Ninth Day

As I embark upon my twenty-second year in this life, I've found it necessary to reflect and record, in public forum, what I've learned these past two decades and change.

A psychic told me recently that these past few years for me have been disappointing, to say the least, and she was right. A psychic seems ridiculous to most, including me, but sometimes validity rings in the strangest and most unexpected of places. Her words held a lot of weight; it seemed as though since I went to college, every year, particularly every summer, I thought I had bottomed out. Then miraculously, the next summer, I'd top myself with a new low. The problems wavered between lack of maturity and unfortunate circumstance, until they blossomed this summer into a jumblefuck of problems I ruminate upon to a severely unhealthy extent.

It's amazing how people treat you on the street. They assume they know everything about you from your expression, or what you're wearing that day, when nobody has any idea about anybody at all. I often fare a lost blank gaze and twirl a strand of my hair nervously while I'm doing anything in public, and a good percent of the time my iPod earbuds are properly stuffed into my ears. The isolated feeling this can produce, whether sitting on the subway or drifting through a sidewalk crowd, such a strange rush: how is it that I can transcend all of these people, who were born just like me and will die just like me, who experience the entire gamut of emotion as I do? How can we all be so separate?

The problem is, as I said, most people assume they know everything about you. They slowly tear away at the cocoon you've so diligently woven and make comments, or perhaps look at you a certain way, and it feels violating. The comments I get most, and they occur every day, have to do with my looks. This may smack of hubris right now, because the comments are all positive on a superficial level. The problem lies in the fact that being called "pretty" or, worst of all, "beautiful", invokes for me such internal conflict. To be beautiful is a quality that radiates from the inside out, and is not dictated by bone structure or hairstyle or make-up. It is something I notice usually in somebody's gaze, a kind of warm electricity that indicates a certain peace of mind. There are so many tragically pretty girls out there with vapid eyes.

For the general public to praise and encourage this empty beauty on a daily basis makes so much seem hopeless. It generalizes us, it limits us, it forces that which is indefinable into strict definitions. She is pretty, she is not, she is therefore virtuous, she is not. And once these terms have been set, she of the "pretty" persuasion violates a strong social doctrine if she feels or demonstrates any sort of negative emotion. It is a grand desecration of such strong social codes, perhaps even more profane than being considered "homely". How dare she be so proud and ungrateful? The fact that I have experienced more ups and downs than I can manage sanely is inconsequential; it is not a valid human condition because you are sexually appealing. And just as you are unique in your empty beauty you are also disposable, your existence more transient than most others, because I will always look for that which has a more defined bone structure, or prettier face, or better figure, or nicer hairstyle. There will always be somebody out there like that, and once I find them, they will negate you.

I find this mentality objectifying and I feel it all too often.

The problem is that general thought is based on assumption. For example, I was waiting on a table of two businessmen today. I am new to this job but adept and pleasant enough; so far I haven't screwed up anyone's orders, and right now that's all I can ask for. Anyway, as we built up a conversation one person asked where I was from. When I told him, he replied, "Oh! I thought you were from Kansas or something!" Why, because New Yorkers just can't be nice? It's funny, because I have some friends from a town called Manhattan, Kansas, and I found the parallel amusing.

Perhaps the overarching problem that has affected my life, particularly this summer, is generalizing. It's easy to do so when you see hundreds, if not thousands, of people everyday go about their lives. Each of their conditions seem invalid, and we label them: suits, bums, drug addicts, trophy wives, dumb blondes, pretty girls, etc. By labeling we automatically disqualify their authentic human condition, the large and small triumphs and tragedies they've each experienced.

When you are recognized as an individual in this crazy city, however, it's probably the most beautiful feeling you can experience. This summer I've especially had my share of troubles: twice I've loved and lost, failed at my goals, disappointed myself several times, and shocked myself by acting in ways I never thought I could. Large tragedies in my mind among six and a half billion. Seemingly insignificant and typical to most. One particular incident tonight, however, expunged all those issues. You see, the bus driver on the crosstown bus tonight recognized me. He had only seen me once before, but as I was returning from the east side, he looked at me and smiled, saying, "Back again?" I stammered a bit and laughed. The bus is always crowded, and the shifts are always changing for bus drivers, so how could he have recognized me? I strode quickly to an empty seat and sat down, a mix of so many things buzzing through my head. The entire ride I was choked up and fought back tears with everything I had. It was just all so incredibly, indescribably bittersweet.

But there you have it. Among hundreds of thousands, you are still an individual whose experiences are just as valid as the next. And what I've learned through my twenty-two years on this earth is that nobody has the right to make you feel typical in any way. We are so beautifully individual, and if we could admire that in one another more often, the world would be much more pleasant. To know that somewhere out there you are recognized, or thought of, or loved, is more than we can ask for; and to recognize, think of, or love, not something we can do enough.