On writing about things I'm afraid to say.

I'm a silver-lining thinker.

I think that's what marries the thinker in me with the feeler in me.  I think and think and think and think... but regardless of the gloomy depths that my brainwaves take me, I always seem to grasp at the straws of a happy ending, or snuggle the warm-fuzzy, or lasso a gleaming bit of gold out of the bottom of the barrel.  I do the same thing with people.  I try to find the redeeming qualities, excuse the rough edges, and embrace a version of someone that may- or may not- exist.

But why?

It's not like everything in life has to have a happy ending.  In fact, in my experience, it doesn't always have a happy ending.  What life does have, more often than happy endings, are thrown-in towels, paused boxing matches, and blurry lines confusing what looks like resolve and what resolve actually is.  And I fear I've come to a nasty and depressing conclusion:  I find the silver lining because I'm afraid to deal with the dark cloud.

Crap.

I shove myself into a box of tacit assent and conformity because the people I desperately want to love me and respect me don't want to hear me talk about privilege, the fact that I HATE it when people use the word retarded and I think less of them for it, the fact that I hate myself for sitting on a throne of judgement leering at people who use words like 'gay' and 'retarded' and 'rape' and 'bitch' to describe things that actually have nothing to do with sexual orientation, brain development, actual rape culture, or sexism; greed, racism, double-standards, generational poverty, environmentalism, feminist theory, among so so many others.  There are very, very few people that I personally know who would enjoy any of the above conversations (at the risk of disagreeing, and being forced to really think) because it makes people uncomfortable.

And I don't like to be uncomfortable.  Because when I feel uncomfortable, I feel alone.  When I talk about uncomfortable things, I usually discover that I differ from people I formerly considered like-minded.  Or, I feel justified in my feelings, and find that I am in agreeance with others.  It's a gamble to talk about uncomfortable things-- so at the risk of feeling alone, rejected, or being seen in a different (read: unfavorable) light, I try to gloss over the tough stuff with a silver-lining frame of mind.

But why?

In college I took a class were on the first day we read an article that boldly stated that people are uncomfortable with ambiguity of any kind.  That's why small children sometimes ask embarrassing questions:  "is that a girl or a boy?" or  "why is he in a wheelchair?" or "why is she sleeping on that bench?"  We don't like what we don't know-- and we learn early on that we should be embarrassed or afraid to dialogue openly about it. We create a behind-closed-doors culture, which we call being "polite" and "discrete."  We insinuate that this is the only space in which those questions are allowed, and even then they are given cut and dry answers as we hurry to move on to less uncomfortable matters.  Intentional or not, we grow up in an environment where knowing about things is absolutely different from understanding or respecting them-- and worlds away from being comfortable with them.

See, I grew up in a home with a disabled brother, so I learned early on how to patiently wait on an answer to a question, how to interact with different-ableness, and I learned early on how to ask if he needs help-- not just assume he is incapable and needs a rescuer.  I also learned early on that using the word "retarded" does nothing but demean my intelligence and insult people that I care about; it carries no humorous weight and no grinding quality to anyone but the one who is using it.  I learned the same goes for words like "gay" and "rape,"  just because you can use it doesn't mean you should. Embrace the sacredness of the experiences of others, have a little dignity, pull out a dictionary and learn a proper insult.  Additionally, I learned that nobody has it all together, regardless of what they display on the outside-- we're all a little different-- and we all need each other in bonds of love and respect if we expect to glean anything good from community.

Community.  We all seek after communities of people were we can align ourselves systemically to a belief, group of beliefs, or way of life.  And once we ingratiate ourselves into a community, we come into this false assumption that everyone around us thinks and does exactly how we think and do.  This is not true.  Therefore, it is always a good idea to invite a conversation with someone in your community about any of the aforementioned topics and beyond before you openly hate, bash, stereotype, judge, or generally do or say anything else that would stick your foot so far down your throat it would emerge from your own ass again (trust me-- I've done it plenty of times, and it is no fun).  It's time to get a little uncomfortable in community-- because community should be a place for honesty and growth.

All of that being said:  I'm still a silver-lining thinker.  I love that about myself.  I love seeing the good, finding the positive, digging for the hope in everything.  But I've also come to the conclusion that no one lives a life worth remembering in this space.  No one lives a life that changes the world without rocking the boat a little. And I want to live a life that I am proud of.  A life that I believe reflects the Jesus that I know and love.

Therefore, it's time.  Time to start with the silver-lining and work my way in.  Time to write about the things I'm afraid to write about.  Say the things I'm afraid to talk about.  And stand for the things that, in my heart, I already believe in.

Here goes nothing.