I was weird once, or so I thought. I was different, but not that different. I didn’t have any problem fitting in with the crowd, but I needed them less than others seemed to. I was defiantly independent and at times contrarian. I was not a rule breaker, per se, but didn’t always believe that the rules applied to me. They were for other people, and I was doing my own thing. I seemed to get in trouble at school quite a bit, despite being a good student.
I believed in all the big technicolor sins. Don’t steal, lie, cheat, or gossip. Adultery wasn’t really an option and I had no ill intentions with my neighbor’s ass. Murder was out of the question, of course, but not killing. I shot a bird once, then hid its quivering body in the garage in shame. I knew it was wrong because I did it casually and without cause. I didn’t even think I could do it, until I did, then regretted it terribly.
Murder of another human being was out of the question, of course, but probably more from a fear of prison than any moral quandary. We grew up watching cowboys and cops on the television and in the movies; men who killed with ease, contempt, and abundant righteousness. It didn’t seem so far-fetched to fantasize about killing the bad guy. They were bad, after all, and deserved to die, didn’t they?
I was raised to be polite and kind, compassionate and generous, so that I came across as decent and good. I was precocious and articulate, comfortable with speaking to my elders, though I did not always consider them to be my intellectual superiors. This, at times, got me into trouble. I was a difficult student, not because I struggled to learn, but because I questioned everything, including the authority they assumed was beyond reproach.
I was respectful, as a rule, but you had to earn it. I did not truck with bullies or tyrants. I treated others the way I wanted to be treated, the way I expected to be treated, and would respond in kind when I wasn’t. Disrespect me, and I would disrespect you. It seemed logical and fair. I believed in justice.
I played at being weird, perhaps, at various times in my life, but I wasn’t really all that odd, just ahead of my time. It usually manifested itself in a hairstyle I tried, or a fashion choice I made—something outside of the norm of the day. I didn’t fear being different, and that was enough. I leaned into it. I was confident in my desire to be different and this gave me power because I didn’t care.
When you’re a confident kid, not everyone will like you. In fact, some will actively take a visceral disliking to you, both peers as well as people in authority. They say you are cocky, arrogant, and full of yourself, but they don’t say that you’re weird.
Confidence is intoxicating, after all.
All too often, we mistake confidence for arrogance, and they can, at times, feel very similar. To my way of thinking, confidence can be backed up with performance, whereas arrogance often cannot. It mostly comes down to whether you try to lord it over others or whether you recognize some humility in the natural gifts you were given.
Whenever I have the chance to give advice to young people, especially those trying to attract a partner, I tell them that they have to work at making themselves happy. Find the things that you enjoy and then pursue them. If you’re having a good time, there will never be a shortage of people who wish to join you. We are all enamored by those who seem to be enjoying life. We want whatever it is that they have.
I was always largely self-sufficient because I amused myself, and was doing what I wanted to do, regardless of what anyone else thought. I kept my own counsel as to what was interesting, fun, or cool. I was influential, not because I required followers, but because I had confidently chosen a path and was enjoying myself on it, and I found others who chose to come along.
The truth is, I was always fairly conventional in my thinking, just a little forward thinking. I think I had a good feel for what was interesting and cool. What my father liked to call “the gift of discernment.”
Essentially, I had good taste, was curious, and wasn’t afraid to try new things. I’ve known people who truly embrace the whole weirdness thing, and I don’t think that was ever really my bag. I didn’t embrace fringe concepts or nerdom, never sought solace in a subculture, other than my brief dalliance with punk rock. In truth, I just liked the look of it. It wasn’t my identity, just my outfit for a time.
Sometimes I wonder how things would have gone had I chosen a different path, made a few different choices in life. I’m not gay, nor do I have any interest in wearing women’s clothing, but I do think it’s ludicrous that men don’t regularly wear skirts. Dresses make zero sense to me at all, as incredibly impractical no what your gender, but a skirt makes all the sense in the world. I want to look masculine, but artistic and creative is always welcome. Men’s clothing choices are so conventional and dull.
I think if my wife hadn’t grown up in such a conservative small town, I would dress far more flamboyantly than I do, simply for the artistry of it. I still don’t think that makes me weird, but maybe I don’t really know what that is.