Cognitive Dissonance

So it Goes

I was born on the living room floor of an abandoned, ramshackle antebellum abode in the rural outskirts of Mobile, Alabama.

My mother, less than a month shy of her nineteenth year at the time, suffered through thirty-six long hours of "natural labor", sans epidural, with only my father and a female friend in attendance.

“I almost died, you know" she'd occasionally remark, and after fortune saw fit to present me with front row seats to the births of my four younger siblings, all equally casual in choice of guest list and venue, I never doubted the truth of her refrain.

Her motives for broaching the subject were often suspect, but never the veracity of that particular statement.

I had what could be, and doubtless has been, euphemistically called “an alternative upbringing”. And by this I don’t mean to say that my parents were vegan, anti-vaxxers or practicing, poly-amorous bi-sexuals; here in the bay none of those elements have qualified anyone for the increasingly elusive title of alternative for at least a half a century, and I came along at least a decade after Mr. Harvey Milk took his stand and paid the ultimate price for the freedoms we now take for granted.

I’ll Take the 1,000 Words, Thanks

When I was ten years old, my family posed for our first professional family Portrait. I have no idea what the occasion was; knowing my parents, it was as random and unforeseeable as a coupon showing up in the junk mail on a payday that just so happened to coincide with one of those rarest of times when all five of us kids were bathed and wearing something presentable. I remember how bizarre it felt, looking at that glossy photo, with the sky blue backdrop and the frozen smiles. My dad had trimmed his beard and my mother was wearing lipstick and even the baby was grinning like a perfect little doll, so adorable in tiny red corduroy overalls. I remember staring at that photo for the longest time, as if it held the secrets to life’s most difficult questions. We just looked so freakin normal. So ordinary. None of our smiles gave anything away. There was nothing in our eyes that even hinted to the fact that we’d spent the previous decade in what I would soon learn was generally considered to be a religious cult, and more specifically, one of the doomsday variety. Think David Koresh. Think Jim Jones. Think those weirdos dead in their bunk-beds in a rented mansion in San Diego, sans the matching kicks (or, to be fair, the ritual suicide).

At the age of ten I had yet to hear the terms “cult”, “compound”, or “enigmatic leader”, and the phrase “drank the kool-aid” at that point simply made me thirsty. I might have been ignorant as to the correct terminology, but I knew, in the way that kids often just know things, that we were most definitely not normal. Thus my discomfort with the family photo; it felt like a lie.

Regardless of whatever else I had been taught, I knew that dishonesty was almost always wrong (when you raise your children- along with large quantities of marijuana-in an illegal squat on government property, I suppose pressing the whole "sin of omission" school of thought would have been a bit foolhardy) but I still considered my parents to be basically honest people. I still do, actually. When it came to the authorities, however, we were taught that it was always okay, if not outright expected, to keep our own council.

Asking a child personal questions about family matters was rude, after all, and anyone with such awful manners couldn't be trusted. The rascals. We weren't to be rude or disrespectful, for they knew not what they did. We pitied them, for they were of the world, a world that had reached its expiration date. They were the ones left standing when the music stopped. They were the walking dead. The fallen. The lost. In the words of my father who, before becoming one of the “chosen few” spent several years as an Air Traffic Controller in the Air Force, a print Journalist working the police beat for a major daily in Florida’s Miami-Dade and received a Masters degree from FL State; “them poor, dumb sonsa’ bitches”.

Sometimes daddy’s ironic barbs were even more ironic than he meant them to be.

Cognitive Dissonance

Leon Festinger was a social psychologist who obtained prominence in the 1940s and 1950s for his research on human perception. He was best known for two schools of thought; his Social Comparison Theory, which basically states, in an overly verbose and long winded manner, that people are competitive, and my personal fav, his Theory of Cognitive Dissonance. He even won some fancy shmancy, uber prestigious award for his collaborative effort in writing a book of the same name which ostensibly offered empirical proof of his theory, published in 1957. His detractors were quick to criticize his research methods, stating that no real scientific procedure was utilized; no controls, no lab coats or beakers, no little white mice in Plexiglas labyrinths, et al.

The entirety of the experiment, it would seem, consisted of Dr. Festinger and two colleagues going undercover within a small doomsday cult, observing and, I would assume, taking copious amounts of humorless, jargon-riddled notes. Their hypothesis? That humans, when confronted with obvious contradictions within their fundamental belief structure (e.g. the date for Armageddon comes and goes and this ol world keeps spinnin’ round) generally experience the anxiety and confusion of Cognitive Dissonance.

The Oxford dictionary defines Cognitive Dissonance as; the state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioral decisions.

Wow. Who would've thought that folks didn't much care for having their deepest convictions blown to smithereens like some crash-test dummy in a fender bender between a mini cooper and a Buick.

I mean, really. How many degrees did this genius have? And how many years did it take him, with the assistance of his two equally educated cohorts, to gain such a shocking, powerful glimpse into the innermost workings of the human psyche?

And yet, here I am, over sixty years later, referring to his work. As absurdly simplistic as his theories may seem, apparently they were shiny and new in 1957. And smart ass commentary aside, he was definitely onto something. I can’t recall when or where I first came upon the phrase, I’ve been an avid reader since I was six, but I do remember that it fit my life like a tailored leather glove. Like the proverbial peas in their pod. Like lycra-spandex on a Kardashian booty.

We Don't Need No Education

It’s difficult to say exactly what moment in my life held the most cognitive dissonance, for mine has been a veritable cornucopia of contradictions, awkward moments and “alone in a crowded room” feelings of anxiety and discord, punctuated by brief, distorted glimpses of hilarity. Boo hoo. That actually would be the world’s tiniest violin playing that you hear, don’t ya know.

I entered public school for the very first time in the seventh grade. I tested way above my grade in every subject besides math, but being placed in advanced everything when I had never previously had an actual curriculum, much less any sort of consistent schedule, did prove to be a bit tricky. I didn't understand the girls in my grade; their motivations were as foreign to me as if I had been plopped down in the middle of the Amazon with a family of indigenous tree people and told to, “make friends!”. At least my mother, perhaps regretting the previous decade of stressing how useless school was, how it robbed children of their childhoods, yadayada “all we are is just a-nother brick in the wall”, et al, had the decency to refrain from spouting the usual platitudes. Then again, I sort of doubt either of us would have known what those were.

I was cute enough to make the already suspicious mean girl set hiss, and, after one of the head Nasties found out that I had the unfortunate experience of hooking up with her boyfriend (he had given me my disappointingly grabby first kiss), albeit a year before they met, I was blacklisted before I had memorized their names. The few minor allegiances I had made with the girls from my advanced classes, the goal oriented, uber-driven but genuinely nice ones buckled under the pressure. They still tried to give me a chance, at first. They invited me to a few sleepovers in their huge, luxury homes on the hill, and while I was fascinated by them and drawn to their natural beauty, confidence and physical grace-so rare in the average self-conscious, coltish preteen and yet thoroughly ingrained in these gamine ingenues through years of adhering to truly brutal schedules revolving around gymnastics, ballet, piano, and intellectual pursuits such as debate, student body government, etc., our complete lack of common ground made it easy for them to eventually side with the girls they had known since pre-k. Especially when it came out that I was a man-stealing hussy who obviously had no respect for the girl code.

Kate was the leader of the Valkyries; the nasty popular kids. In my limited experience most of the popular kids were actually very nice - why else would so many people like them? But, as with any large group, there are different factions, and Kate led the faction that picked on people, spread malicious gossip and sacrificed kittens by drinking their blood. That last one may have been a rumor but after seeing her run a mile without sweating her makeup off (I'm talking perfect, and she wore a lot!) I can easily imagine her dabbling in the dark arts. She and five of her artfully made-up minions actually followed me home one afternoon, with the intention of “jumping me”. At this point I was still clueless as to the source of her ire, but I had reached the conclusion that these girls would always be beyond my ability to comprehend and by that afternoon her intentions were all over the school.

Demon Child

Fueled by a deep sense of hopelessness that bordered on despair, I led them to the tunnel that ran underneath the four-lane freeway. The only place in our sleepy beach town with spray painted walls, this was a favorite place for kids to smoke cigarettes, and we were completely alone. I stopped in the middle of the tunnel and turned to face the six of them, emboldened now after what they perceived as my fear-induced flight. I had indeed made the tunnel in record time, not once looking back or responding to their vocal abuse, so I’m sure when they made the final approach in the dimly-lit tunnel and I stopped, ripping off my hoodie and tossing it on the filthy ground as I did so, having worked myself up on the walk with a mental diatribe on my rotten luck along with an internal slideshow of all of the most painful moments of my young life; the time when, at seven, I was suddenly no longer allowed to play with the other kids in the compound because I had made the mistake of telling one of the other little girls about a nightmare I had about the devil. The knowledge that a trusted friend had taken my vulnerable moment straight to her father, one of the “prophets”, hurt, but I also felt such deep and profound shame at their censor; like I had brought that dream on myself through word or deed. I was dirty and must be kept from infecting the innocent. A Demon Child. And less than a year later when it was decided that ALL fiction books were gateways to a sick and dying world and must be burned, which took place in a huge pyre in the clearing between the four cabins that made up the squat, it all started with MY book.

101 Dalmatians. My grandmother had sent it to me for my 8th birthday, and I had shared it, like we did with everything, with my friends. Another mistake, or perhaps that was just my lot. Perhaps nothing I ever offered would be righteous enough, pure enough.

Damn that Cruella Deville. The mean old lady who wants to make fur coats out of the bespotted little rascals, thus creating the plot of the story, somehow attracted the focus of one of the prophets, and for some reason that I never fully understood, her name enraged him. My book, something I brought to the table, was not only unworthy but downright sinful.

Again.

I just couldn't win with these guys!

Looking back, that was one of the evenings that made the biggest impact on me and my emotional state, caused the biggest shift; the most cognitive dissonance. It was horrible and terrifying, but I tried to be a good girl. I stoically brought out all of my books, after a short conference at the dinner table where my mother, lips in a tight line, startled me with her voice of dissent. “They’re damn children’s books!” her uncharacteristic vehemence offering me one last glimmer of false hope before chucking my worn copy of Huckleberry Finn into the “burn” box. She drew the line at her back issues of National Geographic and a few educational tomes, but everything of a fictional nature went in the fire. Bye bye Black Beauty, Adios Alice. It had taken me a month to pursue her down her rabbit-hole, dictionary at my elbow, but in that moment it felt like I was losing my best and most trusted friend. I was so confused. I wanted God to love me, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that I wasn't his favorite. That notion was both horrifying and oddly freeing, producing a confusing mixture of shame and defiance within my troubled young soul. Even then I used humor to deflect painful reality, a deadpan diatribe running wild through my mind like a spooked horse.

Such thoughts made me burn with shame, so I tried to get in the spirit, which was quickly taking on a strangely festive air. The squeals of small children, excited to be out so late, mixed with the cacophony of baying hounds in the distance, there was country music blaring out of an open car window and the fire must have been two stories high. Embers danced everywhere and smoke from so much paper hung thick in the night air, feeling darkly carnival-like. Manic. Some people were roasting marshmallows for s’more. The incongruity of the site almost struck me dumb. Someone handed me a long pole with a book, already on fire, hanging open on the other end. I felt numb. I watched with wide-eyed fascination as the red-hot heat transferred itself from the burning book and began to travel up the pole, too transfixed to let go until the metal scalded my hand. I remember with brutal clarity, how quickly the heat raced up that pole once it got started. I watched it happen and was still surprised by the pain. I remember thinking that there must be some lesson there, some grand meaning, if only I were clever enough to suss it out.

My Own Private Alamo

My Junior High School was actually very cool. Built at the highest point in a small beach town we had an unobstructed view of the ocean and pier directly below. The home that I shared with my dad and sibling until I moved out at the age of seventeen was located one block north of the pier. It took me anywhere from 15-25 minutes to walk home from school, depending on which direction I took, who I was with, etc.

The tunnel was approximately half-way, when you took the long way around, which was what I did that day. By the way things played out, one might think me brave to have taken the route I did, instead of the straight shot down the back hill, which would have avoided the tunnel altogether (unless I doubled back), but my reasoning was actually the exact opposite. The back way, while definitely shorter, cut through a field and an area that we referred to as the “Indian burial ground”. I have no idea where that originated but it was a natural-looking grouping of large boulders, settled artfully on a wide precipice near the top of the hill. It made for interesting scenery while clocking our miles for PE, served as an awesome place to cut a class or two, sharing a Marlboro Red with a pal, but that day all it represented was a crappy place to get caught alone by six other girls that wished you harm. So when I left I headed out the front gates and down the uber-steep Wadsworth hill. I hadn’t made it halfway down the busy street when they materialized a few yards behind me. I was automatically reassured by the fact that at least three of the girls were wearing skirts. Super short, tight skirts. I wasn’t yet quite the gangster that I am now, but even then I knew that you didn’t wear a skirt if you were planning to get in a serious brawl. Once I understood that the show of strength was all for show my fear diminished somewhat and was gradually replaced by a low, thrumming anger. I could hear them hissing and snickering behind me, lobbing a few petty insults underhanded, softballs, really, but being so obviously disrespected on a public street gave their childish words more weight and they stung. Parents who picked their kids up often got stuck on that hill; it was hell on a clutch, if you weren't a pro, and the concerned looks aimed my way from the stationary station wagons (haha) were adding insult to injury. Well, technically insult to insult. You get my drift.

By the time I reached the bottom of the hill my plan had begun to form, so I took the sharp left that would lead us to the tunnel. I was shaking from adrenaline but I stopped fighting it at that point, embraced it. Like with all high-stress, high-drama moments throughout my life, time seemed to almost stand still. This is why the memories of some of my very worst moments are also some of my most clear and easy to recall. For instance, when I totaled my beloved sea green rav4, limited edition, less than two years after purchasing it and less than one week after accidentally letting the insurance lapse. The “Oh Shit!” moment on that one could hold a lifetime of regular moments.

This one was definitely more enjoyable, though. After giving my anger free reign for a block and a half, and as I thought back on all of the crappier moments in my life, reveling in the inequity of it all, the years of pain and confusion and senseless deprivation, reading nothing between the ages of eight and eleven besides Encyclopedia Britannica or the damn Chronicle (it doubtlessly helped with my test scores but by the time I was nine I was having anxiety attacks about the cold war and nightmares about guerrilla warfare in central america, not to mention huge cognitive dissonance regarding Nancy Reagan’s war on drugs). The girls behind me were also getting bolder now that we didn't have an audience, egging one another on, taunts getting louder and more crude. That’s what makes their complete and utter shock so delicious that after twenty-five years it still makes me giggle to recall it; all six of them stopped dead, mouths open, eyes wide. Because when I tossed my hoody down I was, for the very first time in my life, completely fearless. I was six-beers-fearless but dead sober, filled with righteous indignation and mad as hell. I wish I had been more eloquent, but I fear that’s where I must gloss over a few things, in the spirit of good taste and the behest of historical accuracy, for at this point in my tale the two ideals doth merge, if you will.

To make a long story just a fraction more succinct, lets just say that I stood up to them, and did so with such vehemence that nary a one opted to accept the challenges I so colorfully hurled at them until I was horse, jumping and flailing my arms about all the while, having heard somewhere that it worked on bears. Not only did they fall back, but they didn't follow me when I finally ran out of steam and picked up my dirty hoody, making one more half-hearted but comically effective lunge in their direction before staggering out into the bright sunlight and wandering towards home.

Conclusion; Wait...Seriously?

The summons couldn’t have come at a worse time. I had actually dressed out for PE, and having forgotten my sweats I was wearing the huge, shapeless blue shorts that made my pale legs look like purplish little sticks in the cold morning air. Having never been called to the guidance office before, I was mystified, and while I wasn’t so obtuse that I failed to sense the connection between my summons and the incident of the day before, I was damned if I could think of what it was. No one had actually thrown a punch, and besides, they had been following me so why was I the one in trouble? I was still pretty new to the hallowed halls of academia, though, and wasn’t sure about anything. My natural tendency towards pessimism actually seemed apropos for the occasion. I accepted the familiar feeling of vague impending doom with the appropriate level of dignity and fortitude. Actually my teeth were literally chattering from a combination of nerves and cold damp ocean air that clung to me like wet wool.

I hated that shakiness more than anything. That feeling of impermanence that lived in the shadows of every house, apartment, bungalow, cabin, trailer or hotel room that I had lived in so far. It had haunted me for so long it had its own toothbrush and space in my sock drawer. What had I been thinking, talking my parents into putting me in public school? Did I really think that it wouldn’t follow me here? I didn’t belong there, any more than I belonged in the luxury homes of the over-scheduled good girls or up north in our cabin at the squat. I was a square peg and all I could see were round holes, stretching out before me into eternity...ugh, enough of that.

When I reached the Guidance Office, Kate, queen of the Valkyries, was there, alone. I looked around, wondering who was playing mediator, but she simply got up, cool as a cucumber and said, “It’s okay, come in. Have a seat”. Her composure grated but my curiosity was also starting to peek it’s obnoxious little head, so I sat.

I forget exactly how she started; it isn't important, though. She basically apologized for her behavior over the last month (month?? This thing had obviously been in full swing weeks before I even realized I had an “arch enemy”) and was charming and sincere. I even thought her surprise was genuine when I asked, plainly, why the hell she picked me, specifically, to torture, over all the other, more (or at least equally) deserving girls, but her shock couldn’t compete with mine at her response.

After an annoying game of “you know why…” and “um, no, I really don’t” she finally dropped a bomb that, simply because I’m me and she happened to be whoever the hell she was, caught me so off guard that I actually barked like a hungry seal. She said, “I’m jealous of you!”. The way she said it, not meeting my eyes, voice dropping to a near whisper as she began to fidget for the first time since the encounter began, I actually believed her. But when I’d finally stopped laughing I was still mystified as ever, quite possibly more so.

“What the hell for?” I asked with genuine incredulity. Always the wordsmith. What can I say? It’s in my genes. Too bad I was stuck in those God-awful PE Shorts. I actually referenced them in an attempt to underscore the absurdity of her statement.

I said; “Look at yourself. You’re fu****g perfect. What in the hell could you possibly be jealous of ME for??” (gesturing to my skinny legs in those ridiculous shorts).

When she said his name I still didn’t understand. Did she think I had gone after him, or…? When I mentioned that I didn’t understand these girls I wasn’t being hyperbolic. We were back to sizing one another up. It was as if neither one of us could quite believe that the other could be SO clueless. We were both looking closely for any sign of an approaching “Gotcha!!!” or the big hidden camera reveal.

I finally decided to put this thing, whatever the hell it was, to bed. I admitted that I didn’t fully understand her jealousy, as I had never and indeed would never make a pass at someone who’s already taken (or anyone, to be honest) and from what I had overheard about her relationship, it was only a few months old. But the most telling circumstances of the whole situation, I reasoned allowed, was the fact that she was his girlfriend. He walked the halls holding her hand, he carried her books. All the corny crap I had fantasized about the year before when I first met him. But after hanging out a couple of times, which were less than magical, to be real; imagine sitting on the far end of a couch while your friend shamelessly gets it on (I mean all the way on) with her ugly boyfriend at the other end, which makes it even harder to fight off the horny brute on your end (I left that part out) then he borrows $20 from you and you never hear from him again. Well, except for a few rude comments from his friends whenever they walked by. Apparently he not only shared our not-so-special tryst in detail, but he embellished those details quite a bit..

In the end she finally understood; she was fighting for something that was never even at risk, and attacking someone who neither desired her prize nor even comprehended her enmity.

We never spoke again after that day but she always went out of her way to smile at me in the halls or wave from across the quad. By the perplexed, vaguely annoyed looks on the faces of her minions it was obvious that she never shared the details or possibly even the fact of our covert tet-a-tet.

That was just fine with me.