When I think back to the days of elementary school, recess on the
torn tire swing and kickball
games bordering on hostile, it seems that everyone would have been
labeled an optimist. No one approached the plate expecting to strike
out; there was always a small grain of hope lodged in the back of
our imaginations that this time, we would kick the red rubber ball
out past the border of mowed grass, finally proving that yes, we were
indispensable to the team.
Unfortunately, elementary school turned to middle school where the
future cheerleaders dumped spaghetti on girls’ heads and gave each
other eating disorders. Then middle school turned into high school
where the same kids you used to have snowball fights with wouldn’t
acknowledge your existence if you passed them in an empty hall. We
all hoped for college, the Taj
Mahal of life. It was quite a knock on the ass when the same social
hierarchies followed us to the golden years we’d been promised, like
the trail of toilet paper that had stuck to our shoes during puberty.
I have to admit that these experiences shape who you are; sometimes
it seems that your destiny depends on which side of the popular fence
you stood on ten years earlier. In college, people are quick to criticize
those who have done wrong and slow to praise those who are successes.
Education emphasizes critical thinking, argument, and analytical skills.
We’re taught how to dissect things and judge them, and unfortunately
people take the wrong skills away from these exercises. I’d argue
that it’s important to take things apart to understand how they work,
not so that they can’t be put back together again.
College makes me feel like I’ve been drafted into a war with pessimism.
My legions are falling by record numbers, succumbing to the cynic’s
bullets, convinced that the world isn’t as promising as we thought
it would turn out to be. I myself have had a few close calls with
cynic bullets. Just the other day I was wounded by one during a discussion
of world politics. I walked home from Ettinger feeling disenchanted
with the world, disappointed in the disappearance of ethics, and just
plain old dissed.
For some reason, I haven’t grown out of my optimistic
phase. It always seemed important to me to facilitate discussion and
learning, not hinder it with a pessimistic comment. Pessimists aren’t
fun to be around; you can predict that they’ll shoot down an aspiration,
roll their eyes away from dreams, and scoff their way around hope.
They’re frequently rude and habitually pissy (one might argue they’d
be better known as “Pissimistics”). And they come complete with extra
large chips on their shoulder.
I’m sure I’ll hear from all the people who argue they find themselves
in-between the optimists and pessimists in that fake title of “realist.”
Realists argue that they live in the real world. You know what I say
to that? Real cute. Realists and pessimists hide behind these titles
to avoid being hurt by society, by life, by whatever large force it
is that is responsible for irony and tragedy. Optimists aren’t unreasonable
compared to realists and pessimists; they’re braver.
I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’m judged for that. I’m told that
I’m too sensitive and that I fall too hard too quickly. Am I masochistic
for continuing to fall, for not only believing that what I want is
out there, but that I can find it? I don’t think so, and even if I’m
wrong, so what? Anyone who’s waiting around for optimists to fall
so they can say “I told you so” is wasting their time. Find something
better to do. Practice your kickball swing, maybe.
