A few weeks ago, I helped my roommate put together a dresser. With the pieces sprawled over the floor, we methodically solved the n-dimensional topology problem that is an Ikea product. It was getting late in our Brooklyn apartment, but we managed to keep pretty quiet — there was little hammering required, until we got to the back of the dresser.
There, the Swedes required a bit of violence. We had to attach the back by hammering in several dozen small nails. Needless to say, we were going to have to make some noise. “I’m not so sure about this,” I said after loudly driving in a few of the nails. “We’re not going to make many friends if we keep this up.”
I tell this story as a good sign that I care quite a bit about what other people think. This fact is especially true when it comes to my writing. Sure, I’ll opine and construct new ideas as long as only my close friends and colleagues can hear me. When I have the opportunity to say those thoughts in public, however, I clam up.
What if it gives people the wrong thoughts about my employer? What if a personal essay illustrating some interesting aspect of my life offends a friend or member of my family? What if someone decides to appoint me to a government position someday (Hey—a kid can dream), and opponents dredge up a long-forgotten tweet suggesting I’ll ruin the country?
I had coffee with a college professor of mine a few months ago, and we spoke a bit about this topic. A while back, he told me, he was discussing activism with his students and asking why they don’t seem to publicly care about the issues of the day nearly as much as our predecessors did about Vietnam, nuclear disarmament, and so on.
“But, professor,” one young woman said to him (I paraphrase), “we constantly are told to carefully monitor what we do online. For example, a stray comment about Wikileaks can ruin any chance we have of getting a security clearance one day. How do we talk about issues we’re passionate about if we’re supposed to preserve a clean record for the future?
My professor was struck by her dilemma. In the past, you could walk the picket lines or pen a blistering op-ed in the college newspaper without little fear of it coming back to haunt you later. You could sharpen your views for fuller publication or leave them behind, safe in the obscurity of youth.
How do we talk about issues we’re passionate about if we’re supposed to preserve a clean record for the future?
That’s not true anymore. Take Tal Fortgang at Princeton and his essay on being admonished to “Check your privilege,” for example. Disregarding for the moment the merits of his views, we have to recognize that he was thrust into the spotlight and co-opted by forces much greater than himself, likely to his detriment. He may have preferred for his opinions to be discussed in the more forgiving atmosphere of his university until he felt ready to approach a more national audience on his own. Now, whether Fortang likes it or not, this story will follow him for the rest of his career.
That said, I admire the young writers of the world who have the courage to write deeply compelling pieces about their lives, observations, and views. They (usually) recognize that they will step on toes and that they have begun constructing their permanent record online. I (and I believe others similar to me), however, prefer to operate on the periphery of this grand conversation, hesitant to join in for fear of ruining some yet-unknown opportunity.
Back to my efforts with DIY furniture. Before the struggle between my concerns about neighborly annoyance and my roommate’s need for a place to put his clothes could resolve, a firetruck pulled up to the apartment, leading to a building-wide field trip to the sidewalk courtesy of a smoking extension cord. We used this distraction as cover to bang in the last few nails — my fears of bothering anyone else were unfounded.
You might expect this twist in the story to lead to a resolution to go out there and tell the world my opinions. Ideally, I would begin getting more provocative with #SundayCoffee, stretch my creative muscles on Medium, and engage more readily on Twitter. I would recognize that there are plenty of late-arriving firetrucks to cover up my metaphorical 10:00 P.M. hammering. Unfortunately, it will take more than a single conveniently illustrative life experience to break out of my shell.
So, I’ll be safe. I’ll ask a question or two on Twitter, I’ll innocently ruminate on Medium, and I’ll generally operate in nonthreatening obscurity. I’ll continue to respect the great writers I read every day. That will have to be sufficient for now, even though it’s a behavior motivated by fear. After all:
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