Most of us would balk at being called a “tryhard”–to overextend oneself, to earnestly put forth a genuine effort to be good at something–is somehow in and of itself a cause for shame. If you’re not good at something immediately, why bother?
That’s perhaps why Fieldston’s annual poetry assembly, theater, dance, and music showcases are so sparsely attended: seeing our peers trying so hard makes us uncomfortable. They stutter and they struggle, the notes squeak and the slides are out of focus….while we wince, and thank god it’s not us up there baring our souls for the world to cringe at. But why? Why is it so agonizing to watch people giving something their all?
This collective squirming at the thought of trying so embarrassingly hard is not a Fieldston-exclusive phenomenon–while slam poets and actors are more common here than at your typical high school, we are not the only ones to laugh uncomfortably, to sigh and roll our eyes at tearful monologues, sincere, confessional prose, and ardency of all stripes, really.
Indeed, there are entire industries based on our discomfort with earnestness. The teacher’s pet, who makes an embarrassing effort to please and to learn, is a staple in television and movies, and the talentless, pretentious artist who makes an effort despite lacking in natural talent is universally ridiculed to a similar degree, if not more so. There are Tiktokers and commentators who make a living laughing at those that gracelessly try and fail to reenact popular dances with stiff arms and hips, at those who share their unrefined original songs with the entire world wide web.
And, on the opposite end of that spectrum, there’s the girl that’s beautiful without knowing it, the boy that’s cool without needing to try. We love them because it’s easy for them–they don’t need to earn their gifts.
We tune into reality television shows based solely around humiliating strangers–American Idol and America’s Got Talent make millions of dollars crushing dreams on live television. We love it when Simon Cowell berates those in need of voice lessons; we revel in the meltdowns of inelegant breakdancers who storm offstage, secretly glad that we would never have the courage to be so vulnerable for the world to see.
Obviously, it’s healthy to embrace a good reality check, but it seems that far too often our fear of looking stupid holds us back from growing as people. What’s so bad about being bad at something you love? Must we be effortlessly gifted at everything we deign to try? Must we always feel ashamed? A world in which beautiful, utterly human activities like art, dancing, and singing are limited to those who are naturally able seems a hopelessly dull one, that treats self-improvement as impossible, and failure as the ultimate embarrassment.
This is trash! do better bestie.