I have a serious issue about seriousness and being taken seriously.
The above is not word play, it’s plain and simple, I’m talking about a major concern I’ve been having since back in 2000. When people were freaking out about the Y2K, I was freaking out about whether I would ever be taken seriously in life.
The year 2000 was the year I delved into a hobby that would soon bring me to a realization that I could never be as ‘deep’ as most of my fellow hobbyists. The hobby in question was writing poems, and writing in general.
Back then we didn’t have blogs yet, well some internet ‘elites’ do, but not me. I write for a small independent magazine called Trolley Magazine, and it was an in-and-out thing. The editors were my seniors in campus, who were kind enough to let a young, inexperienced girl like me write about things that amused me: humor.
And then I got into this whole new circle of friends, consisting of… poets. People with great literature knowledge, all very active in discussions in a wondrous thing called ‘mailing lists’ (google it, millennials). What do they discuss about? They talk about other people’s poetries, the feels they get from them, the raw emotions they caught from the choice of words, the beauty, the eeriness, the anger…
Basically shit I know nothing about.
But I want them to take me seriously.
And then I began to try getting my hands on books I thought I should read. I won’t name the books here due to the fear of being judged (nah, I’m kidding. I’m just too lazy to type them all down.), but yes, I got all the books I thought all writers should read. Did I read them all? Nope. Just two and then I got drowsy, slept and never thought about reading them again.
I tried to give comments on things I didn’t really understand, read every analysis there was about so-and-so’s work and why is it very important, with ‘Friends’ playing in the background on my VCD player. Before I knew it, I was rooting for Monica Geller’s boyfriend Pete Becker, played by Jon Favreau, when he competed in the UFC. All discussion about poetry? Gone.
What about the ‘fake it until you make it’ thing?
If there’s anything in life I suck at is to fake something. Trust me, you’ll know when I fake it. I’m a bad liar like that, so that was not an option.
Did I give up eventually?
Yes. I gave up learning something that doesn’t fully interest me. I loved writing poetry, but to learn more, apparently was too hard. And sadly, the giving up didn’t come hand-in-hand with the guilt. The guilt of not being interested in things that are ‘deep and meaningful’.
Things that are serious.
This bothers me a lot, apparently, all throughout my adult life. I mean, I was able to sit through a whole new television show, writing down the segments and figuring out the show’s structure just out of curiosity, but couldn’t seem to find the time to just read a passage of a certain serious book.
I was able to name all the cast of the Taiwanese drama F4, but can’t seem to wanna watch a political debate -which probably was more enlightening so I would have been aware about what’s going on in my country.
I was also able to write funny TV scripts, funny stories, and draw funny-looking characters. But never ever could manage to read a full book about the author’s struggles of life, which makes me a really sad clown. I want to relate and appreciate but I just could not. What kind of a person am I?
How the hell is the world going to take me seriously if I can’t appreciate serious issues?
And in the midst of my restlessness, I was founded by the morning (humorous) radio show and fell in love with stand-up comedy -which sadly I don’t do anymore. Not exactly the ideal things to do if you want to confirm you’re a serious person who wants to be taken seriously, now is it?
This kind of worry comes like sudden relapses. Most days I’m my own self who gives zero fucks about what people think about me, however some days I question myself:
If I feel this guilty about not wanting to know more about the serious issues going on around me, then there must be something really wrong because nobody is pressuring me to even want to know these things. Politics, business, economics, and the god-awful mathematics, I feel guilty if I’m ignorant about these things. What’s wrong, then?
In one of my soul-searching moments, came an epiphany:
If all human beings are created to be the same, then what’s the point? Some people are designed to be serious, some are designed to be clowns. As sad as it may sound, if my destiny is to become some sort of clown, then I better take clowning seriously. I can’t afford to forget how to clown. Because the world depends on me. There can’t be too many lawyers and politician, there should also be clowns to balance things out.
I’m still trying to accept myself and my purpose in life. One step at a time. Maybe I won’t be fully able to, and will always seek to be taken seriously, but I now know that I should not be regretful about my interests, the things that keep me happy.
So what if I like humor? And so what if I understand TV more than the average viewer should? So what if I am happy the way I like to be happy?
People have their own dark sides, and mine probably is too far back as I often use humor as a defense mechanism. Or has my dark side gone away due to the lack of use? I don’t even know.
Maybe nothing is wrong.
The only thing wrong about all this is giving it too much thought, and deciding to post it as a blogpost. Maybe this is the dark side talking. The deep, dark, serious and elusive side of me.
But seriously, I have no idea.