Ambiguity

I know why I failed miserably as an Army officer; I cannot handle living with ambiguity. I need the world to be black and white, not some opaque shade situated somewhere in between. Of course real life is muddied by misunderstood intentions, fear of rejection, pride or ego, jealousy, and a litany of other petty human failings. These conflicting forces require us to be able to discern contextual clues unclouded by our own prejudices. Yet, decoding what others really mean is a skill set I never really developed.

Instead, childhood taught me to impose a rigid order on the world: everything is an unrealized danger, and life is an unending series of threats to be negotiated. Therefore, I should evaluate every experience through the lens of how much harm it can inflict. When I see the world as only potential harms, is it no wonder that I retreat to a place of safety — or at least the feeling of safety?

I ended up spending my most of my weekend staying in bed avoiding life. I had been invited to a pool party on Saturday, but frankly it just seemed like social contact when I have lost my ability to trust in the good intentions of others. I don’t KNOW that people have issues with me, rather I fear what others — including people I consider friends — may actually think of me.

There is a superficiality that society requires. Be polite. Be kind. But then there are the unguarded moments when you can catch a glimpse of people and how they really feel. Sure, they may be polite and/or kind to your face, but is that just polite society or is it truly meant?

Of course figuring out which is which requires that ability to discern contextual clues unclouded by our own prejudices. Yet my judgment is clouded by one of my worst insecurities — learning that I am merely tolerated. So like an ostrich, I’d rather bury my head in the earth avoiding that disappointment. Why experience a party where I am not sure what people really feel about me, when I can stay safe at home? You can’t be disappointed by others if you are not there to be disappointed.

It is the nature of that potential disappointment that is truly terrifying. It unlocks the core memories of growing up a Black kid in 80s America surrounded by White friends who could drop an unexpected nugget of racism in your face then a moment later ask if you thought the Millennium Falcon was faster than the Starship Enterprise.

As I aged into my later teen years and the social angst that is American high-school, I learned that a surprising number of my friends’ parents had told them not to date Black kids. You don’t need a burning cross in your front yard to understand that there a very real impacts of being the wrong race in America. It felt like every day I was reminded that I was the wrong race.

The reminders of being the wrong race didn’t stop at high school graduation.
As a college student you get to face the microaggressions of low expectations in several new ways and from unexpected sources. For example, as an non-traditional student at different campuses during my undergrad sojourn, I would receive invitations and reminders of increasing urgency from the minority student office that I really needed to stop by for counseling otherwise I might never adjust to the rigors of college life. There wasn’t a single semester I failed to make the Deans List. In a weird kind of symmetry, I also got to face the White students whose GPAs did not compare well to mine telling me that I was the Affirmative Action case.

Which this didn’t stop at undergrad. I got lucky and was admitted to grad school at arguably the most prestigious university in America. This is also the same university in which one of the more august and celebrated faculty members in my future department argued that the university had lowered its standards so that black students could be seen as succeeding. Not to mention the political right’s unrelenting grasp of DEI as a way to attack any minority that manages to gain excellence in the traditional pathways.

The super irony of growing up the wrong race in the very racially conscious 1980s is that today I am constantly surprised by the many people don’t even realize I am a person of color. It seems I have been extended an asterisked Whiteness. They know I am not White White, but they assume I have just some kind of genetic eccentricities in my 23 and Me pie chart.

To add credence to this point, there was the time I hosted a pool party at my house and one of the attendees, in front of everyone else, asked me how I had such a good tan in January. While relatively benign, and understanding people are allowed to make mistakes, it still was a bit jarring. In fact, sometimes the gays can be especially bracing in their willful ignorance.

Perhaps it is the foolish thinking that as an oppressed minority themselves, gay men would be a bit more understanding of others’ struggles. I came out later in life, just in time for social media and gay dating websites (well before the advent of apps). I got used to sorting through the ads that declared “No Fats, No Fems, No Blacks, No Asians.” Better yet, I got to hear the gays complain about the proliferation of pride flags when clearly, in their opinion, the original rainbow pride flag was for everyone*.

In fact, an acquaintance stopped me during a conversation about politics and asked why I prefaced so many of my comments with “As a black man” or some other way of indicating that I was a person of color. I told him that if I didn’t plant a gigantic marker of difference that he (or any other person) might not understand that I may have very different understandings of the world. What he might assume as a given, may not be truly universal. And that the gays had a problem of universalizing their singular lived experiences.

So very clearly there is a racial component to wanting to avoid disappointment, but that is layered upon what I imagine is the usual amount of internal distress about avoiding the negative. So for a couple of reasons, I find myself withdrawing more and more to avoid disappointment. Yet the imposed solitary confinement that comes with avoiding disappointment isn’t good for my mental health either. It seems that I am most in need of others to try to overcome my fear and loathing of needing others.

Reaching out to others is the solution, but it also provides the grounds for more disappointment. If I reach out, but no one answers, then I will have confirmation that I am on my own and must never rely upon needing others. Most fucked up out of all of this is that now I live an ambiguous state of not knowing if I can rely upon my others, because to not know feels better than to know for sure I can’t rely upon them. So rather than deal with those difficulties, I stayed in bed all weekend scrolling through TikTok.