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On Jesus’s Super Powers

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

As a kid, I loved comic books. I was fascinated by the idea of having super powers — flying, teleporting around the world with the blink of an eye, reading people’s minds, having super strength. To this day, I gleefully head to the movie theater to watch my childhood daydreams brought to life, and I love every minute.

I was also a faithful churchgoer as a child and youth. Every Sunday, I was there in the red pews, singing (badly), praying, and listening to the sermons. I loved the church youth group, and like most people, I assume, the periphery of the church experience — holiday events, pot luck meals, social gatherings — held more appeal and meaning for me than the underlying church orthodoxy. Nevertheless, over the years, I absorbed the basic tenets of a Methodist belief system and came to know and understand the story of Jesus.

Despite years of comic book reading and years of churchgoing, I found myself gobsmacked five years ago when I listened to comedian Patton Oswalt riff on Jesus’s super powers. I had never considered the miracles of Jesus, such as walking on water, raising people from the dead and multiplying loaves of bread and fishes to be super powers. Obviously, Jesus’s miracles and Superman’s ability to fly are both extra-human, but, in my mind, I had never conflated the two. It was one of those moments where the scaffolding of your mind collapses under the power and weight of a new idea.

Comic books, like all great art, are escapism. A good comic book story lifts you out of the here and now and takes your mind to a different time and place and allows you to transform your weak body and trifling spirit into something stronger, something faster, something amazing. In those childhood daydreams as you imagine yourself web-slinging from building to building like Spiderman, or as you defeat the super baddie with your super speed and strength, your own tiny world and tiny problems no longer matter. They fade away for those precious few moments, and you gain the greatest super power of them all, even if only temporarily, to recreate yourself.

The story of Jesus offers the same escapism. Whether it’s the miracles of Jesus or the promise of Heaven, religion dangles the hope and promise of something better. And, by also promising the forgiveness of sins, the story of Jesus, and Christianity as a whole, the true believer can recreate himself or herself, almost at the blink of an eye.

As I got older, comic books lost a little luster. Sure, I still found the stories entertaining, and, as mentioned, I love the movies that now bring my heroes to life in new and exciting ways. But I no longer dream of having super powers, at least not in the same way. We grow up, mature (a little), understand more of the world, appreciate its grays and nuances, and go about the real heroic challenge of creating a life for ourselves, mortal power and all. Our mind places our comic book loves on the back shelves of our spirit, perhaps next to Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. We appreciate them for what they are, but now we define their magic differently.

Jesus sits on that same shelf in my spirit. I no longer believe in God (if I ever really did), and I don’t believe a man ever walked on water or raised people from the dead, if the historical Jesus even existed in the first place. That said, the lessons we can take from Jesus’s miracles/super powers, just like the lessons we can take from Superman’s goodness or Thor’s honor, are timeless and worth daydreaming about. Part of the human experience is the desire to be more than we are, to be delivered somehow from the brokenness we find ourselves in.

Whether your salvation is from Jesus or Wonder Woman, it’s fine by me. No matter what, though, you must only use your powers for good and not evil.

On a Driveway Moment

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Driving down the road, in my parents’ baby blue minivan, I turned to the passenger and asked the timeless questions: “What would you think if I told you I murdered someone? Would you still be my friend?”

Thus began my clumsy attempt to come out to my best friend.

It was my junior year in college, and I had been putting off the conversation for several years. We didn’t attend the same school, so it was easy to promise myself that I would tell him “the next time we’re together.” Despite the delay, I mustered up the courage on a break from school, and began the conversation on a drive from his house to mine.

In case you haven’t done it, when you ask someone you know if they would mind if you had murdered someone, you get their attention pretty quickly. Come to think of it, whether it’s a stranger or an intimate, bring up killing someone, and people really listen!

After I’m sure he uttered a confused and incredulous response, I’m sure I offered the assurance that the question was purely hypothetical, but the point was real: I wanted to see how he would react if I had done what my 20-year-old mind considered to be the worst thing one could do. I honestly don’t remember what he said, and I don’t remember how the rest of the conversation proceeded. But, somewhere up Highway 60 and snaking around Green River Road, I found the intestinal fortitude to tell him I was gay. Did I mention we were riding in a super cool minivan?

As we pulled through the cul-de-sac into my parents’ driveway, I stopped the car but continued to talk. I’m sure I apologized for not telling him sooner, explained how hard it was to admit, and hoped he would understand. I do remember telling him that I had started off with the question about murder because I just didn’t want to lose my best friend. I guess I thought that, compared to murder, being gay would seem like nothing. It’s certainly a telling insight on being gay in the mid-90s in Kentucky.

He sat there in the passenger seat for a few moments, looking out the window. I’m not sure if he had ever wondered if I was gay or not, and I’ve never asked him. What he said next, though, has stuck with me for twenty years. He turned and looked at me and said, “Well, I’m not going anywhere.” Now, he could have literally meant that he was physically inert, sitting in my parents’ driveway in a super sweet baby blue Plymouth Voyager minivan. I like to think, though, he meant that my admission didn’t change our friendship. Twenty years later, I can report I’ve had the same best friend for twenty-five years.

Although we’ve rarely lived in the same town, we’ve been incredibly close for a quarter century. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve got some stories. And, yet, in a lot of ways, none top that moment in the driveway. And I don’t say that just because it was a major emotional moment for me as a gay man. I say that because life doesn’t hand you too many opportunities to see the true mettle of those you love.

You have to cherish those moments when they occur….especially when they happen in a baby blue minivan.

On Quiet Weekends

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

On Friday morning, as the snowstorm approached Washington, D.C., I proclaimed to a coworker that I was looking forward to a “quiet weekend.” I find myself saying that a lot. I had a “quiet weekend,” I’m looking forward to a “quiet weekend,” all I want is a “quiet weekend.” I’m not alone either. Lots of people declare their love for quiet weekends, with the attendant soft blankets thrown over their legs, hot chocolate in hand, warm lighting, and a good book. Not a care in the world.

Why do we all lie?

Why do I lie?

I’ve been trapped in my home for the last 34 hours. It hasn’t been quiet at all. I’ve shoveled snow off my terrace — twice. I’ve made chili. I’ve washed laundry. I’ve cleaned the kitchen multiple times. I’ve folded clothes. I’ve paid bills. I’ve checked work e-mail. I’ve taken the garbage out. I’ve cheered for my favorite sports team. I’ve talked on the phone with friends and family. I’ve written on this blog. Whatever the opposite of zen is, I’ve been.

I like the idea of the “quiet weekend,” but the execution gets me. I can’t sit still that long. I’ve got to get up, go out, be busy. I say I want to be by the fire, reading a book, and I’m fine with that for an hour. Maybe 90 minutes tops. Otherwise, the putzer in me comes out. The pantry must be organized. The storage closet rearranged. The garage storage bins scoured for donation material. Life would go on if I didn’t do any of those things, but my motor can’t downshift.

The scary truth may be that most of us couldn’t handle a “quiet weekend.” We’d go crazy without the chores, the errands, the must-dos, the beeps and boops of our electronic gadgets. Our baseline is not a cabin in the woods as we listen to the sounds of nature; our baseline is frenetic activity of (generally) questionable utility.

It’s not just weekends either. I’ve notice that, as I sail on into middle age, vacations pose larger challenges. You’re running a million miles an hour, and, then, once you arrive at your destination, you’re automatically expected to shift into relaxation mode without a care in the world, full of serenity, light, and love. I get whiplash from the change. It takes me a day or two just to feel like I’m slowing down a bit, much less totally decompressing.

Maybe “quiet weekends,” for most folks, are just another unicorn or Bigfoot — things that we talk about, things we like, things we want, things that sound cool, but things that never actually materialize. And the solution probably isn’t for everyone to slow down, hug a friend, and save the world. No, maybe the solution is to start saying what we mean. Stop lying and saying you want a “quiet weekend.” You don’t. You want a weekend that if full of easy to accomplish, mildly to moderately interesting activities that make little to no demands on your time, money, or personal energy.

Oh, and brunch. You want brunch too. That’s important.

 

On the College Experience

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Once a season, I receive a glossy, thick magazine from my alma mater. Splendidly and colorfully designed, I’m treated to probing think-pieces from professors, photo articles from bright-eyed students in some third world country, an inspiring message from the college president, class news and updates, obituaries, and a last page essay from an important alum. The periodical paints the picture of a kinetic hive of progress, learning, adventure, and contemplation nestled safely inside a cocoon separate from the real world.

It’s not necessarily a place I remember.

I’ve always taken great pride in my alma mater. It has an excellent academic reputation, and is the most prestigious academic destination in my home state. I relished those factors before, during, and after my time there. And, indeed, I received an amazing education, many facets of which have only slowly revealed themselves over the stretch of years since I walked the campus.

Still, as I thumb through the seasonal magazine, looking at reunion pictures and large throngs of alumni gathered at weddings and other such events, it strikes me that my college experience shares little in common with those glossy magazines, with the perfectly manicured campus, the almost painfully cute (and ironic) tire swing on the great lawn, and the pictures of students lounging about, debating Greek philosophy while slurping on milkshakes.

Academically, I excelled in my major and minor, but, even in those classes that I loved, I never had the Dead Poets Society moment, where the underlying beauty of the subject material roused my passion and drove me to tears. Rather, I was interested in the subject, dutifully worked to please my professors, and took varying degrees of interest in my assignments and projects. I took no less pleasure in not having class, playing ping pong or basketball, and sleeping in.

Socially, I made one amazing lifelong friend, but my life isn’t filled with fraternity brothers, as we were reminded again and again that it would be. Lifelong bonds, plural, were not made. Rather, with one noted exception, college seems like most every other life pitstop: you meet great, nice people and, over time, you drift apart, if not technically, at least in substance. It doesn’t take away from the experience, but it does undermine, to a degree, its allegedly transformative nature.

And, as for the college years being the best years, I always want to ask the people that say that if all-night study sessions and mediocre term papers really trump a great job, a nice income, and personal, social, and financial freedom. To me, it’s a no-brainer.

I’m willing to bet lots of folks like me peruse their college magazines with something resembling alienation. The whitewashing effect can be disorienting. Certainly colleges want to put their best foot forward; it is, after all, really about publicity. Nevertheless, surely there is a cost when the narrative colleges advance about themselves materially diverges from the experiences their students have. And, yes, no college is going to publish an alumni magazine featuring a story about how Katie got dumped at Friday night’s party, or how Ben has already put on the Freshman 15, but maybe we should tone down the life-changing, world-beating rhetoric just slightly. Very few college students will make any noise in their respective academic fields, and, for many, it’s not a social nirvana. For all, however, it is a time of growth and change, and that growth and change doesn’t always translate into a PR-ready photograph with needy children from South America.

Increasingly, colleges have to sell themselves, and certainly selling the college experience, as commonly understood, is part of the deal. And, there’s really nothing wrong with that, as long as we remember that many students are walking different paths. The importance of those individual stories, those journeys of real progress, change, and, yes, education, outweigh the images we put forth as “the” college experience. To not remember that, we shortchange ourselves and the actual impact of the institutions we love.

 

On Being A Good Little Boy

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I can remember it like it was yesterday: sitting on the floor, listening to my second grade teacher, Ms. Dossett, read the class a story. I was wearing gray pants. I had to go to the bathroom. I didn’t want to disturb her, and I didn’t want to disturb the class. I sat and listened to the story, and, perhaps at some dramatic point in the tale, I made the decision that peeing my pants was a better option than disturbing everyone.

Flash forward two years, and my 4th grade teacher, Ms. Bodkin, was in front of the class explaining a worksheet we were to complete. For reasons lost to me, I wasn’t paying attention. When the worksheet was passed out, I was overwhelmed by the realization that I didn’t know how to complete the assignment. I panicked, feigning illness, and had my dad come pick me up at school. Unfortunately, or fortunately, he knew something was up and quickly took me back to school.

To say I was a jumble of nerves as a young kid is probably an understatement. I nervously chewed on my shirtsleeves. I hated the first days of school, often crying because I missed my parents. Who knows why I was so nervous? I’m sure, like most things, it was multifactorial, but I am pretty sure about one factor. It was a factor that stayed with me even once I tamed my anxiety and learned that I could ask to go to the bathroom. From elementary school to middle school to high school, I was a good little boy.

As I got a little older, I excelled in school and, more importantly to my inner self, I excelled at being perfect. Or, well, some version of close to perfect. I behaved. I got perfect grades. I never missed school. I won awards. I didn’t make bad decisions. And, if you were older than me, you loved me. Teachers loved me. Church ladies loved me. Band directors loved me. Bosses loved me. I craved the affirmation, and I worked hard to earn it.

There’s a theory that young gay men will strive to be perfect to gain the acceptance from others that they know would be withheld from them if the truth was known. I don’t know about that, but I was young, gay, and loved excelling, getting perfect grades, and receiving attention for being just the best darn little boy there ever was. I’m sure my parents would quibble about my perfection, but, hey, it’s my blog entry.

As is surely apparent, the problem with being the best little boy in the world is that who you are is dictated by others’ expectations. You do things to get grades or win, not because you’re actually interested. You repress your feelings because, to admit when you’re sad or angry or hurt would make you not the best little boy in the world, and that’s the worst outcome possible. You evade, misdirect, dissemble, pretend — all in the pursuit of acceptance, compliments, and affirmations. Who you are becomes who you think others want you to be.

I still fight the impulses to always be right, to always be the best, to always be up and happy, to always be unobtrusive and comforting, to seek the affirmation of it all. Certainly going to college helped in that regard. I was not only surrounded by people as smart and smarter than I was,  but I also started to learn how to be honest with myself, about myself. To be the real me. I’m still a work in progress, as we all are. I’m sure I’m not unique in that, but I’m fairly certain that my dial to be the best little boy in the world was tuned a lot higher than most other kids’. But, hey, if I’m wrong about that, I can handle it now.

On Throw Pillow Madness

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Walk in to most furniture or home goods stores and you would believe that the modern bed is a multi-layered work of art. Start with the organic million thread count sheets, swaddling you in comfort (and, most likely, heat). From there, the refined, accomplished bed sports the silk quilted blanket, the space-age technology comforter, the stylish duvet, and the casually but carefully tossed cashmere throw. The artistry involved in crafting the spectacle sends the clear message that sleep is just a dream — no one would actually recline on this creative explosion.

On top of this layered leviathan, an army of throw pillows stands guard. Not just one or two, we’re approaching double digit squares, rectangles, cylinders, circles, and diamonds of crafted cotton blends, each painstakingly selected for their patterns, their colors, their textures, and, in the most bohemian examples, their whimsy. The numerous stuffed objets d’art testify with incorruptible will that this bed means business.

The power of the throw pillow to impress (and to intimidate) should not be underestimated, for we have recently fallen under its evil spell. As purchasers of a new king bed and all its wonderful square footage, we eagerly purchased sheets, a comforter, and a duvet to outfit the space where we planned on spending one-third of our lives for the next decade or so, but we held off on throw pillows, shams, and other bedding accoutrement. This was, most certainly, a result of sheer utility, but perhaps also the stylistic requirements for such purchases rested out of our collective grasp. Upon receiving a gift card, however, our reticence flew out the window, and we embarked on a mission to upgrade our bed from mere sleep mat to a slumber throne befitting a couple of our panache, sophistication, and, as it turns out, gullibility.

I will not name the store we rolled in to, holding our hot gift card, but it rhymes with Pottery Barn. We knew we wanted two pillow shams that matched our duvet, and, after a few minutes, hubby located them buried underneath a pile of pillowcases and bedskirts. Only then were we faced with the eternal pillow sham question we had no idea existed: standard, king, or euro? That’s right, how international is your bed baby, because, beyond king, beyond that station of royalty, exists the euro pillow. While our bed did not have its passport yet, we were relieved to learn that the euro sham is, for lack of a better way to describe it, a square pillow. That’s right, it’s a square. You can’t call it a square though, as that would seriously impede the ability to charge more for it. It’s not a square pillow, it’s a euro pillow. Get it?

Euro pillows and shams in hand, we next needed to select just the right accent throw pillows. The sizes, shapes, and textures were limited only by the store’s warehouse size, and, if the United Nations of pillow sizes had thrown us for a loop, we were largely unprepared for the myriad choices we needed to make. Sure, we have four degrees between us, but we were woefully inadequate for the task. Ultimately, we selected a solid orange and solid green — as they say, keep it simple stupid.

After all the fuss and muss and international flair to our bedding purchases, we rushed home to dazzle our new bed to new heights. I made the bed, shammed (is that even a word?) the euro pillows, organized the “regular” pillows just so, and tossed the throw pillows with the light spirit of one who knows his bed would now appear as if it had just stepped out of the latest style magazine. I stepped back into the doorframe, realizing that, once I looked upon this magical creation, I may need to brace myself. And, then, I looked, and what did I see?

Our bed.

With a few more pillows on it.

There were no camera flashes, no oohs and aahs. Pottery Barn would not be featuring me and hubby, in matching chinos and white shirts for sure, standing behind our stylish bed. Rather, I saw our small, cramped bedroom, the blinds drawn as to not look over the back alley, dwarfed by a large (yet comfortable) bed. There was no artistry, no real style. Just our bed. And our nightstands full of books and charger cords and pictures. It was real life. Real life with throw pillows.

Whether it’s throw pillows, a new coat, a new car, or a new house, no matter how mature, how smart, or how insightful we become, maybe there’s always a part of us that’s just so sure that the next new thing will be the thing that really takes us to a whole new level. But it never really does. We’re like Tantalus reaching for fruit and stooping for water but never quite reaching it. It’s always out of reach. We’ll never get there.

And, maybe, that’s okay. Maybe the key is being able, at least some of the time, to step back and recognize the silliness of it all. Whether your pillow is European, African, or Pan-Asian, it’s still a pillow. As I snooze away on our wonderful new bed, I’m sure I won’t care.

On Controlling Waffles

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

This week, hubby and I received a wonderful Christmas gift: a waffle maker. And, demonstrating that my brother- and sister-in-law really know me, it makes four waffles at once. Breakfasts in 2016 just got a lot better.

As happy and excited as I was to receive the gift, the packaging left me flummoxed. On the box, the many virtues of our new waffle maker were extolled, from its sleek stainless steel exterior (it goes great with any countertop!) to its hidden heat coils. Leading the list of plaudits, however, was “the endless possibilities.” The waffle manufacturer was kind enough to give hubby and me permission to put anything on our waffles we wanted; truly, the possibilities are endless! From syrup to strawberries to blueberries to butter to peanut butter…I mean, you name it, we can put it on our waffles now. Whipped cream? Not a problem. Fried chicken? Of course. Hot sauce? Why the hell not!

This freedom, so graciously granted, comes as a big relief. For years, the biggest obstacle in our marriage has been overbearing kitchen appliances.  Our stand mixer gets all shook up if we stay out too late, while the coffee maker heats up when we don’t share our feelings. We won’t even talk about how passive aggressive the food processor can be. And we’re still trying to forget the six months of counseling we had with the fondu pot. To this day, I maintain that the therapist was wrong to make us go on that meditation retreat…

The point is: we’ve been at the mercy of our kitchen appliances for too long, but, no more! Finally, a kitchen appliance that won’t be high maintenance. We can live our lives to the fullest, knowing it won’t hold us back, hem us in, put us in a box, silence us, control us, or isolate us. We can put absolutely anything on our waffles. No rules. No limits. No expectations. No hidden agendas. No ultimatums. No jealousies. No tantrums.

Finally. Freedom. Waffle freedom. How did we go so long without it?

On the Season’s Splendid Melancholy

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

My favorite aspect of Christmas that receives little attention is the sadness.

The popular images of Christmas are pure sugary fun: presents, excited children, cartoon specials, lights, etc. But I’d submit the real power of Christmas comes in the hushed melancholy. The cold ferocity of December’s weather. The quiet of Christmas day around town. The post-madness letdown. The absent loved ones. The forever absent loved ones. The haunting songs that take our hearts into different, difficult places and times. Memories of holidays that were, holidays that never were, and holidays that can never be.

Even for those surrounded by love, laughter, and life, the holiday carries with it a lugubrious, forlorn spirit that wrests about among the stockings, chocolate boxes, and mistletoe. Aside from the humble beginnings in a manger, as the story goes, our times with friends and family and our preparations for the coming new year inevitably lead to introspection and an accounting of ourselves. Despite the hustle and bustle of the season, many moments of the holiday slow us down, take us out of our busy routines, and invite this examination of more meaningful things, be they religious, philosophical, familial, or simply personal. The quite contemplation stands in stark contrast to the unbridled glee promoted as the standard-bearing emotion of the season.

It’s these moments that are the true gifts of Christmas. They dive deeper than superficial gifts, and exist in our hearts beyond temporal spaces illuminated by holiday lighting. It is intensely personal and private. Our time with friends, our time with family, our time outside our work and outside all else, orbiting around this time of year, tugging at us in new and different ways, harkening to those rarely visited parts of ourselves, full of hope and joy and sadness and comfort and pain and acceptance and otherwise.

No other holiday enjoys such an emotional range, and it’s this beautiful complexity that I love. And, thus, while many tear open their gifts with a rapacious desire, I’ll be savoring the moment. Surrounded by my family, seeing my friends, and being open to where the moments take me, in all their splendid melancholy.

 

On Santa Subterfuge

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My youngest nephew is asking some hard-hitting questions about Santa. At 9 years old, he’s grappling with Santa’s admittedly difficult nighttime journey on Christmas Eve, geographically-speaking. And, magic aside, he’s probably also wondering how Santa’s ample frame shimmies down chimneys so easily. He’s on the precipice of closing one of the doors of childhood.

I can’t remember how old I was when Dad took me aside, clued me in, and made sure I understood how important it was to keep the magic alive for my younger sister, but I was around my nephew’s age. From that point forward, I can recall surreptitiously watching my parents set up my sister’s Cabbage Patch Dolls late one Christmas Eve; waiting to hear the tell-tale whoomp of a car trunk closing, announcing in a muted night air that Santa’s gifts were being retrieved; and slyly searching throughout my parents and grandmother’s homes to discover the cache of gifts slated for Santa.

I knew the secret, but, rather than destroying some holiday enchantment, for me the big reveal opened up a whole other world of mystery and intrigue, far more real and entertaining than the jolly old elf. The cloak and dagger of hidden gifts, subterfuge, and late night shenanigans combined for an intoxicating brew. Waiting for a magical being to fly down from the North Pole to (maybe) deliver your heart’s desire is excruciating in its randomness. Realizing you are part of an elaborate game, passed down for decades, touching on our moral, emotional, economic, and familial bonds, well, that’s thrilling.

Santa is magical and wonderful, but what is far more magical and wonderful is a family wedded to the pageantry of it all. The Christmas tree(s), the decorations, the lights, the holiday dishes, the family meals, the cards, and the carols. None of it is complicated, but it can only be pulled off by those that care enough to make it happen (and are lucky enough to be able to make it happen). I was lucky enough to have two parents that made it happen, whether I was waiting up for Santa or just the gifts to be there.

I know full well that this will be the last Christmas I have a nephew believing in the physical Santa, but that reality does not bother me. This time next year, he will be a full-fledged participant in the holiday ruse. And my Christmas wish for him will be that he and his brother revel in it as much as I did. That’s the sort of holiday magic that never fades away, locked behind the closed doors of childhood.

On Being a Double Agent

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I haven’t been honest. I’ve been playing both sides. Duplicitous dissembling at its best. At its worst. I’ve been disingenuous, hypocritical, and opaque. I’ve been a double agent, and I don’t remember what side I started fighting for.

That’s right, over the last several years, with friends and family, I’ve had ongoing discussions about the worth of social media. And maybe I’m ready to raise the white flag, but I can’t figure out what the hell is really going on.

My sister compellingly argues that social media is one big attention grab. She’s not bothered by people wanting attention; she simply wishes the users of Facebook, Twitter, and the like would be more honest about why they’re posting pictures of their dogs, holiday sweaters, and vacations. She freely admits she loves attention too, but she maintains that most users of social media — and she is not one — delude themselves into thinking they are engaging in anything but vain self-promotion.

It’s tough to argue with her, but I do. I come to the defense of social media users, correctly pointing out that you can’t paint with such a broad brush. There are folks that use social media to keep in touch with Aunt Gertrude, who lives on the other coast. Distant friendships survive…at least in some form. Social connections, if not relationships, can blossom into more. It’s not all an exercise in vanity. I think these things are true to some extent, but good luck convincing her.

With other friends, I gleefully take the other side, threatening physical violence if they post pictures of their Thanksgiving meals, tell Mom they love her, or otherwise mistake social media for their diaries. Of course, when you write a blog, it’s tough to criticize that angle, and they rightly point that out.

Ultimately, I can’t decide what to think. It bugs me we spend so much time on social media, and, over the course of the last year, I have significantly curtailed my Facebook and Twitter viewing. Social media is not really social (and it sure isn’t media). It’s not real relationships either. I fear we’ve mistaken, at least on some subconscious level, online activity for real life. For real relationships. For real accomplishments. I’m not sure it rates more than a fun distraction with occasional communication benefits.

There’s something untoward about over-sharing, about thinking all your “friends” care about the meal you just ate, the vacation you just took, or the “awesome” moment you just had…but still had time to post about. It’s not necessarily an inversion of public and private, but it feels like we cheapen the moments of our lives by broadcasting them. The comings and goings have meaning because they happen to us, not because dozens or hundreds of people know about them or “Like” them.

All that said, telling people about ourselves and, in our minds, constructing the narratives of our lives is really the world’s oldest profession. Without a doubt, if Jesus had an iPhone two thousand years ago, he’d be blogging, tweeting, and posting. Can you imagine the humble brags about Dad?

We want to share our lives, we like the attention, the validation, the affirmation, and fighting that very human impulse is a losing battle. The fact that social media has, in only one decade’s time, grown to influence (infect) our social, personal, professional, political, and economic lives in such compelling, material, and undeniable ways attests to this. Some of us may not care for it, but it’s here to stay. And, wrapping one’s self in smug moral superiority over not participating in social media is as immature as deriving your self worth from the number of “Likes” for your most recent post.

At the end of the day, I’m left considering what my dear friend Daria said to me during one of my first conversations about social media and my occasional  discomfort with it: if you don’t like it, you don’t have to participate. She’s right, and there really isn’t much more to the debate.

For my own kicks, I’ll still be a double agent, stoking fires of disagreement and being ever the contrarian. But, in my heart of hearts, I’ll continue to move to a place of peace over it all. The ancient Greeks were bemoaning the direction of popular culture, so I’ll take comfort that seeing the downfall of modern man is another time-honored human impulse. And, with that, I’ll end. Besides, I need to go check the stats for page views for the blog!