Unremarkable Me

Welcome, I guess.

Since you’re here I’d better give you the grand tour…. Sorry in advance.

This is my writing desk. My core.

But first, our surroundings….

Do a 360… what do you see?

An empty field.

Whole lotta nothing, and all of it out of focus.

That’s just the broader me.

No need for a “you are here” sign because psychologists and cartographers will agree, there’s nothing here to remark on.

Any map worth reading would show only one point of interest: the way out.

Oh, but I guess I should explain all the fog.

That’s my ADD and my post concussive syndrome, and tiredness.... and the after effects of some minor but long-lived trauma.

We're inside my inner self, and you can't see much can you?

I suppose I once had accomplishments and skills and qualities I actually felt proud of but they are long past. They’re so small and distant to the me of today that you can’t really see them from where we’re standing.

Unless you brought binoculars or some shit. Then you might catch a glimpse of a faint outline or a shape back there in the swirling fog.

Why bother?

Those are just some of the things I used to put on resumes. If you really insist on looking, you might see them in block print, rising up out of the fog of my past: “Proficient in Microsoft Word, strong communicator, self motivated, team player, great at customer service and even better at servicing customers, humongously well endowed, cunning linguist,” you know, the usual resume bragging points— so shoddy and cliche that making a joke out of them really isn’t any loss.

You might also see hear the echoes of some ancient applause, muffled by the years. Those are some of the acknowledgements I received for doing stuff.

What kind of stuff?

Volunteer stuff. Non-profit stuff.

Community centers. Soup kitchens, food pantries, and student diversity groups.

I was given a handful of awards— certificates and plaques and handshakes from the groups I volunteered with and from the university where I was enrolled. Folks older and kinder than me kept calling me a leader. But, after all these years I still don’t really see what they were on about.

As for the specifics of what I actually did to earn any appreciation?

I no longer know.

I guess I drove around, moved some things, did some physical work— even did some advocacy. But nothing significant.

Perhaps those awards were college-level participation trophies?

Like when my kindergarten teacher read my name in front of the assembly and everybody clapped... because I liked science.

The college me was legally an adult, but I look back on those days with the same shrug and chuckle I feel towards my time as a little boy.

Kindergarten, college, no diff.

I was still a kid, just taller.

Anyway, the phyiscal parts of those awards I earned in my kid-hood? They’re packed away at the bottom of the lowest drawer on my writing desk and well, that’s my junk drawer. We can’t open it because I’m afraid we’ll kick up a lot of dust and that might make my eyes water.

You see, that drawer’s where I put all the stuff I don’t want to remember, like friends I used to have and things I used to be proud of. Hopes I used to hold. I’d rather not remember the way I was because the old me? he is useless to the now me.

I admit there are times I wish I could be as optimistic and energized and clear headed and compassionate as I was back then, but… well, I’m damaged. The old me was drawn and quartered when when I tied myself to an emotional abuser for 15 years. The pieces of me are too gored and scattered and lost in the fog to find. They cannot be clumped back together…

So really, what’s the point in remembering what’s gone?

I don’t believe it’s healthy to pine after days or selfs gone by.

We can open next drawer up though. These things are a little musty-- but I dust them off for new job hunts every few years.

Take a peek if you want— see my degree? My driver's license and my car? My management experience and my references? Oh, and some fairly glowing performance reviews— from employers who gave me a pat on the head for being a well-trained work dog.

Yuck. Being a "good employee" will never make me proud.

The only things that make me proud are up in the top drawer.

But before we get to the stuff I’m actually proud of, I guess we better take a quick glance at the next drawer up. This is just stuff I like.

I like writing. I like making art. I like cooking. I like camping and kayaking and biking, I like dumpster diving. I like eating.

I use these likes to relate to others, to build connections and to have fun. So this drawer gets a lot of use. What else is there to say? These things are just interests and hobbies.

Some of them make me unusual. Atypical. But still, not quite unique.

Not special.

I really am just an average guy. No more important or notable or deserving than the last rando you passed on the street, just a guy.

Let’s get to the top drawer. Here’s the stuff that I’m actually proud of.

Ah, open it up and take a look!

I’m a dad, first and foremost. That’s my biggest pride and joy. And as a single dad with primary custody, it’s also my biggest sacrifice. I’m doing a good job raising my kids, I know this because they’re good people and they’re happy.

I’m really proud of myself for caring for them. Does it make me special? Nope!

I know that. There are billions of dads on the planet, and most love their kids as much as I love mine.

Big woop, I know. But this is one of the things that helps me feel good about myself.

Here’s another: I had the courage to leave a toxic marriage.

Some of the fog swirling around us is actually smoke, remnants from all the gaslighting.

That's part of what made leaving one of the hardest things I’ve done. But I’m proud of myself for doing the difficult, necessary thing.

And I guess, some of the stuff from my drawer of likes belongs in here too. I’m proud to be a writer. I’m not a great writer, not as skilled as I want to be, but I’m just happy that I’m doing something creative. It feels really good to know that there’s some art in me and I’m proud of myself for nurturing that, and for sharing it despite the fear that I don’t have anything worth saying or that I’ll say it poorly and embarrass myself….

There’s one more thing I’m proud of. But it requires a little telling:

It comes from a depth of insecurity— a fear that I’m not enough.

Uh oh, the fog's getting denser.

Hard for me to see the thougths I'm trying to share...

Insecurity....

I don’t know if I was born with it, or if it’s an invasive thing that took root on its own.

Maybe it grew in me

When my dad left, when I began to

Blame myself.

Maybe he left because I wasn't good enough

In any case, I’ve always felt— the need to be more than I am,

To be special

And

When I was a child

I was told that

... I’d be great,

When I grew up.

But today I admit

—Today I submit—

That I’ve got nothing for you to remark on

There’s a crowd of people here,

8 billion strong,

And I'm here too,

But I’m just a dude:

Definitely no better and maybe no worse

Than you.

I am any idiot in the background.

I’m an extra,

No lines

No dialogue

And no consequence!

I’m a man of

Averages:

A bald white guy

Soft

Safe

And boring....

I did not stand out

Back when I heard I could be whatever I wanted.

So who’s surprised

That now, grown up

I still don’t

Stand

Out?

I am not what I wanted,

Not by a mile.

I wanted to be remarkable

I wanted to be great

I wanted

To be admired,

But I’m not and I won’t be

That’s what I’m getting at— the last thing I’m proud of in my top dresser drawer.

Wanna hear the best compliment I ever received?

It was a simple string of words, but Lord how it gave me

Peace.

I was at work.

Park security.

She was stunning.

If God exists, then this woman was a masterpiece of Creation.

A perfectly beautiful black woman.

If God doesn’t exist; then she was the happiest accident of evolution.

I had intrusive thoughts. But not from the limbic system, not from the lizard brain, nor from the lizard.

She was way beyond that evolutionary impulse, she wasn't the kind of woman you’d want to fuck. Those intrusive thoughts came from a deeper place than that. She was the kind of woman you'd want to taste and to love.

Anyway,

She had just thrown a huge party.

It was my job to lock the building she had rented, once she was done cleaning up.

This was my last assignment of the night, and I was there a little early with nothing to do.

I had been trying to flirt with her because, well, I’m single and she was the archetype of feminine beauty.

It was either try or go back to the truck and read.

Anyway, I learned quick she wasn’t gonna be down

She was

Way out of my league

Because her voice was honey

Because her face was super-fine and

Because her body was banging--

But her mind was the best part of her

I could tell right away she was smarter than me, clearer than me, and better than me

And that made her all the more magnetic

She conveyed the soul of a thinker and an artist

Yes, she was way out of my league.

And still, I couldn’t help drawing close

Like a moth to a flame,

How I wanted to fly right in and burn right up

But I couldn’t cling to her the way I needed to, she wasn’t mine. And she wouldn’t be.

What moth has ever made it to the moon?

Even if I were on her level

She wasn’t gonna be down

Because she was from waaaay out of state

But still

I stayed,

Chatting

I didn’t head back to the truck, to read in the dark.

I found stuff to do— little park tasks, busy work, to keep me in proximity.

Excuses to draw close to the fire.

Then I offered to help her carry her stuff.

That’s never a park employee’s job, but I wanted to help.

Because there was a lot of stuff

Because it was heavy

Because I could see she was tired

And because I wanted to make it up to her, how I’d been drooling and panting after her like a dog.

Women, even those who personify raw beauty, deserve more respectful distance than what I was giving.

So putting my hands to work would force me to leave her the fuck alone.

And

I helped

Because

The faster I helped her out of there, the faster I could lock the building down and close out my shift

Then I could go home and wish I were remarkable enough to appeal to a woman like her

… When it was all said and done— her belongings loaded up and the doors locked— this absurdly beautiful woman looked me in the eye and said:

“Brother, I want you to know that I appreciate you.”

I don’t remember what I said in reply. All I remember is the feeling….

It was the first time I’d ever been brother-zoned by a black woman.

This wasn't a superficial compliment, and it wasn't strategic. She didn't want anything and she wasn't gassing me up.

This was softer than any kindness I'd ever felt before, so I felt it deeper.

In that moment, I felt my humanity affirmed by a near-total stranger and I felt enough.

I knew this woman was light years beyond me, and that I’d never be with her like I felt I wanted. But that reality became okay.

I also knew I was never gonna see her again. We weren’t friends, and that was okay too.

For a brief flash, she looked at me, saw my humanity and offered plain affirmation.

I don’t think I’d ever felt so seen in my life.

In that blink of a moment

I didn’t care that I wasn’t great

I was just content to be human.

And, in that sweet moment I also stopped caring that she was a total babe and an absolute stunner. Her face didn’t become ugly, but her beauty became irrelevant. More than a perfect 10, she was human too. So that made her my sister.

That two-way acknowledgment— from her to me and from me to her gave me a deep sense of comfort.

I didn’t have to be more, and I didn't have to win a work of art like her,

I could just be me, not a masterpiece, not remarkable, not grand, not great.

Just me.

Because no matter how I have wished to be something more,

I will never be anything other than

Soft

Safe

Unremarkable me

I’m not the guy to make everyone laugh

I’m not the guy to give everyone thrills

I’m not the guy who will earn your smile

Unless it’s just to be polite

I’m not the guy to change the world

Or solve the problems

Or be a hero

I’m not brave enough or smart or capable enough for that

I’m just

A human

With opinions that don't even matter

Because I have no power.

Nothing will change on my account, all I can do is exist,

And scrape a little fun out of a world that voices its denial of radical freedom.

There are things I need to work on but I’m no more or less human than my heroes, my crushes, or my enemies.

When the fog clears, I am enough.

You might be wondering why that should be in my top drawer.

Kinda silly? To be proud of a universal of the human condition?

But I am proud of my humanity, proud to be a participant in this wilderness we call life.

And I keep that reminder in my top drawer-- to never forget that if I'm enough so is everybody.

That doesn't cheapen the notion, it strengthens it.

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And since a tour of my inner self would never be complete without the songs stuck in my head... here are a few tunes about being unremarkable: