WhyBeNorm_BLK

WHY BE NORMAL?

Let me introduce you to my motto: Why Be Normal?.

It is what I ask to solidify my existence. The question isn’t just a justification to think or act outside of the box. It removes the box completely. The answer has become my way of life; the meaning of life. A reason for no excuses.

Allow me to expound.

Growing up in Omaha, Nebraska, at a time when major crime stats paled to nothing compared to major cities in the U.S., family life was simple. Basic. The digital world we live in now was a subject for science fiction books and movies. We read books or watched television to keep our eyes busy and fill our heads with brain candy. Conversations were face-to-face or on the phone. During the week, kids went to school, parents went to work. Weekends spent doing family activities, playing outside, doing yardwork, and going to church on Sundays.

As an oops baby, my two older siblings were six and ten years ahead of me in life, so time playing at home was with whatever I found to occupy my time. The toys I remember most: Blocks (building elaborate cities), Hot Wheels (to drive through the cities), Thing Maker molds (burnt myself too many times to count, but still one of my faves), various miniature figures (some human-like, but for some reason most of them were monster-type creatures), Etch-A-Sketch (hours, upon hours), and crayons (my go-to activity most of the time—I really liked how they smelled, and I could never have enough colors).

Television, limited to three major networks and a UHF station, tuned me into cartoons Saturday morning. Shows I learned to read a clock by so I would not miss were Star Trek, Dark Shadows, and Twilight Zone. These shows set a precedence for my viewing pleasure, and I normally watched them alone. My family preferred news, variety shows, and popular sitcoms at the time. I may have been in the room when they watched, but building with my blocks, or playing with my creatures, creating an imaginary dialogue in my head so as not to disturb their listening pleasure.

My parents were not very interactive with me, taking the time to teach me real world shit. Dad worked a lot. Mom worked part-time, read a lot, or spent endless hours on the phone with friends. As a distant third born, my brother and sister had nothing in common with me to hang out.

I kept to myself, and I became comfortable with my headspace.

Once I entered kindergarten, however, I found that my imagination was not easily shared with others. I was initially the weird kid, and I kept to myself, bringing my little creature friends in my pockets to talk to via telepathy to make it through the day.

Eventually, I made friends who were odd in their own way. Through them, I started developing a base line for what was normal behavior and topics common for discussion.

Those developmental years, I managed to stay weird within the realms of normal, but would let my bizarre flag fly unfurled when possible.

One day, senior year in high school, I was at home doing a portrait of a friend of mine, his face centered in the middle of a large marijuana leaf. My dad, who was mega-normal (but an awesome father to put up with me) came up to my room. Hearing his footsteps, I covered the drawing, but he got a good glance at the image.

“What are you drawing?” he asked.

“Something for a friend. For his birthday,” I said.

“Can I see it?”

“Uh, let me finish it, and I’ll bring it down and show you.”

I had no intention of showing him my friend’s face mounted on a pot plant, so after some time, I grabbed another illustration about the same size. It displayed a man, standing in shock by a large, living room window, who just pulled back the drapes to see the planet Earth in space. I took it downstairs for show and tell.

“That’s not what you were drawing,” he said.

“I know. I don’t want to show you that.”

My father looked at me. His face appeared disappointed, then scrunched with a dab of confusion. He released a big sigh and, in a voice that conveyed his discontent, said, “you’re weird.”

My love and respect for my father, which was immense, sharpened his comment to a point of self-defeat. Without another word, I went back to my room and gave my emotions a thorough scrubbing.

Instead of wallowing in defeat, I rinsed my feelings with a clean sense of purpose. One day, I decided, I would get my dad to say, “you’re weird” again, but in a voice filled with pride and joy. Also, from that day, I began to realize and accept my unusual self as an adult.

Venturing into the world while establishing a normal adulthood—being responsible, common conversation, accountable actions—became a teetertotter of compromise. Too much norm, and my butt would slam into hard-packed depression. Too much peculiar, and my foundation would vanish; my feet kicking for purchase.

Balancing my personality kept me on my toes. Pushing off to enjoy creative, imaginary freedom, then taking a squat to appear regular. Ordinary.

Working as an artist for a large advertising agency, I had the fun opportunity to develop some bizarre characters for a campaign. After illustrating a couple of them on the computer, I printed them out to show my own family at home. My dad, who happened to live nearby, came over that evening for dinner.

Discussing the meaning behind the characters, the unconventional techniques I used in the illustration program I used to create them, my feet flapped with creative freedom, causing the dinner table crowd to burst out in laughter. My dad, who had a great laugh, gave himself a moment of breath to make a single comment.

“You’re so weird.”

I never forgot my oath. I never made plans to fulfill it. But there it was. Achieved.

“Well, thanks Dad. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that.” I said, which made him laugh harder. I felt no need to discuss the accomplishment. My heart, my imagination, my weird, launched off the scales and discovered a new found freedom in oddness.

A few days later, walking North Tejon Street in Colorado Springs, I visited a shop known for its model building kits. There was also a rotating rack filled with bumper stickers. I remember many of them being hilarious and unique, but the one that caught my eye had a dark gray background with large, bold, sans serif, white type.

WHY BE NORMAL?

The question hit me like a happy rhino charging to gobble up the fresh fruit off an untouched fig tree. It was the question, my question, that answered itself. I bought it.

At home, I cleaned off the bumper of the Subaru I drove, and peeled the backing off the sticker and prepared to put it on…then stopped.

In writing, there is a suggestion. Advice to make your story pop off the page. It’s a hard one to get your head around, to practice and develop into a strong tool to apply effortlessly:  Show, don’t tell.

Even though I was writing at that time, most of my efforts were stream-of-conscious first drafts, like for NaNoWriMo. The concept not really known. But, as a visual graphic communicator, I totally understood the idea.

I stuck the sticker on my car. Upside-down.

My motto hatched. A question to ask myself in times of depressive normalcy. A visual to remind me how I wished to appear. A way of life that allows me to be who I really am.

Yeah, I must be normal while paying bills, picking up m’dog’s poop from neighbor’s yards, changing the air filters in my home…

But overall, if you were to ask any of my family, friends, or acquaintances what type of person I am, their answers are medals I wear with pride:  Creative, Odd, Bizarre, Strange.

Weird.

So, tell me, what bumper stickers are on your car? Do any of them make a statement of who you are? If not, what would you stick on your car’s ass to declare your character?

Be strange, but don’t be a stranger.

Hook

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