15 Years Later

Let’s talk about a movie for a second.

Specifically a very old, very famous movie.  Dorothy’s three character friends in The Wizard of Oz are each a personification of what may be the three most important traits a person can have.  

If only Scarecrow had a brain, he would realize he is already the cleverest one in the group.  Tin Man wishes for a heart despite being perhaps the most caring.  And then there’s Courage.

Courage the Cowardly Lion.  He stands out to me.  He’s the only one of the trio that truly lacks the trait he wishes for.  Courage truly is a coward throughout most of the film. 

I’d like to think I have a pretty big heart.  Sometimes I’m intelligent enough to not be stupid.  These things haven’t changed since I first set foot on this yellow brick road of life.  But one thing I’ve lacked, one thing I’ve had to work for decades to develop even a little bit, my one true kryptonite, has been confidence.  Courage.  

I am Mike Whildin, the cowardly lion.

I grew up a nice kid.  I was likeable enough, not necessarily considered “popular” by any means, but lucky enough to have a lot of friends.  One of those friends, whom we will call Andy for the purposes of this story, was a nice kid, too.  

I had been friends with Andy since the first grade, but during my middle school years I put a lot of effort into that friendship.  Andy was everything I wanted to be among my peers.

Andy had that rare combination of being genuinely friendly and having a sharp enough wit to be one of the cool kids.  He was good at everything he did.  He was smart.  Everyone liked him.  Why wouldn’t they?

In other words, you know what Andy had?  Confidence.

Unfortunately, my own wit wasn’t very sharp.  The laws of the adolescent social jungle require a lot of thinking on your feet to survive.  In that jungle, the nice kid hesitates when attacked.

My reputation was one of a nice kid, one that was vulnerable to being put down with little recourse.  If I wanted to return fire, I wouldn’t think of anything good until about forty-eight minutes later.  But even if I did think of something, I’d often stop myself.  What if what I was about to say was too mean?

Whenever I was made fun of, my reaction was either to quietly sink into myself or, rarely, to get very angry.  I took things personally, because to me they really were personal.  

You’re telling me I’m not good enough?  Does that mean I don’t matter?  Does that mean I don’t deserve the love and attention from the people around me?  This was what happened in my little head almost daily.

In fact, one kid used to make a point to make fun of my head.  Imagine walking around worrying that everyone will laugh at you – and think less of you – just because they looked at your head.  They don’t allow hats in school.  What could I do?

Being nice pays many more dividends as you become an adult, but frankly, being a nice kid sucks.

At least it does without the shield of confidence. 

Middle school was probably the worst period of my life.  I’m positive that’s where I first developed my infamous habit of overthinking.  It was also where my participation in the popularity contest finally reached a breaking point.

In the seventh grade, I sat at lunch every day with Andy.  Andy was popular, but he was also my friend and he treated me as such.

But the other popular kids at that table?  They were nasty, mean-spirited goblins.  They had a table ranking, and lunch each day consisted of berating and belittling the weakest, lowest ranked kid at the table.  That was me.  

Every single day.  There were periods of time where someone else would be on their radar from afar, and I would be grateful just for the temporary reprieve from their cruelty.  But it would always come back around to me.

I put up with it for months.  I thought I wanted to be popular, and this seemed like the closest I had been.  Did it make me more popular?  No.  Did it make me feel good about myself?  No.  Did it help me develop healthy habits for dealing with negative feelings?  No. 

Did it improve my confidence?  Take a wild guess.

Occasionally, I would try to chime in with a quip of my own.  They never gave me a chance to finish.  Every time I’d try to tell a story or a joke, I was either completely ignored and talked over or I was immediately cut off and insulted.

Andy was the only one that wouldn’t ridicule me with the rest.  He even sometimes tried to help me get on the others’ good sides.  One day, while the flying monkeys were directing their malice elsewhere, he leaned over and whispered a joke to me.  He told me to tell the group that joke and that they would find it funny.

Andy then announced, “Guys, Mike has a joke to tell.  Hey guys.  Guys!”  They ignored him mostly because by extension, they were ignoring me.  Andy finally pounded on the table and repeated himself once again, pulling their attention back to the group, and to me.

I told the joke exactly as Andy told me to tell it.  There was no laughter.  There was no jeering.  Instead, they were stuck in some confused glitch of existence where the corners of their mouths just quivered up and down.  They couldn’t figure out how to react to a joke they genuinely enjoyed coming from a person they viewed as inferior.

It took a long time and a lot of tears before I finally just sat somewhere else.  I instantly felt better.  My new lunch friends were nicer, more considerate kids.  

My confidence, however, had been beaten to an all-time lowly pulp.

My daily lunch with Andy and the goblins was pretty extreme.  But that feeling of being ridiculed, of being made to feel lesser, was something I experienced regularly for many years.  

I’ve always loved telling stories.  I’ve always felt so much joy in making people laugh.  My desire to try stand-up comedy started as a kid.  I had big dreams.  But I always assumed it was impossible.  For a long time, the most I hoped for was to avoid being the subject of someone else’s joke.

All of this brings us to my senior year of high school as I walked into Larsen’s classroom for the first time.

As I’ve said before, he made fun of everyone.  Everyone.  It didn’t matter if you were a popular kid or a quiet book worm or a fantasy nerd or an athlete or a band kid.

Or if you were a nice kid without any confidence.

Everyone was on the same level.  It wasn’t mean.  It wasn’t ridicule.  It was an endearing attempt to bring the class together with laughter.  Sure, I’d get made fun of and the class would laugh.  But when everyone was laughing on the same level, it was a blast!

I started to really enjoy that attention.  It didn’t sting so much when Larsen was the one making fun of me.  In fact it didn’t sting at all.  What’s the opposite of a sting?

This was the first time I didn’t mind being the butt of a joke.  This was when I first began to learn that laughing at yourself is okay.  Not even just okay.  A lot of times it can feel pretty good.

That’s why I volunteered to play the part of Larsen in the senior homecoming skit.  That’s why I insisted on playing the part of a character based on Larsen for a one-act play later that year.  

Sure, he was hilarious.  Yeah, he made class fun and math more enjoyable.  Of course I enjoyed the attention both in the classroom and on the stage.  But that’s not why Larsen was my favorite teacher.

It’s because this was the first time in my life that I felt like it was okay to just be me.  It was the first time I truly began to develop some confidence.

The story doesn’t end there.  That’s really just the beginning.  I had a long road ahead to gain confidence in myself, and to relearn that same lesson many times over.

But today, more than any other time before, I believe in myself.  I don’t feel inferior.  My friends are delightful human beings that love me for the goofball that I am.  My family is unique and wonderful.  Truly, I’ve got it all.

And I absolutely love making fun of myself.  I have a self-deprecating sense of humor, but it’s all from a place of self-love.  We all have flaws, and that’s okay!  That’s human.  Rather than ignoring the elephant in the room, I like to walk up to it and give it a hug.  

Here’s the secret: that elephant often hugs me back.  When you embrace your flaws in a healthy way, you develop a greater appreciation for your strengths.  

Today, I’m much more confident in who I am and what I can do.  Fear of being ridiculed or rejected doesn’t take up as much space as it used to.  These days, I think it feels pretty cool to be Mike Whildin.

Because in the end, it turns out, the cowardly lion found some courage after all.