The reclamation of humiliation

Sometimes I like to view life as a long, bewildering series of humiliations that occur without… Sometimes I like to view life as a long, bewildering series of humiliations that occur without warning, leaving me an utter mess. Perhaps my word choice is a tad inaccurate here, because it isn’t exactly that I enjoy viewing life this way; rather, this is the only way I can view life if I want to observe it with any hope of accuracy.

Things just happen to me – embarrassing, awkward things – that simply don’t happen to other people. The other day, for example, I fell not only on the steps entering the Cathedral, but not five minutes later I nearly bit it in a crowded, noon-time stairwell, having to grab the backpack of the guy in front of me to save myself.

I was so mortified that I actually didn’t even say a word to the poor, random guy. Sorry about that, unknown, random guy. I guess I should watch myself, huh? If it makes you feel better, random guy, I’m sure I just looked ridiculous while you must have maintained some element of dignity.

And that is precisely my point, that falling into a stranger while we are both going up a stairwell while people behind me wonder if I’m on drugs or just uncoordinated is not an out of the ordinary experience for me.

Humiliation and I are agonizingly well-acquainted and have been ever since Antric Klaber sprayed cologne all over me in the locker room in seventh grade. I know what it’s like to be taunted. This is precisely why I am so embarrassingly qualified to talk to you today about the potentially most humiliating moment one can live through, which is, of course, running for a bus.

What? That’s it, you say, that’s the apex of humiliation? Surely, there must be a worse feeling, right?

Wrong. Absolutely, definitely, undeniably wrong. What can be worse than being an adult and running in public? And not running with fancy shoes or little blinking lights strapped around ankles, either. We are talking about running wildly with arms thrashing, grabbing a bag, gasping for breath, through crowds, in a city, toward what? Just a stupid bus. You’re not even running for something cool, like ice cream, or helpful, like free beer. You’re just making a total blithering fool out of yourself to earn a seat on a crappy bus.

To make matters worse, not only does nature abhor a vacuum, but apparently Pittsburgh does as well. Never is my haphazard dash granted the sort of somber respect it most certainly deserves; instead, I am frequently the subject of exclamations ranging from joyous shouts to the touching and endearing, “He’s going to make that!”

My performances are assessed with the kind of severity previously associated with the scoring of American figure skaters by Soviet Olympic judges. My decision will be criticized, “That bus is too far away;” my form dismissed, “Look at the way he’s running;” and, in general, I’ll be made to feel like an absolute lunatic for simply taking off at high speed on a crowded avenue toward something that comes every half an hour.

Hmm, that is kind of crazy, isn’t it? But come on, who wants to wait for the bus? Or sit there and watch it trudge off into the financially distressed horizon? Maybe I shouldn’t view this as humiliating but instead empowering. Maybe my crazy bus runs are a way for me to reclaim my identity as a guy not afraid to try something stupid in public, no matter what kind of nonsense I get from onlookers for doing something so idiotic.

After all, if you’ve been humiliated enough, the feeling stops really being such a shock, anyway. It doesn’t get better, but the elimination of surprise goes a long way toward improving being able to deal with humiliation. The sensation is so familiar it’s almost as if the only thing that actually changes is the situation, like a formulaic Hollywood action franchise, stringing together useless plots so that they can make a film with pre-established characters.

Location is the only thing that ever winds up changing, and isn’t that the only difference in the end? Where we are when something happens is what we remember, and that is why I run for the bus. Then I can remember myself slumped in the stairwell, gasping for breath and headed home, instead of remembering myself standing there, too embarrassed to run like all those other suckers who just stand there, sigh, and then reach for their headphones as their bus vanishes from their view without them making one stupid, barbaric try.

E-mail Kevin your best time from the quad to the union bus stop at kjs34@pitt.edu.