The Trial of Mediocrates

Back in high school, my friends and I used to joke that there was an ancient Greek thinker named Mediocrates, who wasn't quite as good as Socrates or Hippocrates or any of those men we see carved in marble today. He halfheartedly tossed around the idea that mediocrity was the way to go. But he never really asserted it, or advocated it. That's why his work hasn't been preserved so well, you see. He created it but didn't fight for it. 

Despite having made the guy up, I didn't know until just a few hours ago how much Mediocrates has affected my thinking. Maybe this hypothetical philosopher really is as influential as his more famous brethren. So many of my decisions (or lack thereof) are based on what Mediocrates tells me to do.  

Why?

While mediocrity does not get awards, it also does not get punished. 

Effort, however, sometimes gets punished. Excellence, even, gets punished. It separates you from people. Sometimes, when you try really hard, people see something different in you - and that changes things. Like that time in a high school literature class when we had to get up in front of the class to read a poem from the textbook. I picked one about war, and anger, and pain. We only had a few to choose from, so several other people read it too. But I planned where I would pause dramatically, where I would be loud, where I would be heavy with pensiveness. I read that poem with all my heart in front of the class, and it felt amazing! Thrilling! The teacher was beaming. But when I looked out at my classmates, they looked... scared. Awkward. Like I just crossed a line I wasn't supposed to cross. We were doing okay until I took it too far. I was no longer like them, the people who just got up and read their poem as if they were just themselves, in a classroom, reading a poem. After crossing that line a few too many times - getting too high of a grade and ruining the curve, trying too hard and looking like a teachers' pet, getting too scary when I played an angry character in theater class - I guess I learned to stop. 

I remembered Mediocrates this evening after I watched my friends dance in a low-key Jack and Jill competition at the local blues fusion venue we all frequent. They were amazing, and fun, and.... I knew I loved dancing with all of them. How could I have not taken the opportunity to do so and be celebrated for it together? Why wasn't I out there with them? 

Because I was afraid to be seen trying. Not afraid of failing - no, I'm a decent enough dancer - I was afraid of dancing my absolute best with and in front of people who know me. It seemed pretentious, foolish, like thinking the big present under the tree is mine and taking it in front of everybody before realizing I'm wrong. 

Mediocrity is safe. When we are mediocre, we are right there with everybody else who shares the big part of the bell curve. But when you - yes, you, I'm singling somebody out but am not willing to make it me - when you really, really try, you grow. You change. You find or perhaps even create parts of yourself that weren't revealed before. You challenge others to see what you can do, to look at you and reevaluate their conception of who you are and what you are capable of. And perhaps you impact those around you in some way - you make them feel or see or think something they weren't experiencing right before. When this happens, you lose the control of self-image that comes with sameness. People may love you or hate you rather than just liking you well enough. Perhaps you inspire people, or scare them, or make them laugh. Whatever you do, when you try to be good at it you are set apart and then you have to grapple with yourself: Who are you really? Because you aren't just who you thought you were, and now everyone can see this you whom you don't even know.  

Much safer to be mediocre, and leave excellence to the people who are good at it, right? Some people are allowed to get away with being impressive or talented or beautiful, so we'll leave it to them. So don't mind me, I'm here chillin' with my buddy Mediocrates. We'll passively enjoy your awesomeness without ever acknowledging our own ability to engage it - after all, we would't want to intrude. 

 

Interestingly enough, in some facets of my life I have been able to leave Mediocrates behind. While riding my my horses, for instance, I can try with every fiber of my being. Yesterday my big Thoroughbred gelding was terrified of some equipment along the arena fence. He balked, he spun, he skittered, he ran backwards - he did all sorts of things that are very scary when the one doing them weighs 1,100 pounds and can throw my comparatively itty-bitty human body in the dirt - but he eventually cantered bravely up the rail, because the gaze of my eyes and the lift of my hands and the weight of my seat and the tallness of my spine and the pressure of my legs and the depth of my breath all told him "We're going for it! We're going to keep cantering and we're going to make it!" That kind of attitude gets very important when you start throwing in wooden obstacles to jump over. 

Horseback riding has taught me to try 100%, because sometimes 99% fails. Sometimes 99% means you gallop to the groundline of the jump but then crash into it because at the last second you had a shade of doubt. It means you get run into the arena fence because just enough of you believes that the horse isn't going to turn. But 100%? Never, never has it failed me on the back of a horse. And that is the scary part. If you give 100%, you can't stay within the safety of your known problems. You can't just stop at the jump before takeoff - you have to stay with your horse once he leaves the ground, no matter how ugly it is. Giving 100% means you go somewhere that scares you. So, through horseback riding, I have learned that if I can't get my horse to do something, it's because not all of me wants to get it done. Part of me is still listening to Mediocrates, but instead of protecting me he's going to get my ass hurt. 

Zemo stopped at this jump twice, and then I remembered to ride like we were going to get over it. 

 

So, back to this dance contest - why didn't I enter? Why didn't I dance, even when I can be so confident in situations where much more is at stake?  

Perhaps I'm just a little scared to get to know myself, because that girl whose strength convinced a terrified horse to keep on going and whose intensity over a poem drew uncomfortable looks from high school classmates - that girl invites new tests and judgments and responsibilities her way. Making it over one jump brings on the next one, and makes people watch to see how many strides I get and what track I takes, and emulate what I did well and fix what I did wrong. Making an effort gives people something to work with, but it's scary because I don't always know what I'm giving to whom. An effort has consequences that everybody can either tear down or build upon. And if I had danced, my goodness, people would have looked at me. My effort might have made them feel something, and then it wouldn't just be mine, it would be ours. 

Mediocrity, meanwhile, seems safe because it keeps people from testing you and from judging you. It keeps you from having to share yourself. 

Tonight, mediocrity kept me feeling full of regret on the sidelines, selfishly hogging all my potential to myself because I was afraid of what people might do with it. And meanwhile my friends danced, seemingly unafraid of putting their effort out there where I could see it, and claim it as something of ours upon which I can reflect and build not only my conception of them but my conception of myself. 

Thanks guys, for your efforts. For your dances, of course. 

Mediocrates, this trial has shown you to be a miser. Go drink some hemlock.