The debate over self-expression rages on here at the University. Arguments over popped col-lars, plaid pants or pearls at football games go through their annual iterations. There is no doubt that University students fear being pigeonholed, defined and classified in terms of fashion, preferred Friday-night destinations and extracurricular activities.
I understand the need to be different, to stand out and to break the mold. But in the fight to be unique in dress, exceptional in political views and eclectic in musical taste, the most basic form of self-expression remains unaddressed.
In this debate about self-expression, I come before you as the humble ambassador of expression in its most literal sense.
Because I, myself, am a victim of the ravages of the University's most common (and annoying) expressions.
If anyone wants to set him or herself apart, joining the belly dancing club, going to the Downtown Mall on a Friday night or giving away those pastel Izod polo shirts by no means represents the necessary first step. Rather, it may be the simple elimination of a few "Wahooisms" (some of which, I understand, are not unique to the University) that reduce the color of everyday conversations to the drabbest of grays.
So I hereby declare that I, to the best of my ability, will eliminate the following phrases from my daily conversations:
"I feel like..."
There has to be an anthropological study somewhere out there explaining America's love of feelings. I have a hunch it stems from Mr. Rogers, the Berenstain Bears and Mikey Rinaldi making fun of me for being a nerd in the fifth grade.
When I first started saying "I feel like," it was only when I was drunk.
This, I feel, was justifiable. When one is drunk, one lacks the capacity to think, so feelings take over, as in, "I feel that another shot of vodka would probably be a good idea," or later, "I feel like that last shot of vodka is the reason my head is now in the toilet."
Take the example, "I feel like A-J Aronstein's column is overrated."
Feelings are unassailable in American society. We are always asking each other, "How do you feel?" "What is your feeling about this book?" or, "How are we feeling this morning after that last shot of vodka?"
But the brain is evil. Analytical. Nerdy. And, most of all, it requires justification.
If I say, "I think A-J Aronstein's column is overrated," I have to justify my opinion.
But if I say, "I feel," then I'm off the hook.
It's just my feeling after all. You can't challenge my feelings. They're personal. They're mine.
Mr. Rogers said so.
"Oh my gosh, I love..."
I must couple a contextual disclaimer to this phrase before trying to kill it.
Love is wonderful, intoxicating and frequently nauseating (especially when expressed physically in public: yuck).
And I love my family, good novels, talking with old friends and the last warm days before summer melts into fall, recognizing how many things love expresses.
But no, I do not love the guy that I sat next to once in class when he made an intelligent comment. Nor do I love the girl I walked home during first year and never spoke to again.
Why does one express love in these instances when love is the farthest emotion from one's true feelings?
It's related to a desire to pretend, "Yes, of course I love her. I know her very well. That is to say, I certainly know her at least as well as you do. Probably better."
A similar example is, "Oh yeah, I know him/her; he's/she's great."
"Great at what?" I ask.
Is it, "Great at life"? This raises all sorts of complex metaphysical questions.
Or is it more like, "Great at being someone whose name I recognize, kind of"?
I have nothing against calling someone "A great guy/girl," and say it all the time. But in the future, I will make a concerted effort not to bestow this adjective on someone after a five-minute conversation.
Because calling someone "Great" in this context often seems less like a compliment, and more like an assertion of one's popularity. Think of it as the conversational equivalent of announcing how many facebook friends I have.
It's 4,317, by the way.
Sigh. Who am I kidding? I got excited the other day when "Imaginary Friend" facebooked me.
"It happens."
The ultimate conversation killer. I think we, as a community, can nip this one in the bud, as it doesn't seem to have taken hold just yet.
"It happens," sounds (as a friend put it) a lot like the new "Good times."
"Yeah, and then we got really drunk."
"Good times."
"It happens."
How is one supposed to pick up the pieces of a shattered conversation after hearing the dreaded, "It happens"?
If one responds, "Yes, it does," the conversation is effectively over, and the two parties involved start to feel awkward and inch toward the keg.
If one responds, "No, it doesn't," there is the mandatory polite chuckle.
Followed by a shrug.
Then a sigh.
Then:
"Hey do you know Joe Shmoe?"
"Oh my gosh, I love him, he's great."
"Awesome" and/or "Amazing."
These adjectives have, like viruses, killed off at least 56% of superlative adjectives in the English language.
If there were a vaccine against using these two words, I would be the first one in line at the hospital with my left sleeve rolled up to my shoulder.
Using these words so often has forever altered the way I go through everyday life.
"Awesome" and "Amazing" have become the new standard to judge one's everyday experiences.
A "normal day," therefore, has become "An Awesome Day."
A "good day" has become an "Amazingly Awesome Day."
And if I happen to be having a truly Amazing day, I can't even describe it.
I have effectively run out of adjectives.
There is safety in these expressions. There is the sense of speaking the same language.
But what we gain in safety, we lose in individuality of expression.
So call your friends tubular, spazzy, flighty, introspective and wild.
Admit that you have no idea if Bobby or Sally or Johnny is "Great," but that you would love to get to know them all better.
Have swell, terrible, wonderful, fabuloriffic days.
Tell people what you really think about A-J Aronstein's column.
But be nice. My feelings are hurt very easily.
A-J's column runs bi-weekly on Tuesdays. He can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com.
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