Carpe Calamum

In a recent conversation, a colleague of mine stated that he had already grown weary of "these Generation Y Millennials" because they're all "self-absorbed, over-privileged narcissists." Aside from a litany of criticisms about work ethic, unrealistic expectations, and obsessive parents, he also derided Generation Y for their incessant blog posts and status updates that pose each individual as "grand protagonists in their own unfolding epic." In reality, he pointed out, these Millennials are decidedly unremarkable and boring. The conversation, as is often the case in my life, shifted into a one-sided diatribe about a particular topic. I tend to let people spill their thoughts and this moment was no different.

Now I'm not one to advocate for such an agonistic attitude towards other generations. As a society, we're already divided along lines of class, gender, political orientation, religious belief, and even regional crypto-fascism. Generational gaps are part of the human condition, but stoking the fires of resentment by throwing fuel upon them is no way to reconcile one's problems with the oncoming future generations. Having been born in the late 1970's, it's often hard for me to know if I'm an extremely young Gen-X'er or if I'm among the eldest of Generation Y. I'm not even certain these sorts of groupings matter in a larger context. The old seem to distrust the young, regardless of specific sociological terminology.

What struck me as memorable was his insistence that seeing oneself as the protagonist of one's own life story was unquestionably self-centered and therefore wrong. To be sure, focusing on one's own life to the exclusion of the reality of social living is not wise. Valuing yourself far above all others, seeing other individuals as means to an end, and admitting no responsibility for one's bad decisions are all undesirable personality traits. They're not generationally specific, however. They're sociopathic, but not generational. The assertion that reverberated from our conversation was that seeing oneself as the central character of one's own life was egotistical and conceited.

I thought back to my post last week, where I tried to consider and respect the unimaginable complexity in the minds of the sea of strangers passing through my field of vision in a given week. I thought about my acquaintances and if our interactions were sincere or simply polite exchanges. I thought about my friends. There are, of course, some that I care for more deeply than I do others. There are some with whom I share a great deal in common. There are others that I see often and for whom I hope I'm good company. There are some that I regrettably see only once every four years or so, but for whom I still nurture the glowing ember of friendship. There are a few that I will never see again, for whom the ember glows eternally. There are some that want more from me than I can give and there are still others that would probably like me better if they could selectively forget certain moments. In addition to this perplexing array of faces, there those with whom I share bonds of blood and irrevocable circumstance. I can't even begin to wrap my head around the variations within those relationships.

I once owned a calendar from Despair Inc., a company that mocked motivational posters by providing dark parodies of those products. That calendar featured a variety of deeply satirical quips set below stock photos. This image, in particular, was one of my favorites.

 

While I'm not interested in deconstructing the depressing message of the parodied poster, the concept of being the common feature of all one's relationships seems relevant. I recognize the caveat that my colleague probably wanted to provide: That self-absorption is a terrible trait, worthy of disdain. On the other hand, I reject the notion that it's somehow wrong to take agency and ownership in one's life, as the central character. I have no other frame of reference for the world than my own and I'm not convinced that the ascetic life one would have to lead to eliminate personal agency is even a possible way to live.

For better or worse, this is the only life that I am allowed to have. It could end on the way to work today or it could persist, if the technology is available to me, for a hundred more years. I want to be free to live it as I like, within reasonable boundaries. Living amongst others and interacting with other self-interested parties urges me to consider others in my actions. I have no problem with that, on a conceptual level. That being said, there's more than a subtle line between being the captain of one's own life and being a vain, narcissistic sociopath.

Such a recognition isn't evil and we're not doomed to experience profound disappointment "when the flower of the world doesn't open for them", as he eventually claimed all Generation Y would be. As an individual person with self-interest and agency, living in a equal society filled with other similar types, I'm allowed to let that self-interest guide me to new relationships and away from old ones, if the moment presents itself. It isn't a sign of conceit to envision myself as an individual, even if I am simultaneously part of a much larger whole. If my life is part of a long-term struggle towards some resolution, shouldn't I most confidently be the protagonist of that long tale? At the end of the day, the story is my own and I am its primary author.

Being the author of one's life allows one the opportunity to not only have agency in one's decisions, but also to make use of the ability to write certain people out of our story. The true narcissists, the true sociopaths, and the true malcontents are not people we must always suffer gladly. Some people pass through our lives to enrich us, while others intend on impoverishing us of something, whether it be our time, our energy, or our individualistic spirit. It's not unhealthy to prune back a tree's branches and it's not unhealthy to rationally look at one's metaphorical "friend list" and click a few red Xs.

But more than that, it's not unhealthy to envision oneself as the pilot of one's own craft. The world in which one lives guarantees that none of us have total authorial control, as situations emerge that are beyond our ability to shape. Knowing that, why surrender any more of that authorial control to whims of chance and coincidence? Take out your favorite red pen and start making a few edits here and there. If it's time to write someone or some place out of the book of your life, seize the pen from the hesitant hands of resigned submission and start writing with purpose. If the time has come to write someone or some place into your story, set the scene for the moment with your own intuitive imagination. If the time is ripe to tack in a bold, unexpected direction, permission is only a few pen strokes away. Seize the pen. Carpe Calamum. Keep on writing, with great intelligence and sincerity, until the ink runs dry.