I believe now is the time to lay it on the line. You know, to help
you make sense of it all. By all technical and legal terms, I’m an
adult. Past my formative years and idealistic phases, I should’ve
settled into my “prime.” My most productive, my most comfortable
with who I became, my most articulate. That middle part of life
where I still have my health, memory and vigor, but lightly seasoned
with the wisdom of travel and education. The part where I refer to
things as “what I did in my youth” and “look at how ridiculous I
was.” But I’m sure you already it figured out. I “never grew up.”
Those are your words, not mine. My idea of “growing up” is for
suckers. And I know the next line out of your mouth is, “That’s just a
justification for your terminal Peter Pan lifestyle.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
This afternoon, as I rode my bike down Diversey Avenue. I came
to a red light. I pulled over to the side, reached into my left pocket
and pulled out my iPod. I scrolled through the bands and settled
on one that never fails to light a fire under my ass. One that pumps
blood to my fists and causes me to grit my teeth. The light turned
green and I shot forward as if I were being chased. Elbows out, head
down, sunglasses on. I raged past the buses and taxis, the afternoon
bar crowd and the clueless tourists in my path. That band, one of
countless who can provoke me into action, screamed into my ears
and I responded by gritting my teeth, gripping tighter and pushing as
hard as possible.
I know none of this makes sense to you, or maybe it does. Maybe
you recall the enthusiasm of your youth. Maybe you have all along
and I never gave you credit. If so, I truly apologize. But maybe you
do recall, yet refuse to listen. Maybe you’re comfortable in your
selfish complacency. Well, then allow me to retract my apology
and replace it with a swear finger in response to your cowardice.
You remember the words of the bands, the poets and the artists who
shocked you. The ones who gave you reason and who opened your
eyes to another world. You remember how you felt when you wanted
to pick up a sign and make a difference. I don’t know if you ever
did, but that’s not what this is about. It’s about that feeling. That
nervous and immediate energy making you want to vote, paint and
throw rocks all at the same time. Don’t you remember the beauty that
caused your hands to clench, your mind to race and your perceptions
of what “could be” to become infinite?
It’s been a long time since you were a teenager. Since you were a
college-aged idealist. Activist. You got busy. Hey, we all did, because
school loans don’t pay for themselves. And you wanted to move out
and get your own place and wow, you didn’t expect to pay that much
in taxes and association fees. Water, gas, electricity, cable, Internet,
phone, car payment, insurance, your niece’s birthday, movies, that
stuff adds up. I know you’re not superficial. You just wanted nice
things. Maybe a bigger yard for the dog and wouldn’t it be nice to
have two cars? That way, you wouldn’t have to fight to share the
one you have? Oops, we got pregnant, surprise! Oh, babies cost a lot
of money? Wait, how much a week in diapers? So you tried to get
overtime at work or maybe a better job. One that helps you get along
a little easier. I understand. Truly. There aren’t enough hours in the
day. It never seems to stop. Sleep. Eat. Work. Relax for a few hours
and then get to bed. It’s been a long time since you were a teenager.
And it’s not that you don’t care. You just don’t have the time or the
disposable income you once did. But people depend on you now,
and it’s not so easy to live as carefree as before, when you had little
responsibility and could realistically survive on Ramen noodles for
three days in a row.
But it never made sense to me. And hell, why should it? So much
of what I’ve encountered doesn’t make sense to me. Racism, bigotry,
sexism, homophobia, religion, jealousy, English cuisine. I just don’t
get it. I just don’t understand why someone would want to jump into
the race when they don’t understand what they’re running for. So,
if holding on to the idealistic thoughts that I can change the world,
that I can leave a place better than when I got there and refusing to die
“boring” is my transparent attempt at holding on to my youth, so be it.
Because to me, the idea of “growing up” is the desire to learn
respect. It’s in the want. The want to understand why people love
one another, why you love them. And how you treat that love, how
you can love better and have true friends, real emotions and the
exchange of ideas. It’s the refusal of entitlement, self-sabotage, hate
for the unknown and a rejection of understanding. That’s what being
a “grown up” is to me.
And how I do that is not by ignoring what I see.
It’s not by being complacent.
And it’s certainly not following the rules and expectations of
those who never understood it themselves.
I want you to understand that it’s nothing against you. If you
feel that you’re living your life to its fullest extent, more power to
you. But I need more. I hate being boring. I hate thinking boring
thoughts and I hate creating boring art. I want to see all that I can,
love harder, taste strange fruits, explore cultures and do stupid things
for ridiculous reasons.
I’m OK with not making a lot of money. And I know it’s difficult
for you to believe, but it simply isn’t a motivating factor in my
life. And you know what? That’s OK. It’s OK because as an adult,
I understand that it’s the consequence of my lifestyle. Because
being my own boss, talking about myself to anyone who will listen,
exchanging ideas, challenging concepts and riding my bike at 3 a.m.
with my friends are not the consequences, but the rewards.
So yes, as an adult man I still love and live off life’s little
treasures. I still laugh out loud, no matter how foolish I look, and I
still eat my dessert first because hey, it’s one of the few benefits of
being a “grown up.”
- An excerpt from my book, Maybe He’ll Grow Out Of It.
sabellart
