Origionally published: August 16th, 2004
I wasn't going to go. I didn't really want to go. I felt like being there would somehow be betraying my friends and family. Like going to the movie you told a friend earlier in the day you didn't want to see.
So as I was clapping and cheering for numerous of my friends as they received their diplomas from President Sloan last Saturday, I did my best to yell in such way that wouldn't get me noticed. Its kind of contrary to the whole purpose of yelling, I guess. But we tend to suspend logic in situations where it isn't welcome.
I was able to avoid any real pangs of guilt until I perused the Commencement Program and discovered my name.
Elizabeth Anne Goble
Neil Edward Golemo
Miguel Gonzalez
I recently had a conversation with a dear friend. She felt the need to inform me of how "hard it is to be your friend".
Apparently, and I'm doing my best to recreate words she used, it is hard to be friends with me because I'm perfect. I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm well-read. I have high moral standards. I'm devoted to my family. I love children. I laugh at everything. I'm in a good place with the Lord but not complacent. I can sing. I'm an excellent cook. I'm courteous and romantic. I have a "way of making myself the center of attention". I'm "one of the most confident people" she's ever met.
And supposedly all of these things make me perfect, thus intimidating.
What in the hell?
Immediately I questioned how well this girl could have ever felt she knew me if she could honestly think of me as "perfect". I don't see how she could have a conversation with me and not take note of my arrogance. I'm not perfect. I'm nothing if not completely and utterly flawed.
I found myself growing angry with her. I'm nothing. If I have any worth its because of blessings given to me by the Lord. I know this. Obviously, she has not the audience with my thoughts that I enjoy. But she should know me better than that. I don't really trust many people, but I had trusted her. I'd been honest with her. How dare she think me superior to her. Its flagrant misuse of the word "perfect" that degrades the word and superlatives as a whole. Damn, I was mad.
I'm nothing special. I'm just a pudgy, socially deft yet relationally inept connoisseur of Chicago area baseball clubs trying to find my christian way through the media-driven wasteland that is our world.
Wait.
Do I really believe that? Do I really think that I'm not special? Don't we all truly believe that we, alone, are the center of the universe? We've all entertained the thought from time to time that maybe this life is, quite literally, a dream from which we could wake up at any moment. Who hasn't watched The Truman Show and not wondered "what if our reality was merely someone else's media? How real is our world?
Or in the Christian identity sense, don't we all have a personal relationship with Christ? Is it not the idea of a Lord that knows every hair on my head that comforts us like a warm quilt? The idea that I am in possession of some trait(s) that sets me apart from every other soul existing, existed, or yet to exist makes me feel, well, special.
So as I was defending my own mediocrity, I started to wonder why I was fighting it. Yeah, she was wrong. But why was I fighting it? Was I simply trying to avoid the hubris of which I'm very susceptible?
I don't want to be intimidating. I don't want to be ashamed of who I am. And I'm not. I know I have (many) faults, but I'm not ashamed of them either. The other day, I was watching "the great biker build-off" on TLC. I'm addicted to these Chopper series. But one of the master builders, as he was installing the headlight into his newest masterpiece, his hand slipped and the chrome-plated casing falls to the floor with a fitting crash. He simply picked it up and after glancing to see any new defects the plunge might have caused he simply put it into place with a "hmmph" and the comment "now it has character".
That's me. Yeah, I may have a few scratches but that doesn't mean the Lord won't use me as part of his masterpiece. My dents have blessed me with "character".
As I watched Elizabeth Anne Goble walk across the stage and heard the name of Miguel Gonzalez come next, I watched carefully the people surrounding me to see if they had notice the egregious error made my the announcer. I was searching for the small girl grabbing the arm of her mother and asking pleadingly "mommy, why didn't they read Neil's name?"
I was expecting to see men rising and storming out in protest. Women should start crying. I expected friends and strangers I had benevolently touched in some unknown way rise to my defense.
But much to my awe and gaping mouth, no one said a thing. No wailing women wearing black. No men with a beef. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
As I sat back in my stadium seat, the plastic fighting the relaxing advance of my thoracic vertebrae, I smiled. What does a dumb ol' girl know about me anyway?
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5 comments:
neil, this is classic. and you call me the good writer....i feel the same way about beautiful women. There's a couple I've wound up being good friends with that I just want to say, "you know, i was really terrified to talk to you the first time i saw you." once in a while, i'll get the balls to talk to a woman i think is flawless, but mostly the Barbies I leave alone.
neil, call me today when you get a shot. let's go get a beverage later on when i get off work at 8.
Hey I'm posting more than you are, what's wrong with this picture? Also, I mean seriously, you and this Mary girl just need to start dating.
I remember the moment you were born. You started to wimper, and for some reason, did not cry, even though you were breathing. It scared me. Everyone knows that a newborn always cries....not you. You were happy then and you are happy now. You did not need to walk across the stage, and that was your choice not to. I am glad you at least thought about walking across it.
The thing that makes you seem perfect to others, in my opinion, is the happiness thing. You can walk through utter muck, and come out smiling. You can have everything go wrong, get dumped by a girl you thought you loved, be totally broke, loose your favorite toy and still be smiling very shortly after. It is not that you cannot be sad--you can. It is not that you cannot be angry or frustrated or argumentative, Lord knows you are all of those at times. It is that at the end of the day or week or meeting, or semester, when one thinks of Neil, it is with a smile or a laugh on his lips. You will always be happy. That is a gift, a blessing, a personality trait, a great achievement.
Thanks for being you. MOM
hey, neil. i wanted to post on the ghosts entry bc i was directed to your blog by myles. i feel like i'm coming in 'in medias res' so don't understand the background info for a few of these posts, but it's been a good read nonetheless.
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