“I Was Probably Annoying” and Other Things I Think Way More At 20 Than I Did At 15
I came across a post on Tumblr the other week. “This is going to sound like such a little sibling ass take,” it said, “but I genuinely believe that being a little bit annoying is actually a greater sign of maturity and self awareness than being universally likeable and on good terms with everyone.” It’s still not something I think I fully understand yet. I spent most of my childhood being The One In The Middle. I never started the arguments between friends, I just listened to them. I never split groups of friends in two, I just chose which side I’d end up on. I never had the first opinion on a subject, I just chose whichever was the nicest. And all I wanted was to be nice. A nice person, yes, but nice as in pleasant. Peaceful. Unparticipating in actions or events that would warrant being viewed as anything less than a good person. It was, and still is, one of the things I’m most concerned with when it comes to interpersonal relationships.
“I Guess That’s a Good Point”
Conceding to others’ opinions where it really does not matter. I care so much about how my interests, speech, hobbies, and stories make me look. I care about being liked, yes, but more than that — I need to be agreeable. I need to have a nuanced opinion that every individual I spend time around can understand. I need to never be disagreed with. I need to be palatable. Tasteful. Right.
I do this especially when talking about Star Wars. I’m a terrible critic; I could watch a shit movie and my only takeaway would still be “I just experienced the act of watching a movie which is a fun activity I enjoy”. There is not a single piece of Star Wars content I truly and honestly dislike. And the group of people I meet with are wonderful, but stronger critics. Therefore, I find myself cutting corners on my actual opinions in order to be likeable and agreeable to the conversation.
Now, part of this is about being likeable specifically to men. I am sure of that. I think a lot of women are no strangers to this sensation. A need to not be the black sheep. A need to communicate, “Look, I am like you. I fit in,” by agreeing that The Rise Of Skywalker was a nightmarish ending to a magnificent film saga. (It really wasn’t. It was a pleasure to watch in theaters and the first twenty minutes of the film blows all eight of the other films’ intros out of the water.)
I leave some meetings going, “I don’t know if I really meant that in that way.” I don’t need to be doing that. It’s Star Wars. Who cares? It’s all for fun.
“Oh, It’s Just a… Thing I’ve Been Working On”
Now, I can talk about my graphic design work until the end of time; it’s what I’ve been taught to do as a student, but it’s also my profession. It’s easier to put distance between me and my work. Because drawing and writing are my hobbies, I get more embarrassed. The distance is a lot smaller, and that work a lot more personal.
So how do you share your hobbies while minimizing the embarrassment? You post them on social media.
The impersonality of the Internet is the appeal, I think. Casting your net out to an audience who may or may not read what you say is easier than a focused, face-to-face conversation. There’s deniability. The usernames who view your Instagram story or follow your account are virtually faceless, so I think it’s easier to distance yourself from actually feeling like someone is listening. Easier to not think about what they think.
I could talk for hours over text about The Operatives. It’s a narrative I’ve been developing for three years about a group of first responders and mercenaries whose world focuses on the advancement/culture around cybernetics. But in person, I’ll probably clam up and cut it off with something to the effect of, “…but, yeah, it’s just a thing I like to do.” I have written tens of thousands of words for a broad swath of individual stories within the world. It was the reason I decided I wanted to learn, actually learn, how to draw; I wanted to see my characters, not just write them. When shared online, I used to pair them with humor because I felt like something so amateur and ugly (novice drawings made by an 18 year old which, in my mind, was too old to be eating shit at art) needed to be justified by something enjoyable and funny (a textpost screenshot that I found online). I still do this when sharing songs I like. “What’s a funny Tumblr post I can share to offset the worry that someone will think I’m a loser because I like this weird electronic song?”
You know, someone. As in, the several people I went to high school/college with. People who either a) do not know me particularly well enough to do any serious judging, or b) people who know me and love me as I am. That someone.
The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
I scuffed a small section of my mom’s front car bumper in a parking garage the other week and cried about it the whole way home. I worry about the everyday dangers my friends and family might encounter on the street when I’m not with them. I have been an anxious-natured person for as long as I can remember. But I never worried like this before — and though it never consumes me and I’m still also a very happy person, I have never been more concerned with what-ifs than now, at nearly twenty-one years old. At the front of them is usually: Was that too much? Am I too much?
Like I’ve said before, it is human to care about what others think of us. That need for connection is human and impossible to take away. Despite being more concerned with petty worries than ever before, I’m also more excited to be alive than ever before. I’m happy to be getting older. I’m happy to be meeting new people. I’m happy to be having conversations. I suppose it makes sense; being kind to yourself and your future also means being aware of the parts of it that will not be kind in return.
I’m not the same person I was when I made up The Operatives, or when I started drawing, or when I first became interested in Star Wars. I have more opinions on everything and I’m happy to voice them, I am an active participant in the clothes that I buy and wear, and I have never written more in the first 17 years in my life than I have in the last four. However, experiencing becoming, as Kurt Vonnegut called it, also comes with the territory of Experiencing Cringe. Never in my life have I thought so frequently that What I Just Said Was Probably Stupid. I skirt around talking at length about my bigger interests face-to-face because the words never come out right. As much as I would like to disavow cringe culture entirely, I don’t know if I can yet. I care so much what other people think of me. But gradually, I have been getting better at thinking: I want to be loved like a person, not like a dog.
I suppose this is part of the becoming.
I’m only 20 for two more days. Soon, I’ll be able to talk at-length and in-depth about The Operatives in all its rewrites and iterations. I’ll explain all my favorite things about every Star Wars media without ever considering what the listener likes and thinks. I’ll share my writing — not just the revised poems and completed Medium editorials — with everyone, regardless of the arbitrary amount I’ve equated to little they will care or how much they will think I’m annoying. I’ll tell people about the edits I’ve made since I was a kid, for all the TV shows and movies I like (I put it on my portfolio under a Personal Projects tab, so that’s a start). I will be someone more concerned with being passionate rather than annoying. I will not be looking for reasons to justify what makes me happy.
I hope that all of this, too, will be part of my becoming.
Here’s to 21.
