Interviewing the Critic in My Head

Who are you?

I am your inner critic, that voice in your head. I often say things like “you're no good,” “you don't deserve to do well,” “it's not going to work out.”

How long have you been at it?

How long have you been alive? Forty-six years, although the first few years were rather slow. Things got busier when you started school, and interacted with other kids. That's really when you first started feeling different. That definitely opened the door for me, and gave me the opportunity to get going. Things like being an only child, being adopted, I can easily work with that stuff. It was easy to convince you that there were things wrong with you. You've given me lots of great material over the years. It's easy work, but also challenging at times. I like to keep old themes fresh.

What makes you happy?

Seeing you frown, hearing you sigh, knowing you'll give up. I feed off you.

You're telling me you're a parasite?

Oh no, no, not that. We are more, ah, symbiotic. There's no real separation.

Do you ever get bored?

Sure. How many times can I hear you say “I suck”? I thought you were good with words. Throw some synonyms up in here, bro. Then there are those times when you're really happy, like while riding your bike or playing music, or actually enjoying some intimacy. All these other committee members show up in your head. They are like annoying cheerleaders, and I can't compete with them.

What is your favorite time to work?

Oh, there's lots. When you're driving, when you're trying to fall asleep, when you first wake up. You start your day with me, not with your coffee.

What do you do when you're not criticizing me?

Research. I go back over your thoughts. I keep them very highly organized. I'm a bit anal-retentive, actually. If you're feeling good, I'll take the time to dig up some old stuff, things you may have forgotten, like when that sketchy guy yelled at you in the ShopRite parking lot. Remember that? You brushed aside his question. He called you an ignorant, arrogant m**********r?

I had forgotten about it until just now, thanks. Do you hate me?

No. We always hurt the ones we love. Without you, there is no me. I suppose a mental-health professional would call that co-dependent. Hey, we all have to eat.

What do you want from me?

Nothing but your time and attention.

What keeps you going?

Knowing that we've made it this far. It's fun to try to stay one step ahead of you. I like the challenge. I can't wait until your next date.

Are you an optimist or a pessimist?

Optimist, definitely. Things are getting better all the time—except for you.

Nice try. I call shenanigans. I'm not taking that bait in the middle of an interview. Do you ever get lonely?

Oh, sure. But I like being alone. You're an introvert, and that carried over to me. There's a difference between lonely and alone.

What's the most personal thing you're willing to admit?

Sometimes I feel bad for you. I really do. But you're that shiny red button that says DO NOT PUSH. You make it easy. I can't have just one potato chip... it's like that.

Do you define yourself by what you do?

Didn't I answer that in the first question? Here's another thing you suck at.

If you couldn't do what you do, what else might you do well?

Well, I'm a disembodied entity, so I can't enjoy arts and crafts. I dunno, I guess I could do a lateral move to another part of your mind. A job is a job. Are the cheerleaders hiring?

Any plans to retire?

Nope. I'd be bored out of my—uh, your—mind.

Mid-life ramblings

I’m back in the town where I grew up, and I’ve spent a couple of days driving and biking through the landscapes of my past. A time to be reflective. Here’s some of what’s been tooling around in my mind.

A while back, I saw the future, and it almost ran into me. A texting teenager, ambling down the hall of my school, arms bent, eyes on a tiny screen. She kept an even gait, but didn’t see our collision course. I stepped aside, and she passed, oblivious to me.

Frank McCourt said that it’s up to the younger people to push their elders off the earth. It’s turning into their world, not the world of my generation. Naturally, this makes me feel old. O-l-d. Teachers in my school are bemoaning what’s happening to kids, in terms of behavior, manners, attention span, and so on. We might not achieve super-texting thumbs, but we won’t go quietly. That’s for damn sure.

That’s nothing new, I’m sure. What’s new is that I’m part of that curve, that demographic. Trying my darndest to avoid sentences that start with “When I was your age…”

As a teacher, I’m around teenagers. I’ve been teaching for twelve years, and I’ve seen things change. I’m not a new teacher anymore. Not sure when that happened, but here I am, mid-career. Today’s teens are, of course, the texting generation. I admire their dexterous thumbs and their determination to stay in touch, despite school rules to the contrary. Along with that, I’m worried about the havoc being wrought on already short attention spans. They can multitask, but how well can they do any one of those things? When and how will they learn the value of single-mindedness, and the rewards that come with applying oneself completely to one thing--be it enjoyable, arduous, or something in between.

I’m 40. It’s been an interesting, difficult year. Some days I feel every one of those years. Sometimes that’s a good thing, maybe not approaching wisdom, but some kind of understanding. Other times, I just feel disillusioned. (Sure, that word means “free of illusions,” but I think we need some of those illusions. Truth is slippery anyhow.) I’m trying to keep that openness and curiosity that I’ve carried with me. I’m trying to avoid that hardness, that resignation that I hear in some of my colleagues--the kinds of rants that place the blame on the kids, which I hear as an excuse for not meeting our learners where they are. They are in their world. We are in ours. They occasionally overlap in fabulous ways, like when a student discovers that a mythical parent like Atticus Finch still has something to teach everyone who meets him. The worlds also overlap in less graceful ways, as well. Facebook comes to mind: I posted a picture of me at my high-school graduation in 1987, and a former student of mine commented simply, “Weird.”

Also this year, my path has crossed with an old friend, my first girlfriend ever, who’s become an amazing mirror, window, confidante and--truly--a source of equal measures of inspiration and confusion. She met me when I was 17, on New Year’s Eve. How appropriate: a night on the cusp of a fresh year. She’s 39 now, in the midst of a life that’s thrown her much more than a kind, sweet soul should have to endure. We wander together through fragments of things, puzzling over what it all means, searching for that evasive truth, slipping on frozen hearts and frayed minds. She’s a mensch and a wordsmith, but as Rumi says, words can only take any of us so far.

I feel like I’m on the cusp of something once again. Not sure what. I remember being a kid, maybe grade-school age, and thinking of my life as a grown-up. I was looking at the adults around--parents, teachers--and thinking, “Wow, they’ve got everything figured out. I’ll be there someday.” Well, kid, just because I can pay the bills, make simple repairs around the house, hold a job, even have relationships, that doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured out. I’m trying to meet things openly, see them as they are, do that soul work, be present, and accept what comes. I can still ramble in my writing, so I guess that counts for something.

And, hey, Mr. McCourt, rest in peace. I’d like to think you weren’t pushed off the world, but rather did an elegant Irish jig into your own sunset.

Light Romance

Right now, I miss her. The last time I saw her was Sunday. How appropriate. Only a couple of hours, though—if that. She called to me through the dirty windows, coaxed me outside like I was a cautious cat, then hid herself behind gray walls. What a flirt.

OK, so this time of year is a lean time for this sort of radiant romance. But even so… We are all sunlight and stardust, all solar powered if you trace it back far enough. It’s an elemental pull, something deep within us. How could I resist?

I’m gaining two minutes a day with her, supposedly. She still hides herself, comes out obliquely and diffused, shades of gray, indirect, casting no shadows. Meanwhile, rain seeps into my sun-colored room. Keeps me awake, makes me rearrange things when I should be sleeping.

I miss her energy, heat and passion. The kind that I’m sure I thought was overbearing six months ago when she locked me in. Or did I shut her out? But I missed her then, too, in my dark and breezy prison. I’d sneak out as she began to leave, follow her as my shadow lengthened, chasing her through the Rensselaer County hills, always wanting a few minutes more. Just a few.