Like Red Mark Corrections...
“We can do surgery but I think it’s best if you just let it go for now and see how he grows into it.” The dermatologists’ words were disheartening. I don’t know how old I was exactly, but I do know I had a birthmark (later identified as a broken blood vessel) prominently displayed on my right cheek for much of my youth. I absolutely hated looking in the mirror or in photographs only to be reminded of its inflamed presence. My parents and I went to several doctors to see if we could get it removed from my face, but their responses were always the same…“I could, but I don’t think it’s right.”
Never fear, by the time puberty hit, acne took over my face and distracted me from the minor blemish. Oh wait…more doctors, more medications, more suggestions…red marks still blotted out my face. If it wasn’t a cluster of blackheads on the tip of my nose, it was a massive cyst along the side of my nostril. If it wasn’t a volcanic eruption on my chin, it was a mountainous growth on my forehead. No part of my face was safe from outbreaks, and no cleaning/medication regimen answered my prayers to be clean and clear. Eventually, the broken blood vessel disappeared (they were right…eye roll), but the breakouts continued well into adulthood, making trips to the mirror traumatizing. If I were to play connect the skin mines perhaps some larger message is waiting for me in my reflection. As it stands, though, if I begin to follow one zit to another, shame begins to infect my mind, growing bigger till the poison erupts out, leaving a crater that makes me feel so hideous. So wrong.
Eventually, I stopped going to doctors to find potential solutions for my skin. Every sliver of hope created a splinter. Every silver lining disintegrated into a red…I won’t. It wasn’t till I started watching Nip/Tuck that I was confronted by the doctor, again, but this time the cuts went much deeper. Their probing question—“tell us what you don’t like about yourself”—and the brutal honesty that followed always made my skin crawl while I watched. It seemed like no patient, regardless of their beauty, power, or wealth, could stand up to the doctor’s expansive knowledge of what the ideal human form was. Sean McNamara and Christian Troy knew what was right, and their patients listened to their critiques on how nature got it so wrong. Even though it was indirect, I felt like I was under the immense scrutiny of the all-powerful, masculine image. How could I ever be right when there seems to be so much wrong with me?
It’s been a long time since I’ve watched Nip/Tuck. While my priorities have shifted dramatically from living the perfect life on the outside to embracing an imperfectly perfect wholeness from within, I still struggle under the weight of making the “right” choice in moments of indecision. It seems like those close to me would lead my life differently if in control of MATTHEW. When I’m confronted by my reflection in the mirror, red marks clutter my view, pointing to areas of weakness, desperation, and ignorance. How will I ever know what is right for me? Do I need someone with authority to step in a make some suggested edits to my life? “Don’t be upset…when you stop striving for perfection you might as well be dead.”
This is why we can’t have nice things…like red mark corrections.
Like most people, I enjoy being right and dislike when its pointed out that I’m wrong. Some might go as far as to say I’m stubborn with my opinion, and my need for “rightness” is disruptive. (Shrug) I’m sorry? If I were to guess where it began, it would have to be school. Of course, my desire to be right follows me everywhere and is the product of many different situations where I felt wrong, but school is the place where right and wrong were assessed, graded. The red marks I saw on the page when I received it back from the teacher were almost as difficult to face as the acne in the mirror.
I began to hate being wrong. Each red mark correction on a test or paper was because the teacher asked a trick question or didn’t understand what I was trying to say. I believed the teacher was the villain if they decided that I was wrong through their unfair grading, unforgiving nature, or absurd demands. Were they the ones lying to get extensions, though? Skipping class to avoid coming face to face with peers? Cheating on tests when the subject didn’t seem worthwhile enough? No…I was the villain; the actions, behavior, and attitudes associated with my need to be right destroyed the learning process. Unfortunately, I wish I could say this battle stopped after school; it continues to pop up in personal relationships, office environments, and even my writing. I become my own worst enemy when the words don’t come out right, shutting down all forward progress toward achieving my goals. But what does it stem from: my need to be right or hatred of being wrong?
The right stuff (You Got it)
There is a very special stack of papers stowed away in my makeshift filing system: about 30 graded essays, journals, and projects spanning from freshman year of college through the completion of my master’s program. Obviously, these are the papers that received the highest grades and the best feedback; the most “right” in my academic portfolio. On occasion, I will flip through the stack, read a piece I wrote, then consider the professor’s response. It brings with it a sense of pride; someone more experienced in the field is excited about my ideas and the connections I made. Even when minor red mark infractions do appear, like some spelling or grammatical error, I can overlook it because I see that I was still able to convey my point effectively. However, it’s important to note that this pride is based solely on the grade and feedback; if these external markers tipped in the other direction, I would be devastated (if I tried) or resigned to fail (if I didn’t). I would take no pride in my work unless it was given high marks by someone I respected. I wouldn’t say the inflated feeling that comes with being recognized as “right” is the best thing about being right, then. It’s so dependent on others. Too dependent.
Still, there is one particular comment I turn to when I need a bit of a boost: “I should also apologize for overlooking you in class so far this semester. Now I know better: these posts are insightful, opinionated without being overstated, and deeply rooted in the articles to which they respond.” It was a college professor sharing his thoughts on the blog I created for class. It was something we all had to do; I guess my writing surprised him. When considering my reaction to this bit of feedback, it’s not the pride that comes with being right; rather, it’s an internalized validation: I feel like I was seen, down to my core, through my writing. Mind you, I was desperately trying to uphold the facade of masculinity in class, opting to remain silent instead of sharing something that might expose me. My professor’s words encouraged me to be freer in my truth, to use my voice without fear of being labeled “wrong.”
A closer look at each paper in the stack reveals how both external pride and internalized validation are interweaved when I’m labeled “right.” Each project pushed me to write beyond myself, to take risks I was otherwise unwilling to take out loud with my authentic voice. While I wasn’t divulging all the pieces of myself like I do here, I was exploring different perspectives and applying theories that resonated with me. I stepped into the shoes of other writers, like Shakespeare, hooks and Austen, to understand how their words represented their truth; how their ideas transformed what we believe to be right. With my professor’s seal of approval in the form of a letter grade, I felt like I was on the right track in terms of uncovering something about the nature of identity and how we, as a society, perceive it. Then, I graduated; school ended. No longer was I receiving graded feedback; I was on my own to navigate using my authentic voice in the real world…the place where I felt most wrong in how I expressed my truth.
Am I wrong?
While I recognize my role as villain in many of the interactions I had with teachers/professors who labeled me “wrong,” there was one professor during my master’s program that I do not believe was right. I don’t know what it was about our personalities, but there just seemed to be a wedge that kept us at a cool distance. In looking back, I understand her perspective: I was not applying myself, making participation and attendance my lowest priority. If I would have shared the truth with her, been vulnerable, would it have made a difference? I don’t know; I was apologetic yet somewhat cavalier in my response. Still, I vowed to make an effort. I finished out the class with an essay chronicling the shifts in literacy and cultural identity of my friend’s mother after she immigrated from the Philippines. It was a meaningful project to me, and I think with more development, it could have been a significant thesis. Was it my best piece of writing? No. But the “C” grade combined with red marks EVERYWHERE was salt in the wound. I was livid. How DARE she suggest I’m wrong. May it be karma, vengeance, or coincidence, I should mention that I submitted my own harsh words about the class and her leadership style prior to my paper being graded. Though the assessments were anonymous, I can only guess that if she read the feedback before grading, she would have known what I had to say about her.
Ugh…I hate this feeling. The intense anger that comes with being labeled “wrong.” Especially when that label comes from someone I don’t respect yet they still have authority over me. It makes me feel small, stupid, and insecure. It makes me afraid that I can’t get anything right. That I will always be wrong at some level. Oh…I think we might have something there. Obviously, this situation has presented itself in various forms, with levels of respect fluctuating person to person; my own response ranging from positive (even when red mark corrections are being made) to negative (when my lack of respect or someone else’s creates a breakdown in communication). If I’m able to move past my need to be right and focus less on the negativity that comes with criticism, I can remain pretty balanced. Still, I feel like if someone else were to bluntly say “YOU’RE WRONG!” I’m not sure if I would handle it very well.
Maybe I need to switch the situation away from school to understand what’s happening better…Ok, instead of a professor, it’s a loved one. You know that gratifying feeling when you hear a friend or family member say, “you were right.” Sure, a part of it is pride, but these are loved ones…why would I find joy in their admission of wrong-doing? It must be something else…when a loved one says, “you were right,” it indicates something deeper: I listened. Yes, I heard what my loved one was saying, took into consideration what it meant, and offered my own perspective based on my experiences and truth. In the end, I made the connection. A+.
When I remember back to the times when a loved said “you’re wrong,” I often saw red. The anger mixed with frustration and confusion as I tried to determine where I went wrong in my processing, resulting in a projection of hasty remarks. This caused a lot of problems in those relationships, severing a few. That wasn’t right. Instead, what I began doing when a loved one opposed my position or ideas was asking to hear their thoughts, feelings, and reasoning. Though we may not always come to an agreed upon resolution or course of action, a conversation is initiated that goes beyond the boundaries of being “right” or “wrong.” In essence, we both have an opportunity to share our truth and express what brings us meaning; simultaneously, we both learn more about the other person and how their experiences shape their perspective. In all, I learn to listen better, motivating me to open up to more people and become a more present being.
Fight for Your Right (You Gotta)
So what happens when a bigoted jerk says you are wrong for the way you express your truth and live your life? How do you stop from seeing red, then, smart guy? That is a bigger challenge...I mean, there is an established bond with my loved ones, colleagues, and professors, even if it is a fragile one based on a shared space. What about someone from the opposite side of the spectrum that I’ve had little to no contact with? Years ago, I came across the Facebook page for Americans for Truth About Homosexuality, a nonprofit based in Naperville that negates the efforts of LGBT groups by “re-stigmatizing” the lifestyle. When I would visit, I couldn’t help but see red. It wasn’t so much the posts on the page, which were ridiculous and sensationalized to get a response; rather, it was the number of comments and likes from avid supporters who believed the organization was right. Their hatred and disgust for people they didn’t even know on full display for anyone to see.
When I returned home from my trip, I found myself once again hovering around their page. Though I had (re)discovered who I was and felt right in my self-expression, slowly, the red began to creep into my field of vision again. I had to resist the anger that came with being viciously labeled as wrong. I had to better understand their basis for “truth.” So, I did what came naturally. I wrote them an open letter. You can read the whole thing, but here is just a tidbit: “As someone who has recently gone to great lengths to reach my truth, I felt it was both important and necessary to reach out to you as a whole but not with negativity or threats; rather, as someone who is also interested in reaching a point of truth that we can all understand together. A truth that upholds values we can share, that begins to heal the pain of the past and strengthen our collective nature in the present.” What I received back was to be expected…part condemnation, part pity. They pointed to the fact my blog was largely missing the teachings of Jesus and the only way to righteousness was through the Christian faith.
Which so-called experts are the ones naming “the so-called experts?” Whose compass are we following? Is it the right course for everyone’s physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being? For a long time, the path I followed lead to me feeling existentially wrong, lashing out in anger and self-pity, then falling deeper into the pit of hell. Crazy enough, it was the path I thought was the right one because it aligned with what was declared “right.” When I shifted course and began following my own compass, I brought more light to my path and, as a result, more faith, love, compassion, and hope. What is so wrong, then? Why is it so difficult to see how our paths interweave? To recognize how we can grow from the perspective we gain by communicating; not toward a polarized view, but a more exclusive understanding?
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. It might not be the right answer, but in my experience, I believe much of it boils down to respect. I’m not sure if some people just want to see the world burn or if the explicit hatred is meant to initiate violence; what I do know, it is nearly impossible to speak openly with someone I don’t respect. Often, it’s driven by my preconceived notions of who that person is based on their external identity without giving them a chance share. Lately, I’ve tried to approach these interactions by demonstrating respect, which to me means showing kindness, gratitude, and positive body language.
It doesn’t always work that the response I get is affirming or welcoming; other times, the conversation turns, and I begin to see red. It’s all part of the process, though, right? Much like in the case of the now banned Americans for Truth About Homosexuality, I didn’t receive back an invitation to partake in a conversation and that was ok. So long as I remain mindful about the level of respect I’m giving to the other party by listening and being present, I believe I am doing the right thing, even if there is no resolution. In the end, I’ve learned how to be a more integrated being, one who isn’t (as) obsessed with the facets of being right or wrong but instead is interested in uncovering the deeper truths about our universal connections. There is no right or wrong answer, no red mark corrections; we each have a unique truth to share.