The Reluctant A**hole in the Family

"there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody
see you."

~ Charles Bukowski, "Bluebird" (Lines 1-6)

If you were to ask any of my high school friends, and my siblings for that matter, what my theme song would be, they'd probably say that the following would be apt:

George Carlin famously said--in his last special It's Bad for Ya!--that, "There's always one asshole in the family." Whether I did so intentionally or accidentally, I cultivated a monopoly on this identity as a teenager. And, to be fair to those who thought of me as such, I was an asshole as a teenager.

I was asocial--meaning, I didn't voluntarily seek the company of other people--to the point that my family thought I was actually antisocial (which is actually a personality disorder, I've discovered, common to psychopaths and sociopaths). I had social skills but would outright refuse to utilized them in given situations. And, above everything else, I had an insult-slinging, sarcasm-wielding, quip-whipping, comeback-having smart mouth.

Evidently, I wasn't the only such person in the extended family tree of the Martinez-Escoto, Cassmeyer-Kerprin Clan. My Uncle James (he's still alive, and like the Pope, you're one till you die) is one.

He once was in court--he's was a lawyer in the Navy, now retired--and near the end of the session, he gave a rousing, cutting closing argument. It was so galvanizing, the opposing council shot up from his seat and shouted, "You're an asshole." (Hint, hint).

My Uncle James didn't finch. He didn't cringe. He didn't cower. Instead, he turned to face his legal opponent, and replied, "Thank you. I've been working towards that my whole life."

My siblings only compounded and solidified this image when, one year, for both Christmas and my Birthday, they gave me t-shirts with messages written on the front of them. Sarcastic messages. Here's a few of them (and I apologize for the poor image quality. I'm a writer, not a photographer).

1. "This Is My Happy Face" (Featuring the Grumpy Cat)

2. "I Love Sarcasm. It's Like Punching People In The Face, But With Words."

3. "I Don't Get Paid to Be Sarcastic, I Do That For Free"

4. "Attempting to Care" (Note the Buffer Symbol)

5. "Despite The Look On My Face, You're Still Talking!"

6. "On Your Mark, Get Set, Go Away"

And these are only a few of the collection. Over the years, it has grown into quite a collection because they've continued to give me more of these as presents. I started wearing these almost everywhere I went, except formal occasions (you don't wear t-shirts to such things, even if you don't want to go to them), and as I did, more people came to view me the same way. They'd take a look at the shirt, read the words, and get the message.

I played the part well too. People were expecting someone with a sharp, caustic sense of humor, and goddammit, did I deliver. If anything, I overdelivered. 

But the truth was, this persona that I came to embody was just that: a persona.

I won't deny that these t-shirt didn't reflect my sense of humor. They did (and do to this day). My humor is dry, twisted, and dark. (You can thank my compulsive listening to George Carlin for that). I think the worst it's been described is mean--my mother's appraisal--and the kindest was off-beat. What I mean is that, even as I cultivated this image of the smart-mouthed curmudgeon, there was a lot more going on beneath the surface. 

Adolescence for me, like for almost everyone, was an emotionally unpleasant time in my life. I was hyper-self-conscious. It is--and I'll repeat this until I die--the period in your life when you acquire all of the emotional scars and mental illness you'll have to work through as an adult. I was filled with self-loathing about my weight and my appearance (two things with which I still have issues), and I was painfully awkward and shy around everyone (especially those whom I found attractive). I was also incredibly sensitive to even the slightest putdown against me, for anything.

Worse, I had no natural safeguards. I wasn't--and still am not--conventionally attractive (and if there's such a thing as unconventional attractiveness, I've yet to discover it for myself). I didn't have the natural charisma that drew people to me. And, I had no outwardly expressible discernable talent, like athletic ability or natural performance skill. 

I was a shy, quite loner. To be that, in high school, is like being a billboard-sized target for bullies. So, I had to develop some kind of carapace, a shell or a guise I could easily hide behind to defend myself, psychologically and emotionally. The question was what kind?

The answer was via the only two things I really had going for me at that age: a fairly sharp mind and a facility with words. 

From listening to loads of stand-up and reading writers--Twain, Swift, Wilde, and Parker particularly--who had a facility for both wit and humor, I learned the art of, what the English comic actor Kenneth Williams dubbed, "The Acid Drop." The Quick Comeback or the Fast Putdown that would get people to shut up and leave me alone. This then developed into the sarcastic quip that I'd add on top of things that other people would say as they spoke, as well as the rapid, smartass reply to any question someone put to you. 

And it worked. After I managed to pull a couple of these off that cracked up the people around us, people learned not to mess with me. They learned to treat me, as Harlan Ellison once described himself, as a rattlesnake on a rock. If you didn't mess with me, I wouldn't bite you, but if you did...well that was your own damn fault. Any potential bullies in my high school years learned it was better to avoid me than risk a public, verbal castration from me (because I always made sure I said anything in front of witnesses).  I'm sure my not inconsiderable size and appearance--5 foot 11 inches, 200 plus pounds, with a face fixed in a scowl--acted as an added deterrent, but the comebacks were the venom in my fangs. 

Oddly enough, this ability also endeared me to people. Without it, in fact, I'm not sure I would've made any friends in high school. A considerable circle of people brought me into the fold of their well-established group because I could make them laugh. It was from there that I actually learned both to hold conversations and recount anecdotes, two skills that have helped make socializing easier for me as an adult. 

So it had its advantages. 

However, as I've gotten into my 20s, I've begun to see why I acted that way. It really was as an emotional defense mechanism that I kept in place for all my teenage years. Now though, I'm trying not to rely on it so much. I would much rather let people see me for me--the flawed, odd, strange weirdo that I am--instead of hiding behind that mask. Though it's a mask born out of a real part of myself (my sense of humor), it doesn't encompass who I am.

I'm sure I'll never fully shirk the image nor the shell, but I'd much prefer to be seen as more of a whole person.