“Am I awkward?”
My mind has compulsively mulled over this poser between two schoolgirls on a cold uneventful evening. I could detect a hint or two of discontent in the tone of the asker’s voice as I strolled away.
Of course, I don't have the accurate context, but as a retired teenager, I could recite a dozen plausible grounds for that question. I have arrived at a few crossroads myself that have necessitated different iterations of the self-scrutiny. Whatever the case, the question sparked a ‘tink’ in my mind, uncovering a pattern I have observed, and that has recurrently confounded me.
In my teens, awkwardness, or weirdness, or strangeness was an ugly shadow cast upon the unfortunate, and incompatible with the celebrated standard of ‘cool’. The universal albeit nuanced definition of ‘cool’ was pretty clear to us then: be social, be part of the louder school clubs like the debate society, theatre, and entertainment clubs, or engage in sports or politics. Most of the other ventures were considered pale, woefully lacking in flavour or the appeal of the consensus. In every sense, being cool was synonymous with being acceptable, less upsetting, and not weird. Despite my characteristic tininess, I was, fortunately, part of the ‘cool team’ because my extracurricular interests in secondary school aligned with the branding of coolness. Luckily, I hardly had to worry about any of my hidden or obvious eccentricities.
As I moved into my early twenties, a series of events left me struggling to find my footing in medical school. Coincidentally, I was ushered into a 'new world' with a compelling drive to celebrate individual uniqueness. It became widely encouraged not to remain ordinary, and I began to see the world in a different light. Reassuringly, justifiable causes and advocacies were common as the crowd mentality phased out. I particularly loved this period because it destabilised the herd. Individuals who’d lived all their lives in the protection of cliques, or hiding, or nested in whatever chameleon lifestyle that once helped them get by—like me—were told we could find and hone our voices. That it was okay to be a misfit and still shine. That the whole world could revolve around us. ‘Weird is Cool’ became a movement. A pretty big one at that, and with so much potential.
Although ‘potential’ isn’t inherently negative, a great chunk of its value can only be hoped for, as the desired may not be guaranteed. Potential might yield the expected or even a serendipitous outcome, or sadly, an undesirable one despite its enormous capacity for good. While this wave had a laudable intention and the potential impact of helping individuals considered misfits thrive and flourish, it threw those considered basic off balance. This ’stand out’ culture has dominated the scene and is backed up by the current societal ideals. It is deeply rooted in the fabric of our human endeavour—art, science, et cetera.
But if we all stand out, are we truly standing out?
As I inch closer to my third decade, individuality is more precious than ever, with virtually everyone on a quest to outshine, to eke out an X factor, seemingly at all costs. We are expected to be loud with our uniqueness and be defined by it because they are who we ought to be. Thus, there is a precedented proliferation of a little too many cringey exhibitions of awkwardness.
Me?
I’m more confused than ever.
How exceptional is uniqueness these days? Should there be a new definition because ‘unique’ could very well be alien to its name in contemporary usage? If the quality of being unique is absolute, there is some possibility it has ironically lost its savour, becoming what it tried to escape. Subtly, the deviation seems to suggest very little common ground, even though the uniqueness has become our commonality.