“Dude you need to get your head examined.”
“Your parents must have not taught you to be ashamed of your arrogance”
“One of the dumbest, inaccurate and blatantly pro-feminist, anti-male articles written.”
“Typical perspective from a young 22-23 year old who hasn't been around the block nearly enough and spends too much time listening to those liberal brainwashing professors.”
“Do not blame her for opinions - which is another word for prejudices (?) - that have been relentlessly drummed into her since she was a kid…”
The first time I wrote a column that got more than one negative comment, I was in my sophomore year. I had grown up in a world where teachers talked to me in compliment sandwiches, where I got a big trophy for participating in soccer every season. The meanest thing anyone had ever said to me happened in third grade, when my frenemy Cory cut me off and said “Nobody cares.”
I must have refreshed the page fifty times throughout the day. I never got terribly upset or cried or had a deep personal crisis about my stupidity or arrogance or ignorance or supposed mental illness. But the flames did cause anxiety—so much so that a good friend, seeing my obsessive refreshing, commented: “HEY SHE’S A NICE LADY!!”
Many people don’t realize that Chronicle columnists aren’t allowed to comment back in the comments section, to clarify misconceptions or provide extra information in our defense. For a long time, this really bothered me. I am a stereotypical people-pleaser, a child of the overly-accommodating. I’m sorry I offended you! I wanted to say. Or I think you misinterpreted what I said, or I disagree—let’s talk about this.
But I couldn’t engage. So I quickly developed a defense mechanism centered around completely devaluing the opinion of the commenter. Well he’s an idiot, I’d think. He completely misinterpreted that argument, or she doesn’t understand this critical piece, or—if I was being really petty—for crying out loud, he doesn’t even know how to spell.
This was a solid enough defense mechanism. But then, after a piece I wrote last semester, it failed me. I got one of the good old flames:
“Jesus Effing Christ. You have been so brainwashed that you have zero capacity for critical thought…You should demand your tuition money back.”
It was a typical flame—but I recognized the alias (the person in question has since deleted his or her account). The same account had provided the sole comment on the piece I had written the week before. There, the person had said:
“This piece will slip by unappreciated, but it is brilliant, showing awareness, acceptance of reality, humility, and ultimately optimism…I think you are poised for a bright and stable future.”
Oh.
So the comment wasn’t from a person filled with blind hate. It wasn’t from a person who just got a kick out of tearing people down. It was from someone who had at least some opinions that…well, frankly, I agreed with, thank you very much.
And all of a sudden, that crowd of dozens of flamers that existed in the back of my head morphed from inhuman hate-filled blobs to real people—people who I knew and loved, people who I would debate against and lose to. And the crowd joined that voice in my head that was always present but often silenced—that voice that said, whenever I opened my mouth, "maybe you’re wrong".
If this voice had gotten louder a few years earlier, before I had built up my defenses and been sufficiently affirmed, I might have been crippled. But, as it was, it joined forces with my old conviction to create something I’ve grown to rely on. The evidence you have says you’re right, I’ll tell myself—because if I have conviction about something, there’s a reason why—but maybe you’re wrong.
The maybe you’re wrong isn’t a casual statement that I don’t mean. It isn’t a caveat to fall back on so I don’t look like an idiot. It’s an actual, legitimate consideration. And, as it’s grown, it’s also grown my ability to look at the world around me with a critical eye. The louder it gets, the better debater I am, the better writer I am—the better person I am.
Believing that you’re absolutely right makes you afraid of new information because that new information could prove that you’re incorrect. Believing that you’re absolutely wrong makes you afraid to say anything in the first place. But believing a little bit of both—that is fearlessness. That balance is what it takes to truly begin refining your vision of the world until it aligns most closely with reality.
A few weeks ago, I met with a professor who told me that I lacked potential in a skill that I valued—even cherished, and certainly relied upon for my future plans.
I held back tears until the meeting was over. As I walked down the stairs, I felt my brain oscillating between the two extremes. Stupid professor, doesn’t know anything, I thought. That was immediately followed by, he’s probably the most qualified person to evaluate me, so his word is the best evidence I have. I need to accept that I can’t do this.
I reached the door to the quad. I needed to stop crying before I stepped outside. I stopped walking, and, standing in front of the door, I had a moment. This moment is why I wrote this column, why I love my old flames and why I wish everyone could have the agonizing joy of being regularly criticized so that they could experience it themselves.
I thought about what he had said, and I readjusted my understanding of my own abilities in my mind to account for the new information. Maybe I was wrong. It was certainly a possibility, and it was probably healthy to get acquainted with it. And then I thought, matter-of-factly, without challenge or sass—with fearlessness.
Well I guess we’ll see.
And I pushed open the door.
Ellie Schaack is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every other Tuesday.
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