Part II of a series exploring the delightful world of today’s young man. Part I appeared in The Curator September 23, 2011.
He wasn’t sure when it had happened. When had he lost his ability to socialize — namely, with those who attend idea seminars in Mumbai and Dakar?
He considered himself a caring individual. He, too, had once wanted to make a difference in the world. He was aware of human rights violations. He knew his world leaders. He had a minor in political science, for God’s sake.
In high school, he had been the president of the debate team. His eloquent speech and impressive vocabulary had earned him a scholarship to attend a weekend conference at the local legislature. Once there, he had been elected as the opposition representative. Vigorously pounding his fists on the desk, his showmanship had attracted not only the attention of members of the opposite sex but members of his sex. Even the Speaker of the House congratulated him on his charisma and professionalism.
All of this to say, the man was a political animal. Was. But he had lost his bravado. He could think of nothing to contribute to the conversation at hand.
“The role of the president is not simply a mouthpiece for the public . . . ”
“No, I completely disagree . . . You exhibit a great lack of profundity on this issue . . . ”
“The president is largely, if not entirely, a mouthpiece for the electorate . . . A motivational speaker for the ignorant and those capable of understanding little more than simplified jargon . . . ”
He thought about contributing a scornful remark about the ignorant, but he couldn’t think of any. He considered entering the conversation by dropping the name of his sister’s boyfriend’s father’s friend who knew a certain political pundit who had said something profound on this very subject. But, for the first time in his life (and possibly for the very first time in the history of New York), the name-dropping game itself was snubbed.
Thanks to a recent book he had read on the subject, by a well-known American intellectual, he was newly aware that his name-dropping habit only nurtured a false sense of glory-by-association. The reality was that none of “his” connections were really his. And he was pretty sure the other guys knew it, too.
As the conversation moved on to the sorry state of global aid programs, he considered contributing an anecdotal remark about grain prices, but, it felt so contrived. I mean, what did he really, actually know about these issues? Sure, the pronouncements made by his companions weren’t a result of any first-handout experiences either, but, he thought to himself, at least they had probably read this week’s Economist.
Standing outside on the roof of the club he tuned out of the conversation and took in the vast and sparkling skyline. What a skyline. It looked like one of those Lite Brite toys his sister had as a kid. He remembered the first time he had flown into New York City at night. It had been magical. The lights of the boroughs sparkling below looked like a field of jewels. He wondered why they couldn’t talk about the skyline.
Stalling for time, he attempted to convey that his lack of involvement in the discussion was a matter of cautionary discernment rather than an absence of anything. He thoughtfully rested his thumb under his chin and pressed his index finger to his cheek. Like any balanced adjudicator weighing the strength of the statements of others, he pursed his lips and nodded his head left or right every 3.5 seconds. But, focused as he was on being perceived as studious, he was easily distracted by the discussion of a group of women nearby:
“I mean, I’m a cheerleader! Am I not a cheerleader?”
“Sharon, you’re totally a cheerleader.”
“I mean, I am inclusive. I invite everyone I know. I always encourage people. I am nice to everyone. Am I not nice?”
“You’re totally nice.”
“BUT, I’m sorry . . . ”
He had a feeling Sharon wasn’t sorry at all. He had a feeling she was about to say something brutal about someone.
“She is a b****. She is.”
“Ashley?! No. Ashley’s great.”
“Great? No. She is a liar. She is manipulative. She is selfish, backstabbing and a . . . ”
Someone was looking at him. He could feel it. Distracted by the conversation of the women he had forgotten to nod. Now, Ted and the others had mistaken his lack of assent in the conversation as sign of a divergent political opinion. Better than admitting his distracted state of mind or divulging his true apathy on the matter, he casually responded, “The situation under discussion bears few distinguishing characteristics from that of the historical reality of pre-war Poland.” (Duh.)
There was a pause, and then the others quickly, loudly, eagerly, one over top of the other, responded with similarly divergent examples from conferences and seminars and workshops and meetings with interesting people of all different tribes and customs . . . in Aspen. No one provided his or her citations, which only confirmed his suspicion that it was a load of H.G. Frankfurt. Contributing his last perfunctory nod, he excused himself from the game to go meet the cheerleaders.
Part III to follow!