Horribly Nice

It's been years since I've been here, and I doubt anyone is still reading this. Given my predilection for privacy, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I have no desire to ever be a blog that goes viral. For one thing, I could do without half the internet hating me, and another quarter loving me because they've completely misunderstood what I'm saying. I like my cozy little corner of internet obscurity.

That said, I'm going to try writing on here again. Going back and rereading this blog, as I have recently done, is...enjoyable. (Though, as I was telling my sister last night, I come off primarily as a whiffly, ditzy, nature bunny who's FAR too into writing. Mostly that's fair).

So. Back into the fray I go. We'll see if it sticks. Follow along, children.

Let's talk about niceness. I have a love/hate relationship with that word, stemming largely, but not solely, from an experience in 10th grade when I was 14. For a class assignment (and I cannot for the life of me remember what class), we were all given small slips of paper with our classmates's names on them. On these slips we were to write one adjective ("positive" was implied) describing that person. In theory, this is a good experiment, one that forces you to think about the people around you, to view them in a positive light if only for a second, and one guaranteed to offer each child an ego boost. Sort of a low-tech Johari window. The teacher meant the entire thing kindly (I'm quite sure of that, because it was my mother), and was certainly trying to bring people together.

Unfortunately, no one reckons on me. Not even myself. If there is a way to feel worse about myself, chances are good I'll find it. In this instance, I think it stemmed largely from my deep desire to be known truly. Maybe. I had been going to school with the people in this class for four years--the longest I'd EVER been at a school. These were my friends, people with whom I had shared actual life experiences, who knew me as well as anyone could at that point. Bearing that in mind, I spent time on each slip. I used different adjectives, I delved into shared memories for unique terms, I tried to think of what each person wanted or needed to hear about themselves. We passed them in, they were sorted out, and we each got our pile. I'd always wanted to read people's thoughts and see what they really thought about me, and now, here at last was a completely anonymous, transparent way of finding out just a little bit of that truth.

I had 18 slips of paper that read, "Nice," and one that said, "smart?"*

Nice? NICE? You've known me for four years and all you can say about me is "Nice"?! That's a cipher word, something you say about someone you don't know well, and really don't want to be bothered with. "She seems nice." "He's a nice guy." "I don't know; it was nice." It's a default word, nondescript, non-threatening, non....anything! I hadn't yet come across the original meaning of the word (which I think is telling: 1250–1300; Middle English: foolish, stupid < Old French: silly, simple < Latin nescius ignorant, incapable, equivalent to ne- negative prefix + sci- (stem of scīre to know; see science) + -us adj. suffix ), but I instinctively felt it.

Perhaps I would have felt differently if fewer people had chosen that word. Perhaps if a few had picked "good writer," "smart," "thoughtful," "funny," "good actress," or other things I knew I was as WELL as nice, I would have felt uplifted. It was the fact that kid after kid after kid chose "nice" that ended up being very not nice. It made me feel as if I made no impression at all. I almost would have preferred to be called mean or intimidating or sly.

But no. Not even "sweet." Also no physical characteristics, though several other girls got "pretty," "great eyes," "good hair," things like that. Some of them did put smiley faces next to the word. Some said, "She's nice," or "You're nice." I appreciated the smileys, somehow. It made it feel a little more personal, in the midst of a lot of impersonalness.

And my poor mother was left trying to comfort a daughter who was crying because people thought she was nice and couldn't explain why that was a bad thing. I did try, but I suspect coherence was not my strong suit that night. I was angry and hurt and those generally don't do good things for my ability to explain. She was probably proud of me and of the way she raised me, having no idea what a storm it would brew. How does a 14-year-old explain that the problem is that she doesn't want to be "nice," she wants to be SPECIAL?

This was not an isolated incident, though probably the most pointed. "Nice" has followed me throughout my life. I come across as nice, bland, a perfectly pleasant person, but nothing more. Sometimes this has benefits: I've never once gotten stopped in airport security, because I appear somewhat gormless when I smile. Something about the proportions of my face (and probably the fat surrounding it), make me seem completely innocuous. Often people who have a tendency to think the worst of people get along with me, because I'm (say it with me) nice. I am, as one of my college friends described me (much to my horror), "water, not orange juice." I go with everything, apparently, but I don't stand out (no, really, that was his explanation).

It isn't that I think being nice is a bad thing. Of course not. It's just that it comes nowhere close to describing and encapsulating who I am (for one thing, I don't actually think I AM very nice!). I find people interesting, I can generally find something good to say about anyone, but if I tell you good things about yourself, it isn't being nice. It's being honest. But I think plenty of judgmental things, I can be mean, I'm often mischievous, I'm sarcastic, I have a twisted mind--I have spice, dang it! There's a kick to me!

On the other hand, if "nice" really is what you think of me, would you mind at least using a thesaurus?

*Actual numbers may be slightly skewed, but seriously, not by very much.