happening to everyone else and I just didn't know it.  Being the certifiably dry (humor and otherwise), self-assured person I am now, I realize that wasn't the case.  I even resorted to wearing underarm pads at one point.  It was that severe.

I remember one evening I was hanging out with my friends Marc and Katie.  They were playing the most wonderfully horrible game.  You raise your arms above your head.  Someone pins down your legs while another pins down your arms.  Then, they give you a task to do--name 10 state capitals for instance--while they tickle you nonstop.  The tickling only ceases once the task is accomplished.

It was quite hysterical to watch people loose all mental capabilities and fight their way through the tickling's physical dominance.  Everyone else had done their turn.  They asked me to do it.  I declined.  Not because I was afraid of the tickling; I was afraid of raising my arms.  I knew my armpits were unsuitable for any hand.  The spotty sight of my darkened shirt alone was embarrassing enough to decline.  There was no way I could let people pin my arms above my head and put their hands in there!

They badgered me.  They said everyone else had done it and I wasn't allowed to leave until I had done it too.  I finally finagled them into letting me get something from my car first.  I came back with a thick leather jacket on.  They teased me for trying to cheat the system, pointing out my jacket would dampen the effect of the tickling.  In reality, I was just mortified to have my armpits exposed and knew the leather would cover it.  Even though they teased me for trying to cheat, I was RELIEVED they interpreted my actions that way versus the actual alternative.

Too bad the job interview didn't ask me what my most embarrassing moment was.  I could have just relayed that story.  Given the Niagra spramp happening down my face they probably felt I was already embarrassed enough.  And, they were right.

If you could go back and tell your younger self one thing, what would it be?  Another classic interview question.  I guess that's the thing.  The whole point of this.  I'm proud of the person I've become and the discoveries I've made.  I've become confident and solidified enough in who I am that I don't sweat it anymore.*  And, I wish I could instill some of that in that poor, socially insecure, overweight high school kid who must have internally trembled his way to graduation.

Perhaps that's the reason why we sweat when we get nervous: to counteract the trembling; to keep the chaffing at bay and come away relatively unscathed.

*Except in interviews, or auditions, or on dates

Roll the Dice, Pay the Price

Life is like sitting down to a game of Monopoly.

The board game Monopoly is a micro scale and system. It's all about having your weaknesses exposed, facing your fears, trying times, and progression. There are smaller, day-to-day tasks, and then there are bigger fish to fry.

Of course the looming threat of landing in jail is always there. The chance of winning the lottery always exists. And with every round of the board, we pass Go and collect $200 dollars just as every year we pass birthdays, holidays, and vacations that rejuvenate us.

The money represents self-worth. Everything from property prices to taxes and rent, and everyone from the Hat and the Shoe to the banker is trying to take it away from you. The idea is to not only keep as much as possible but earn as much as possible. How much is in your bank?

The properties around the board--the Oriental Avenues and St. Charles Places--represent life's smaller ordeals. These ordeals fluctuate in color, worth, and impact. Some of these ordeals are more expensive, and thereby, take more of a toll than others. For instance, having food stuck in your teeth might be your $60 Baltic Avenue. Whereas, encounters with snakes might be your $400 Boardwalk.

They are inevitable and uncomfortable. They rattle our nerves and cause us stress and anxiety. But, they are nothing we can't handle. We never know where the dice is going to take us next, but we know the majority of the board is made up of these properties. Therefore, landing on one of them is most likely. And, because we know we can get through them with little to no damage, we mostly move safely through these properties as day-to-day tasks.

That is until we see them being owned by others. Once into the game, we realize we're surrounded by property owners. Those with ownership over life's ordeals. And, where we once flitted unthinkingly now becomes a minefield of insecure steps. We compare ourselves to others and find ourselves lacking. We wish we owned those properties.

Therefore, the strategy of the game is to own as many properties as possible. The more properties you own, the more secure you sit.

The other players in the game--those chasing us around the board, those out to stifle us, debilitate us, drain us, and destroy us so they can win--will try and own the property first. The other players represent life's bigger ordeals: financial ruin, lack of acceptance, loneliness, failure, insecurity, dying, etc. When one of these other players lands on a space you own, they owe you rent.

When you are self-assured, you own your space. When another player like loneliness then comes knocking on your door, you can take his power by charging him rent. The more rent you accumulate, the more you can gird your property. You may already own the space, but now you can fortify and protect it by building houses and hotels. Houses and hotels only increase the price of rent. The more rent a player has to pay, the weaker they become and the stronger you become. Until, finally, you have all their money and you own the other player as well. You have drained loneliness of all his power. He is no longer a player in the game.

However, if loneliness beats you there and owns the property first, the opposite will happen. It is not impossible, but regaining control of loneliness' property will be a tough uphill battle. It is always a race to see which side will edge the other out.

When you bankrupt an opponent in Monopoly, all of their assets become yours. Similarly, when you bankrupt a fear in life, you own its power. The power it had to exert over you becomes your power to exert over it. And, it all stems from purchasing those pesky little ordeals in the beginning when you have the chance.

To win the game of life (which is ironic because The Game of Life is an actual game. But, in this analogy I've likened Monopoly unto life) you start by owning the smaller ordeals. When you face an issue head on and overcome it, you own a piece of yourself that you didn't before. It may seem small and insignificant. But, by and by, you become formidable to other opponents the more of yourself you accumulate. You build up the strength and resources you need to take them down.

I'm not saying that Marvin Gardens is going to be life-altering. On a conscious level, you probably won't even notice a difference. But, I don't believe a person can vanquish a fear (no matter how tiny it may be) without filling a crack in their character (no matter how tiny it may be). I believe that somewhere a chink in the armor will be soldered. And, I think fusing one makes it easier to address the next, and the next...and so on, until you are a chain that cannot be broken.

A chain of hotels and houses in every property across the board. A chain having exclusive control. A monopoly.

Capstone to a High School Career: Filling in the Blank Pages

"You Rock!  Have a great summer!" 
"You are so fun to be around!"
"I'm so glad I got to know you!"


These are quotes in my yearbook from my junior year of high school.  Why my junior year, you ask?  Well, I'll tell you. 


When I was a sophomore, I was the only kid whose mom forgot to order a yearbook.  Didn't even know until the last day of school.  Went to pick up my yearbook and was told nobody paid for one.  So, I wandered around the school halls empty handed, watching everyone else excitedly sharing sonnets and penning poetry in each other's end-of-year keepsakes.


Eventually, my drama teacher, Andra Thorne, noticed my lack of participation.  I explained the mishap to her.  She pulled a couple pieces of copy paper from the printer and stapled them together.  On the front she wrote, "Nick Siler's Cool Yearbook :-)"  It was a wonderful act of sentiment.  But a bit too late in the game.  Yearbook signing was pretty much over by that point.  Still, I'm grateful to her.  It was much easier feeding those few blank pages down the paper shredder than it was fitting an entire glossy yearbook.*


My senior year was a different story.  Everything during my senior year felt the need to be momentous.  A farewell "it's been nice knowing you" passage just wouldn't suffice.  It wouldn't accurately fulfill how wonderful my year with these people had been.  And, I am a slave to accuracy.  So, rather than showing up with a pen and winging it the morning of...I spent HOURS typing and addressing individual letters to each person. 


I was still finishing the letters the morning of the last day of school.  And, it took me longer than expected (slave to accuracy).  So, I didn't end up making it to school until 11:00 o'clock.  On the last day of school students vacate the premises as soon as possible.  The halls are mostly desolate by 11:00.  By the time I arrived to deliver my letters, most of the recipients were already gone.  My summer vacation kicked off by looking up addresses in the phone book and mailing out the unclaimed letters. 


"Hey Nick!  Math was the greatest!  Have a great summer!  I'll see you around!" (thanks, Natalie McGuire)


This is what normal people write in yearbooks.  Me--the enigma that I am--I type full page, single-spaced, self-addressed letters.  Aye, yai, yai (shakes head at himself).  What a rare character I am. 


Needless to say, my senior yearbook ended up rather barren as well.


So, that's what I have.  My 11th Grade "So Glad You Were in My Seminary Class!" Yearbook (thanks, Anna Packer).  Which is fine with me.  It's the best of both worlds anyway.  I have all my year-older and year-younger favorites together.  Plus (if I'm being completely honest), I don't really care.  I don't look to the books for guidance now, nor have they shaped me into the person I've become.  So, I think I'd be just fine without them. 


It's interesting, isn't it, how epochal things can seem at the time?  Sometimes, in retrospect, your biggest moments become your biggest questions: why did I spend so much energy; why did I care so much?  Time is the undefeated distancing champion.  And, with distance, comes perspective.  And, with perspective, comes greater knowledge.

Perhaps recognizing this IS the culmination of my high school education…  Maybe high school was all just a set up for me to look back one day and realize sometimes things that seem like a really big deal…in reality…are not.  Perhaps it wasn’t about fractions and decent comma placement.  Maybe those 180 days a year (yes, I even went to school on make-up snow days) were all leading up to this one, all-important life-lesson that I had to Dumbledore on my own!  Perhaps this essay is my final paper, my thesis, my final exam, and today…I passed!  July 10^th, 2014—I, Nicholas Siler, have finally graduated high school!

IT'S WATER!!  Did you hear me, Annie Sullivan?  It has a name!  And, it's name is WATER.


Wouldn't you know it?  I finally graduated high school and there still isn't anyone around to sign my yearbook.  Some things never change ;-)


Epilogue


3 things that struck me going back through the yearbook


1. How many names I don't even recognize.
2. How many people thought we were going to stay in touch.
3. How many girls left me their phone number.  (yeehaw)


Also, Jocelyn Stayner Gibbons (BYU grad and mother of 3), who graduated in the top 5% of our class, left me with this legacy I now pass on to you.


"PEOPLE HAVE THE RIGHT TO WALK AROUND BUTT NAKED"


Words to live by, Jocelyn.  Words to live by.


*This was a joke.  I didn't really shred my yearbook, homemade or otherwise.

The Race to Erase Racism: Witch Hunting in the 21st Century

I have been reading a book lately that indirectly involves discrimination in the subplot.  Two boys are prejudged to be idiotic and simple-minded when they leave their homes upriver and travel to a tavern in the next closest town. They are scoffed at for their ragged clothes and funny accents.  Their clothes change, their accents adapt, they continually prove themselves to be wiser than any other character, and yet, they continue to battle new and differing preconceived notions no matter where they travel.  It’s a harsh introduction to a totem pole society they’ve never known before; no such hierarchy existed in their village.

They speak of the beautiful, isolated naiveté of their home.  Before venturing out, they thought their clothes were nice.  They didn’t know anyone who wore nicer.  They were completely unaware their clothes were rags until they were labeled as such by others.  Their tongue is the common vernacular of their environment.  They’d never known other before.  And it certainly never sounded funny or out of place until they traveled out to a place where their words were laughed at.  When taverners called their reckless behavior foolish they tried to explain there was no need for protection or secrets back home.  It would be an easy task to tell whose resources had suddenly increased should someone in the village take to stealing.  Rather, supplies were more communal: those who had a little more remembering times they had had a little less and had been helped by those who had a little more.

It reminded me of when I was young enough to be colorblind.  Before I’d learned of slavery and civil rights, holocausts, revolutions, liberations, and nine-elevens.  Though I learned of them in respectable ways, reverenced with woe and forbearing repetition, I nevertheless can deny they didn’t implant the discernment of ‘different’ notwithstanding.  Yes, I learned to respect and appreciate differences from these historical lessons, but an inescapable byproduct of equality lessons is learning that inequality existed in the first place.  I’m pleased with an accepting mind.  But, sometimes I still yearn for the childish purity of not recognizing differences at all.  However, since differences do exist and can no longer be denied, it is best to glean from them what we can.  A profound lesson I learned from watching a Where Are They Now recap episode of "Wipe Swap" last night.  LOL!

One of my pet peeves is the way “racist” and “bigot” have replaced “witch” in the finger-pointing hunt for modern-day scapegoats.  I often cringe when I hear these words pop up in articles and media headlines because I find the situations so blown out of proportion and the labels so misplaced.

Without getting into too much psychological mumbo jumbo, human beings organize, assemble, and classify information according to the availability heuristic, i.e., what’s available to us.  What is available to us?  Previous information that we’ve already encountered and categorized. 

We process new information based on old information.  We lump like things together.  When we see a four-legged creature with spots and a long neck, we expect it to be a giraffe.  Why?  Because in our brains, these are the qualities that delineate 'giraffe' from other animals.  We anticipate dogs barking and wagging their tail because all other dogs we’ve met have barked and wagged their tails.  And so on, and so on. 

The availability heuristic is a shortcut: giving first-time attention to every scrap of matter we encounter would be debilitating.  The heuristic allows us to process information quickly so we can move on.  This way we can walk down the trail without having to scrutinize each rock along the way. 

Remember how the School House Rock pronouns video demonstrated the useful timeliness of not having to repeat Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla over and over?  Or how Yelp takes information previously input (comments, reviews, ratings), organizes them, processes them, and then presents them to you in one easy search result so you don’t have to spend all night driving around to different restaurants?  Your brain kind of works the same way. 

Just as you put keywords into a search bar, your senses (see, hear, smell, taste, touch) send key information to your brain and your brain replies with the top results.  For example: Ears to the brain—I’m hearing a loud, rushing, whooshing sound coming from overhead.  Brain computes—there must be a plane flying over you in the sky.  Brain to eyes—check if there is a plane flying overhead in the sky.  Eyes to brain—yes, we see a plane flying overhead in the sky.  Brain confirmed, mind at ease.  Unless it’s something really bizarre we’ve never encountered in all our years of sensory collection, these computations are so habitual they happen instantaneously and unconsciously.

Key sights (four-legged), key sounds (barking noise), key touches (hairy or furry)—any key information your senses provide to your brain are processed instantaneously and unconsciously (it’s a dog) because they are homespun from common consistencies (dogs are commonly four-legged, hairy, barking creatures).  And, common consistencies translate to people as easy as anything else. 

I’m originally from Utah.  When people learn I’m from Utah the first question they ask is, “Are you Mormon?”  This is a prejudiced question.  It’s prejudging based on what people know of Utah.  It doesn’t bother me.  I smile and answer.  This doesn’t cause headlines or social media outpour because the prejudice is based on fact.  It’s prejudiced, but logical.  Utah has a higher Mormon population than anywhere else in the world.  Therefore, being from Utah, there is a high probability I myself am Mormon. 

People are aware not EVERYONE from Utah will automatically be Mormon.  They are open to the possibility I may say no.  But, they’re also not senseless enough to ignore a correlation.  And, why should they?  Why deny it?  A correlation is a correlation.  It’s there.  It exists.  It exists for a reason: because there is a common consistency.  And, this common consistency helps us group, categorize, and process information.

Today, the sun is shining.  It’s in the habit of rising.  In fact, there is a strong correlation between morning and the sun rising.  It rose yesterday and the day before too. 

When I stop and think about it, I know it will not last forever.  A day will come when the morning arrives and the sun has not risen.  Every night I lay my head down I know there is potential the sun will not come up again.  However, there has never been a day in my life when the sun has failed to rise.  Therefore, I expect the sun to rise again tomorrow.  Because it has risen every day thus far.  I anticipate it despite knowing the potential for a different outcome.  This makes the sun consistent and reliable, it doesn’t make me a sunist.

In the medical world they have a saying: When you hear hoof beats, think of horses, not zebras.  There are reliable reasons stereotypes exist. 

The fact of the matter is lower socioeconomic environments are more likely to have higher drug abuse and crime rates.  I have lived paycheck to paycheck.  I’ve been poor.  I have lived in government housing.  And I know that most of the lower class is good people just trying to get by; put food on the table; make it to another day.  That still doesn’t change statistics. 

“[The poor] suffer higher disease rates, death rates and imprisonment than their affluent brethren. They are imprisoned at much higher rates and they are executed for capital crimes more often than any other group.”--http://www.pubdef.ocgov.com/poverty.htm

Additionally, certain races and ethnicities are more likely to reside in these environments. 

“SES [socioeconomic status] and race and ethnicity are intimately intertwined. Research has shown that race and ethnicity in terms of stratification often determine a person’s socioeconomic status (House & Williams, 2000)…African American children are three times more likely to live in poverty than Caucasian children. American Indian/Alaska Native, Hispanic, Pacific Islander, and Native Hawaiian families are more likely than Caucasian and Asian families to live in poverty (Costello, Keeler, & Angold, 2001; National Center for Education Statistics, 2007).”

When it comes to the workforce, women too make their own bed, so to speak.  Highly educated or not, women are more likely to favor children over jobs. 

“There is little difference in labor market activity by college selectivity among women without children and women who are not married. But the presence of children is associated with far lower labor market activity among married elite graduates. Most women eventually marry and have children, and the net effect is that labor market activity is on average lower…”-- http://www.thefiscaltimes.com/Columns/2013/04/17/Why-Women-Are-Leaving-the-Workforce-in-Record-Numbers

Just as my fellow Utahns and I are more likely to be Mormon, those from poverty stricken areas are more likely to be involved in crime  Minorities are more likely to be from poverty stricken areas.  Women are more likely leave a job.  These are just a few examples of a list that goes on and on, but they are not racial judgments; they’re statistics.  Of course they’re not all encompassing.  Of course they don’t apply to everyone.  But, they do make particular behaviors warranted. 

Should a person bypass a hitchhiker, it doesn’t necessarily make them bigoted; it makes them educated in self-preservation.  A boss wary of handing over a job to a woman may also be schooled in self-preservation.  Business owners have to do what makes the most sense to ensure the business keeps going.  Sometimes a less qualified man actually becomes more qualified simply because he is more likely to stay with the company, which in the long-term outlook is more beneficial.  Are these conundrums of life unfair?  Yes.  Irritating enough to pull hair out?  Yes.  But, are they racist?  Not necessarily.

In order to show true racism a level of unity and equality must first exist.  Imagine putting two identical cups filled with identical clear-looking liquids in front of lemon-lime soda enthusiasts who on a previous questionnaire all disclosed their favorite soda is Sprite.  One cup is labeled Sprite while the other is labeled 7-Up, yet BOTH CUPS contain 7-Up.  The subjects are instructed to sample both sodas and choose which they think tastes best. 

Even though both cups contain the SAME liquid, and NEITHER cup contains Sprite, undoubtedly these enthusiasts will be likely to say the liquid in the cup labeled Sprite tastes better.  This is an example of a truly biased superiority.  Believing Sprite tastes better based purely on name alone.  Unfortunately, creating a similarly empirical environment to assess racism in people is not only difficult, it’s arguably impossible.

How can you obtain equalization between two things that are innately different?  No matter how equally they measure up on paper, women will always have something different than a man.  Despite being the same age, growing up in the same neighborhood, having the same accent or lack thereof, attending all the same schools, taking all the same classes, earning all the same grades, being clean-cut, well-groomed gentlemen in business suits, an African-American male and a Caucasian male will always have one inalterable difference.  The catch-22 is that without the difference racism would have no boundary, and therefore, cease to exist, and with the difference there is no way to accurately assess presence of racism without causation possibly being attributed to extraneous variables.

Suppose a boss interviews the two men mentioned who share all the same credentials but differ in skin color and the boss hires the Caucasian male.  Ultimately, the boss chose the candidate he was most comfortable with.  It’s possible he believes one race to be superior to another.  Maybe he was raised in a predominantly Caucasian area and unconsciously sides with familiarity.  This would make sense.  Tastes in food, entertainment, etc., are all heavily influenced by the nostalgia of childhood.  But--especially in this day and age--it really could come down to a host of other possibilities: an extra smile, an eyebrow raise, maybe the tone of voice, or the speed at which one talks.  There are hundreds of reasons why one was possibly selected over the other. 

Thus, finger pointing and labeling based on one isolated incident is an unwarranted jump to conclusions.  Repetition is needed to establish a common stream of behavior and intent.  When people in heated moments become red-faced, desperate, or fed up they often lash out with one-time words they would not otherwise say.  This doesn't mean they believe it.  Were these words consistently repeated over time and situations, root behavior could be established and labeled.  However, generally people who are upset don't mean what they say and will own up to such once they calm down.  Repetition and intent must be taken into account. 

Knives are the second most common murder weapon in the United States.  Everyday knives are used for heinous purposes.  And yet, knives continue to be used everyday in every kitchen across the country.  What's the difference?  Intent.  

Knives may be a common killing tool, but the majority of this country is actually using knives to butter bread.  Like knives, words have the power to destroy lives.  But, at the end of the day, words are just words.  It is the way in which we use words that matters.  Not every taboo word that slips out is meant to be a swipe at the neck.  As mindless as chopping lettuce, it is possible for such words to surface without malice.

Because it is the intent behind words that matters, it's fairly ridiculous we have outlawed words in the first place.  It's a blind hope that eliminating the word will somehow also eliminate the malicious intent behind it.  But, plucking a leaf off a tree has never succeeded in killing the branch, let alone squashing the trunk.  Meanwhile, we've become so pavlovian trained to hear sirens anytime particular buzz words are used that we've stopped caring who is the real enemy and who is not and have simply started condemning everyone.  This doesn't seem particularly healthy.  

I am aware that racism continues to be a very real and prevalent threat.  However, most often this is not what I’m seeing in the media.  What I see in national coverage is a grain of sand sensationalized into a mountain.  This is why I'm less concerned with what Paula Deen may or may not have said in her kitchen at one point, and more concerned that neighbors having an Easter-egg hunt in Richmond, Virginia found supremacist-planted eggs with notes saying “’Diversity’=White Genocide” and links to “Whitemanmarch.com.”  Censoring the words does not censor the ideology.  The ideology is what I’d like to see expelled.  Not the livelihood of media-selected scapegoats.

Interior Design: Subletting Go and Sprucing the Soul

I’ve always longed to be taller and more narrow. 

 

When we are born we inhabit our body's blueprint much the same as the four-walled structure of a house or office.

 

Like the walls of a room, there are things about my body I can change.  I can fluctuate my weight, I can part my hair differently, I can tan my skin.  But, there is a much longer and concrete list of things I will never be able to change.  Height, for starters. 

 

One of the most important factors in determining a person’s happiness is having a grasp on what is in your control and what is out of it.  A person continually fighting against that which is inalterable will not be happy and will regret such time spent.  Likewise, a person stagnant and unprogressive will be similarly discontent.

 

One of the last classes I took before graduating was biopsychology.  I had an enthusiastic professor who had an extraordinary gift to explain brain functions simply and sensibly.  Day one of our class she testified to the power of the brain.  She spent the rest of the semester proving her words accurate.

 

As a psychologist and an observer, I too cannot deny the power of the brain.  It is astounding what it can do, incredible what it can believe, and phenomenal how differently it can perceive.  When desperate or willful enough, our brain can actually create what we want to see as clearly as a lake miraging in the desert.  Even so--just as I cannot make myself taller--our brain also has its limits.  Eventually, the lake will turn back into a pumpkin.

 

Did you know we are born with an emotional skeleton just as intractable as our physical bones?  A frame from which feelings must hang and a structure beyond which they cannot extend?

   

All too often I see people examining the walls they inhabit, embarrassed and vulnerable to have them bare.  So, they pick up a roller and paint the wall blue.  Two, three coats of paint, if necessary.   

 

“See my wall?” They say.  “It’s blue.”

 

The rest of us are not convinced.  “No,” we conclude.  “Your PAINT is blue.  The wall, however, is only being masked by blue paint.”

 

“The wall is BLUE!” they defend.  “I’ve determined a blue wall is what I want.  It is necessary.  Blue wall is ultimately what I need to be happy.  I have made the wall blue.  The wall will stay blue.”

 

And, sensing how important it is for this wall to be blue, we treat these people as though their wall is blue.  “Hey!  How’s that blue wall?” we say.  And “Good for you for making that wall blue!” we encourage.

                   

Some people even believe it.  “His wall really is blue,” they say.  “He told me so.”  And “I’ve seen it.  In person.  His wall really is blue.”  Another testament to what the power of the brain can see.

 

But, ultimately, the wall has been painted.  Masked.  Coated.  Eventually, there will be a chip.  A crack.  An impression.  Gluey ideas, gummy experiences, and indelible people will stick to the wall and peel strips away when they leave.  And there these marks will stay like scars, shaming the painter.  Until he realizes no one left seems to mind the parts of the bare wall peeking through.  In fact, he doesn’t mind them so much himself.  Those are the parts that make him...him!  The blue may be pretty, but it has been covering his very essence.  And away he’ll rip the paint in large, hurling pieces, relishing in new-found freedom, his wall, at last, finally able to breathe…and be. 

 

I guess I've seen too many fish gasping to be birds to conclude anything other than fish are meant to be fish.

 

Accepting that which cannot change is the greatest service a man can do for himself.  Striving to improve the rest is the greatest building block a man can erect on that foundation.  Figuring out which is which is easier than most make it.