Surely kindness is a virtue but then there is the oppressive weight of niceness. It shuts down righteous outrage, it worries what one’s parents will think, it advocates for business as usual as opposed to rocking the boat. And all of that is well and good until one begins to notice the very high cost, the enormous toll, of Being Nice.
Gradually I have awakened to what a lifetime of pleasantness has cost me. I chose blandness, not courage, and in return I sold myself short and ended up with a compromised life, the one I settled for not the one I dreamed of. The swirling thoughts and feelings and righteous outrage squelched in the service of fitting in, not making a scene, going with the flow, rendered me bland and uninteresting and not worthy of note.
I can’t say the alternatives suit me any better. I don’t want to be sour, I don’t want to be mean or pushy or bitter. I don’t want said of me, “The nerve of her!” or “Who does she think she is?” or “How could she?” I don’t want to direct my all to lining my pockets, the others be damned.
But I want to speak up if something needs to be said. Join the march or the letter-writing campaign or, simply mind my own damned business if that is what compels me. All in the service of good and right, with little care for what the neighbors think. The resistance to the resistance is strong and naysayers many. It need not deter me. If I stand fast to truth.