You’ll have to forgive my dramatic title. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to write my own title, and it very well may not have even been printed.
If C.R cuts it and replaces it with something less pretentious it would probably be for the better, but it would still upset me a bit.
I won’t storm The South Texan like I’ve done before, because believe me whatever he or Morris changes it to won’t be the worst headline change I’ve been through.
Still, I feel like I deserve at least a dramatic title. I remember first walking into the Communications section of Manning Hall, a humble little place that is much less than the talented people I have worked with deserve.
I went for a Radio Control Room class that ended up getting killed. I was content to go back to my dorm and revel in my now extra 50 minutes of time to myself when I stumbled upon a certain Frankie Cardenas inside an office.
I asked him if he knew about the class and responded with a very expected nod. I don’t know why I stuck around, but I did long enough to learn about the organizations that I would go on to work for the rest of my college career.
I don’t remember what I was wearing that day, but it was likely awful jorts with some kind of shirt that was too tight fitting on the gut that I have since gotten rid of and brought back.
My stupid hair patches on my face remained unshaved, and I likely had bad breath from the exorbitant amount of fries I ate from the dining hall.
Not to mention, I know now that at the time I was a casual sexist, as all men are raised to be in this patriarchal society, along with a arrogant sense of superiority of the awful town I came from.
A town that I was privileged to leave completely unaware of the oligarchic, capitalistic system that thrived on me believing that since I decided to move to another town I was better than the other Hispanic people that were forced to live in garbage conditions by a government that never has cared about any of us.
I was the worst version of myself, and proud of it. I lived and breathed off this assertion that deep down there must be something more to me. My new friends tolerated me because an old friend insisted that deep down I was all right.
My girlfriend at the time stayed because she believed deep down I was all right. I continued being and missing how awful I was, because deep down I must have been all right.
I wasn’t though. Not really. And that’s okay. It took nearly losing my friends, doing something awful and that girlfriend justifyingly leaving me, and some dark thoughts at one point to learn that I wasn’t.
Normally what people tell you at this point is to forget all those haters.
Be you, and grow on your own. Those people don’t know what growing means.
Growing isn’t ignoring the negative people in your life, being yourself and doing it on your own.Growing is knowing the difference between petty insults and genuine criticism. Growing is about listening when people with different experiences tell you that you’re inconsiderate and awful to be around. Growing is understanding that you need help to do it.
Growing isn’t an exciting triumph of will. It’s not a declaration of love to another person that solves all problems, and it’s definitely not a one-person journey to enlightenment through hitched britches and pure grit.
Growing is long and boring. Growing is sitting in a therapy chair every week crying your eyes out about things you didn’t know actually upset you.
Growing is your best friends telling you that what you said was wrong and not easy to forgive, and actually listening, feeling awful about it and vowing never to do anything like that again. Growing is laying awake most nights wondering if you’re even doing enough.
That’s the number one thing people definitely don’t understand about growing. It never stops. What growth is changes along with age, experience and the culture around you. It’s something you always have to do and be prepared to do.
When Frankie found me I was the worst version of myself, and at the time I believed that I was an improvement over who I was only four years before that. I thought I was done, and that I was the standard of what I needed to be. That’s what made me the worst.
These harsh statements on myself don’t come from a place of insecurity. I’m confident in myself now to know that I wasn’t worth the trouble four years ago. That isn’t a bad thing, it’s just true. It makes me appreciate that there were people who disagreed with me more.
Without the people in my life, I would probably be some sad, pathetic internet troglodyte that spent his days being mad that there were female Ghostbusters, and being mad that all the girls were “friend zoning” me like only silly, pathetic people do.
I’m fortunately not that, and I’ve grown enough to know that I have a lot more growing to do. An amount that wouldn’t be enough even if I had 10 lifetimes.
I’m grown enough to know that after four years of crying, panic attacks, losing friends, therapy, writing for a newspaper, acting for a production company, discovering a passion for editing and behind the scenes aspects of art that I’ve graduated to mediocre.
And that’s okay. Most men don’t even get that far, and I did. Mediocre is good for now.
I still mansplain and manspread, I often forget to acknowledge my own privilege, I get nervous at the mere mention of money, still can’t drive, I fall asleep when watching TV with my current girlfriend and I still overall struggle with the concept of someone loving me unconditionally.
I’m mediocre. I’m so happy to be mediocre. I worked hard to be mediocre. In fact I took way too long to be mediocre.
But I’m happy I’m there, because it means that I still have room to get even better.
Will I graduate from mediocre? Probably not, most people don’t. Why would you when people not even at mediocre make it all the way to being the President of the United States?
But I hope to, even for just a moment.
My art, actions, beliefs, effort and creation will all be in the name of even just for a second leaving that place of mediocrity, and becoming something more.
Then it would all be worth it.