How to Ruin High School for Yourself
I was a teenage dirtbag, baby, and l didn't know what I was missing.
I’ve been writing about our culture’s dislike of ideals. We have an instinct to tear them down.
Today I will give a personal example of how my dislike of ideals hurt no one but myself.
In high school, I took an unhealthy pride in being an “individual.” Conformity was a plague, as far as I was concerned. People who conformed on matters of clothing or music were mere Pod People. They appeared human, but only in a Stepford Wives kind of way. They were actually sheeple who colored within the lines because being an individual scared them. Conformists didn’t deserve my respect; they were an impersonal fog, which I stood above.
Then there was me—bravely wearing my second-hand clothing and listening to music “You probably never heard of.”
Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by German Romanticist artist Caspar David Friedrich (1818)
Actually, I was immature and slightly unlikable. My “individualism” and disdain for popular students didn’t come from my ideals—my ideals were a post hoc rationalization for my resentments. The opening lines from Notes From the Underground never landed so well as they did on me.
I AM a sick man. . . . I am a spiteful man. An unattractive man. I think that my liver hurts. . . I am not in treatment [for my liver] and never have been, although I respect both medicine and doctors. . .No, sir, I refuse to see a doctor simply out of spite. . .I know perfectly well that I am certainly not giving the doctors a "dirty deal" by not seeking treatment. I know better than anyone that I will only harm myself by this, and no one else. And yet, if I don't seek a cure, it is out of spite. My liver hurts? Good, let it hurt still more! [italics added]
My non-conformity was a painful liver, and letting go of resentment was the cure. I knew better than anyone that I would only harm myself by dressing in an ill-fitting Salvation Army jacket. And yet, if I didn’t shop at the mall like the other teens, it was out of spite. My jacket hurts my popularity? Good, let it hurt still more!
This attitude of mine led to one particularly cringe-worthy scene in the hallway of high school.
Dude, those are ref shoes!
As part of my non-conformity, I gravitated toward things like obscure, proto-goth English bands like Bauhaus, Soft Cell, or New Order. My intense interest in these bands, coupled with my lack of interest in my classmates, meant that I chose clothing more aligned with my musical heroes than with local norms.
Bauhaus—an 80s proto-goth band I thought —I mean Hason thought—everyone should want to talk about.
Inevitably, one of my classmates made some negative comments about my appearance. Words were exchanged. At one point, my classmate said, “Look how you dress. Those are referee shoes, dude!”
He was right. They were ref shoes. I chose them because they were black—which was a good color to wear if you liked nerdy, proto-goth English bands like Bauhaus, Soft Cell, or New Order.
Now, here is where I had a chance to show some humility and take myself a little less seriously. I might have said any of the following:
“Yeah, you’re right. I just liked that they were black.”
“You got me there, Dude. [Smiling] So. . . about tomorrow. . . I shouldn’t wear the whistle I got with these?”
“They are a little unusual. Ya think next time I should go with the white ones?”
Really, anything would have been better than what I did next. In a loud, exaggerated voice, I turned to my classmate and said something like this:
“Look how YOU dress! I am not a “conformist,” nor do I want to be one. At least I can think for myself and not follow the crowd. . . I’d hate to look like a cog in the high school machine buying whatever the corporate clothing companies wanted to push this year. . . blah, blah.”
A skilled reader can probably just about imagine it. The ill-fitting secondhand clothing. Acne. Hair over one eye. Possibly, a beret. Possibly a junk jewelry brooch clasped onto my shirt. . .and the pompous, self-righteous tone of one nerd correcting another’s Klingon pronunciation and grammar.
But, I assure you, whatever you imagine, it was much, much worse. My body was shaking because even though one part of me was impressed with my lofty rhetoric, the rest of me knew I was unhinged and looked like a real eejit.
Why are you so upset, dude?
When I think back to my reaction, I can only conclude that I was fueled by resentment toward popular students. I called them names like Jocks and Troglodytes. The girls were Beckies and Barbies. I wouldn’t be caught dead attending their sporting events. And I would accept detentions rather than suffering through their pep rallies.
The fact that my school—or any school, for that matter—focused on sports seemed so arbitrary—and dumb. I would rather have listened to Phil Collins than give them even an ounce of my time or interest.
What did I lose through resentment?
I lost a lot through my resentment. We had a great basketball team. Players in my class went on to stellar college careers, and at least one played professionally in Europe. Their skills were especially impressive given how tiny my Christian High School was.
If I had been less resentful, I could have let down my guard and attended a couple of games, maybe even cheering [a little] for my classmates. Who knows, I might have even given up my Sports Grinch routine for a day and complimented the players after a good game.
Even if sports wasn’t my cup of tea, I might have been magnanimous,
rejoicing with my classmates when they won a game; mourning with them when they lost. I might have lived in harmony with athletes and cheerleaders, not being proud, but being willing to associate with popular students. And most of all, not being conceited. [Based on Romans 12:15-17]
But weren’t the popular kids big fat bullies?
The kids I was assiduously avoiding friendships with weren’t ruthless social climbers. In fact, I was good friends with some of them before high school. But there are two interesting laws at work in the dynamics of ideals and resentment.
Law One: The Ideal violates nothing about itself by being charitable toward those who don’t meet The Ideal. For example, The Successful Mother is exactly herself when she quietly supports a struggling one—the kinder and more supportive she is to her struggling peer, the more she embodies the ideal. And The Popular Student is acting consistently when he acknowledges the success and contributions of others—the more he builds up others, the more likable he becomes.
Not so with the resentful fringe.
Law Two: Resentful people diminish themselves when they acknowledge goodness in those they despise. How can a Rosanne Barr genuinely compliment a June Cleaver without feeling like she has heaped burning coals upon her own head? And not that this is a real example from my life or anything, but if a high school non-conformist absent-mindedly hums a widely popular song, won’t his friends burst into laughter at his foolishness? In the perverted world of ideal-hating, nothing is more embarrassing than being caught honoring your enemy.
Ultimately, resentment holds us hostage. It prevents us from enjoying life, and it cuts us off from people.
A spiteful pleasure
I’ll admit, there is pleasure in spite. You get to feel superior—to even your superiors. There’s a seductive sense that you are on the good guy side of an epic conflict—whoever you resent is vile, and you wonder aloud, “How could anyone be for [insert something you despise]?
But, it is a pinched pleasure—one that comes from banishing happiness and clamping down on your thoughts and feelings lest you admit a generous thought about your fellow man. Resentment makes us the sort of people Jesus warned about—those who strain out a gnat while swallowing a camel. It seems like we are doing a great thing by knocking down popular people and lifting up the outcast, but we become as ruthless and unforgiving toward “Normies” as any mean girl could ever be toward freaks and geeks.
Can being resentful hurt us by keeping us closed off and unable to offer simple kindness to our peers? The resentful person answers, “Yes. And let it hurt still more!”
As you read this post, you may have wondered what an obscure English proto-goth might sound like. Well, this is a light introduction. It only got weirder from here. You can decide for yourself if I would have better spent my time watching my classmates play basketball.
Thank you for writing down your thoughts and sharing them with us! I always enjoy reading them and appreciate your style, flare, and honesty that come out as you connect our lives to God's word.
Echo and the Bunnymen was had some catch tunes, but man that video did not age well.
But I thought of you as more of a Flock of Seagulls fan.
Thanks for these posts. I appreciate the humor and the perspective.