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I Don't Care What You Think Like the scabs on my legs that I'd pick at distractedly when I was a little geekgrrl, I tend to seek out new ways to test my own level of emotional (in)security. When I try to remember my more awkward self-effacing efforts to please other people in ord er to be liked and accepted, what I recall flows through me haphazardly, as warped and distended as it was when I experienced it initially. More often than not, I let it ride, surprised at my own objectivity, or at the very least, my willingness to be can did with myself. It was during one of these herky-jerk remembrances of things past that I had an epiphany: I don't care. I remember it like it was yesterday. It happened in the midst of a heated argument with my father. He had made a special trip from Atlanta, Ga to New York City to see me for what he described as a Presidential Fireside Chat at my Aunt Rosalie's house in Brooklyn. I knew what that meant: h e was going to talk, and I was going to listen. I was young and intelligent with real ambition and a fairly positive outlook, but as far as he was concerned, I was an old maid and a probable dyke in the making. (I was pushing 30 and dateless, so he drew h is own conclusions). He was convinced that I was wasting my life with my artistic pursuits. I was always flying by the seat of my pants-temping here and there, never keeping a day job for more than a year, no insurance, no stability. All of it pretty much bounced right off of me until he said: "You've accomplished nothing since you've been here." IÆd worked like a dog to finish my last year of school and to graduate, written, developed, and perfored a one person at PS (Performance Space) 122, played in two bands that had gigs regularly, including opening for Congo Norvell, putting out a CD on a trendy indie label, gone on a 6 month bus and truck national tour, done piles of studio work, performance art, theater, freelance writing and all kinds of flotsam and jetsam, and yet I'd done nothing? Some small part of me came there looking for his approval. I just had my 5th callback for the musical RENT for their 1st national tour, and I thought he'd soften up if I shared that with him, but in retrospect it would only have added more fuel to the fire. He wanted me to get a decent hairdo, a decent job, a decent guy. Well, what if I never did those things? Would I be a modern-day Sisyphus, destined to fail in my relationship with him right as I thought I was about to succeed? Suddenly, I could feel the boulder slipping from my hands and falling over a great precipice, and somewhere in me I turned around and watched it as it sank into the dark recesses of my imaginings and disappeared. It was then that I took a whirlwind zip through a childhood memory that completely paralleled the present scenario at the kitchen table. Back then, I was a hopeless bookworm of a geek (and basically, I still am), aggressive in classroom/learning situat ions but unspeakably shy, with ugly glasses, homemade clothes, a permanent bad hair situation and a love of athletics. I wanted so desperately to be liked, and because of that need I was quite literally at the mercy of the ones whose approval I craved. I was under their control. And they knew it. That's when I had the epiphany. As an adult, I forgave each one of those children and forgot all about their antics, but as I sat there across the table from him, I realized that in the past I had allowed my father (and my mother) to manipulate me in the same way that those mean kids had. This time, however, none of it phased me. That boulder I had shouldered through much of my young adulthood had disappeared some time ago, but I hadn't realized it. Now here he was, laying out the bait, but I wasn't b iting. What happened? Love happened. I love(d) myself. When I grew to love and accept myself completely, (even the stuff I hated) suddenly, I didn't need anyone else's approval. Being my (boy)friend didn't mean having to shoulder the weight of my insecurities. I didn't feel the need to justify everything I said and did, or prove anything, or be what I wasn't, or dress to impress, or try too hard when I met someone. Beyond what is commonly considered to be polite behavior, I didn't feel the need to "try" at all. Why should I? I've wasted enough time insisti ng on having the wrong people in my life because I wanted them there. I don't want to waste anymore. I didn't put up with any crap, either, from anyone. Suddenly, I wasn't a doormat any longer. Everyone was put on notice. Saucy bank tellers. Mouthy sibli ngs. The guys I dated. Treat me with respect, or get dropkicked to the curb. Don't get me wrong ù I love my parents. (We're pals now.) On a certain level, I love everybody. But how I feel about myself is no longer dictated by how they feel about me. As far as I'm concerned, God loves me and I love me, and it simply doesn't matt er if anyone else does. Oh, and by the way, I got the part!
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[Snarl! of the month] [I Don't Care What You Think] |
