To Be Cool

I never wanted to be cool.  More specifically, I never wished to be cool. It seemed that was the number one goal of all the kids around me during my formative years.  It’s an American tradition.  Seek out the cool kids and emulate them and you will be cool.  There are benefits to being cool. One, you have a better chance of being part of the world of cool kids.  Two, girls like cool.  Three, America likes cool.  We live in the dichotomy of a society that has survived through some semblance of law and order, but to ignore or denigrate that law and order makes you popular.  It’s good to be bad, or at least to look like you’re bad. Every generation has their own interpretation of cool, and I believe the way to go when I was a kid was to overtly not give a shit about anything.  Apathy was very cool.  My problem was, I cared about everything.  I cared about my friends and family, I cared about people getting screwed over by other people.  I cared about way too much. There was no way I was going to feign apathy for more than a few minutes.  My entire personality was built upon a sturdy foundation of giving a damn.

I had no chance of being cool.  Maybe I internalized that at a young age and understood that to do the things that made you cool were just beyond me.  I think that, and an incredibly hefty dose or tragically low self-esteem and anxiety sealed the deal.  I understand the urge to be cool.  You get to meet people and have something to talk about.  Being cool is fun, and you get the added bonus of knowing that all the people around you also are peering in to see all the cool shit you’re doing.

Maybe I just knew I couldn’t hang with the cool kids.  It’s not a big thing.  I managed to survive and continue to do so. 

What I wanted to be was weird. That didn’t take much.

However, I have always wanted to be cool. By this I mean, that I need the average temperature to be between 45 and 75 degrees around me at all times.  I have such a ferocious hatred of being hot that I fear that it has influenced my decision making more than it should. I lived for a quarter century in the most humid area in the country and I felt every notch of the thermometer creep up over the years.  Summers in Orlando in the 1980’s weren’t unbearable. The winter was pleasant.  Overdevelopment and global warming altered the climate to such a degree that it slowly drove me mad.

I had to move to Oregon.  I require mild temperatures and cool breezes.  I need shade to actually mean something.  I need altitude and multiple jacket options.  I feel invigorated with every deep breath of autumn air.  Summer heat makes my brain boil.  I get irritable and I don’t want to move.  It’s tough to eat or sleep. 

I write more attentively and more effectively when I’m cool.  I sleep more soundly. I’m a better husband and friend.  I’m a better neighbor and citizen.  I feel the smile spread across my mostly unexpressive face.

As soon as I see summer décor go on sale I get bummed.  Yeah, I really don’t care about summer all that much.  Lawn chairs, barbecue grills, bathing suits.  To some, it is the best time of the year and there are a million pop songs to prove it.  Me, I bide my time until all the beach umbrellas are replaced by colorful backpacks and crayons and aisles of back-to-school crap.  I love it.  It means the ‘ber’ months are coming and I’ll be able to breathe again.

This isn’t about sunshine, which is all the more beautiful in the fall.  This is about heat. It hit the 100’s last week and it’s going to hit it again in a few days.  In Oregon, there are years where the heat barely shows up at all.  This isn’t one of them.  I don’t care if I’ve gone soft since Florida, I don’t care that they have it worse in Arizona or Texas.  I don’t care.  I want long walks through brisk breezes.  I want the urge to make soup.

One of the most transformative experiences in my life is when Amy and I visited her sister in Seattle in 2001.  It wasn’t all the natural beauty and the allure of Seattle or Portland.  It was my first morning.  I sat out on their deck overlooking Puget Sound.  It was May, and the temperature was in the fifties.  I drank a cup of strong coffee as dense clouds meandered overhead.  I wore thick socks and felt the chill of the air for a solid hour until I needed a refill.  I knew that when we got back to Florida I was going to be bummed out and I had to figure out a way to get back out here.  I wanted to get back to a place where the climate was more…me.

A cool place.

What Do We Do With The Kind People?

I’m reading a very well-written book.  It’s not that I normally read garbage, but the styles are meant to entertain and grab the reader.  This book is a thinker. 

There was a passage that stuck with me.  One character was describing he deeds of the great people of history, and she said that kindness must come before brilliance, or what is the point of it all?  It stuck with me because if I’ve had a constant in my life, it is to be as kind as possible in every situation.  Every time I miss that opportunity I consider it a failure.  I have thought a lot about this in my life and I don’t exactly know where kindness fits in when considering the grand scheme of our culture.

I went to church when I was very small.  I don’t remember liking the experience and the sitting and kneeling and standing, but I do remember what I was taught about Jesus.  Jesus was kind, accepting, loving, peaceful, forgiving and he helped the poor.  That stuck.  If I just hung with those traits as close as I could, I was doing the right thing, no matter what I believed later in life.  I read books by Kurt Vonnegut, who didn’t think much of humanity but believed our one true responsibility was to be kind.  I wanted to be the kind guy, and I can safely say that to many of the people I know me, I am that guy. 

It is me.  It is by design.  My belief is that we need this in the world.  So, I try to be just that.  I screw up, I swear, I get laid off, I eat too much, I get depressed and angry, I argue and get petty and reactionary.  But I try to remain kind.

As an adult, a kind man has few places to fit in.  Being kind is a detriment in a capitalist dynamic.  You must learn how to sell, or sell yourself, which requires deception and lying.  Competition brings out aggression, which does not breed kindness.  Most men assume kindness is weakness, or feminine, or immature.  I don’t know how to interpret this.  I’m a cog in the machine like everyone else, but kindness has no place in the machine.  When I’m competitive, I don’t relish winning all that much.  When I have to sell myself, I want to identify with someone, not impress them. 

This is just how my brain works.  To some, I am sappy.  I am a sucker.

(Then again, education with kindness could mold the greatest minds we’ve ever witnessed. Democracy laced with human kindness can last forever.  Capitalism laced with kindness could be stronger than any system on the planet.)

Kindness doesn’t make headlines, only at the end of the news broadcast do you hear about something kind.  The president and his followers aren’t kind. They gained control by glamorizing the exact opposite of kindness.  The predators and egomaniacal assholes coming to light in the #metoo era aren’t kind.  They wouldn’t lord power over others if they were.

I’m a kind white male. Straight. In my forties. What can I do?  Does anyone who looks for recognition or justice give a damn about what I think or do?  Does it even matter?  Is that the entire point?

I don’t need that type of help.  I’m fortunate. But I would like to let others know that there is kindness in the world, and the people who practice come in all shapes, sizes and colors.  They are men, women and gender neutral, they are wealthy and poor.  They are smart and dumb.  I know. They might not make the news, but I can vouch for their existence. Maybe that’s why kind people are around.  Just to serve as a counterpoint to the unkind. Their tiny little deeds don’t shape society or bend global events to their philosophy. They only remind people of the kindness buried deep within.