misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

In 6th grade, having just moved to the canyons of San Diego from the Chicago suburbs, I was a thin, quivering mess, quick to shake with fear. I wasn't too much unlike that tiny white mouse my science teacher pulled out of a small cardboard box that year, grasping it by its beady tail above the cheap plexiglass cage occupied by Miles, the four-foot kingsnake we studied because, well, studying snakes is what you do in 6th grade. As the mouse hung there, contemplating his mortality while getting a five-foot, elevated view of his impending doom, it occurred to me why half of the class (mostly girls, and me, who mostly thought like a girl), were so troubled by what we were witnessing. It wasn't necessarily the inevitable death of the obviously terrified field mouse, as most of us had already seen dead mice, usually with their heads snapped off by the force of mouse traps well-placed under sinks and cupboards. I think it was more because we identified with that mouse, as it hung there, dangling, mortified at the bigger, stronger entity that was about to swallow it whole. Was middle school much different? Each day, I walked to campus fearing what would get me that day. Josh, the designated school fuck-off? Zits? The voice crack? Anyone of these things could pounce upon me, strangling me with the scaled body of humiliation.

I'd look for anything to make myself float to the top back then. Something to differentiate myself. To feel better than others. To improve my self-confidence. The first thing I found was my name. Anderson.

At the beginning of each class, when roll-call was read, I was the first name called. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I was first at something, and all the acne in the world couldn't take that away from me. Granted, there was a bit of an issue when I shared a class with that bitch Monica Aabad, but that was temporary. In my other classes, I was first, seven out of eight times.

The next victory I was given was my height. In class photos, I would be the first or second tallest. I'd get placed in the back, behind the row of girls and those pathetically small boys. I was with the men. The ones selected by nature to uphold all that is right with the human race. Sure, I was 115 pounds, and my ears looked like they were trying to fly off my head, but I was first in something. Much better than being short with a last name beginning with the letter Z.

When I got to high school, things changed. To be first in something, I had to dig deeper. As my school had well over 2,0000 students, Anderson wasn't going to cut it anymore. It was good enough for second or third, but I wanted first. The height lost its power, as well. I wasn't even in the top twenty for the school. So, I did what everyone had to do: specialize.

Some kids became known as "the heavy metal guy" or "the guy who could draw well" or "the first guy to grow a beard" or "the gay guy". Personally, I spent a year trying to learn how to dunk a basketball. Upon success, I realized not only was I among many people who could dunk, but most of these people looked better than I did (my first introduction to the seeming truth that black guys could trump white guys in any feat involving grace or coolness). I tried other incarnations: The hardcore San Diego Padres fan, the guy who's dad worked for the company that made Dragon's Lair, the guy with the Hyundai Excel and big speakers. Eventually, I settled on "the yearbook sport's editor". Not glamorous, I admit, but I was the only one among 2,000 students, so I won.

In college, truly distinguishing yourself became an impossibility, so you were forced to fully develop the one characteristic you wanted to define yourself with. You could try to be "the guy with the radio show" or "the guy who can shotgun a beer while taking a jim beam shot", but usually, you are just "the english major" or "the guy in Swig". Thus, you dive fully into that persona. If you are "the english major", you have to be sure to always be carrying around a William Faulkner novel, and be ready to offer your opinion about the effect Pride and Prejudice had on the destruction of Victorian values. If you didn't play this role actively, how would people know who you were? You had to be readily identifiable with your dress, your attitude, and your opinions.

After college, it just gets worse. Gay guys aren't just gay guys. They are gay guys. They wear capri pants, dance to Cher hits, and gesticulate wildly when they talk. They do this so we all know they are gay. This is the one thing that makes them different from you. And, more than anything, people want to be different than you, in any way they can. It isn't just gay guys. It is rock-climbers, documentary filmmakers, alcoholics, and vice-presidents of marketing for textile companies. That is what they are, and you better recognize. They are that - and you aren't.

A month ago, while attending orientation, we had to go around and introduce ourselves, along with an "interesting little tidbit". Well, I like to fancy myself more complex than "an interesting little tidbit" could ever explain, so, I pulled a joke from my archive. As people went around (one writes a sex column for a magazine, so she is a writer, one lives in michigan, so he is a midwesterner, etc), I prepared my deflection. After the introduction, I told everyone I used to be a member of the circus, but i've put those days behind me. And in doing so, I realized, I did exactly what they did, only unknowingly. I labelled myself the way I wanted to be labelled. I was the joke-guy. But I couldn't help but think, as I left orientation: I'm still the small little mouse shivering 5-feet above a cage. Only now, there's not a snake in the cage.

There's nothing.