Death of a yes-man
The mic was on. I leaned toward it, so it could amplify my soft voice through the large room. I scanned the audience of about 20 people, many of their eyes meeting mine, anticipating my introduction for the author.
I had been thinking about this moment for days, ever since I meekly agreed to open the book reading and discussion co-sponsored by the Johnson County Green Party and Veterans for Peace. It weighed on my conscience as another duty I took but did not want, another example of my bad habit of saying yes when I wanted to say no. It was fuel for my worsening anxiety; the disquiet it gave me was akin to the dread I felt before school and church programs when I was a kid. Instead of being nervous, however, I was calm and collected at the front of the room, everyone watching me as I leaned over the lectern toward the mic. I was ready to do it, to get it over with. It was, I had decided, my last duty as a yes-man.
It all started three days earlier at the Johnson County Green Party meeting. JCGP meetings tend to be uneventful discussions about current events and local news, a chance for members to meet and talk. They’re lightly attended—only five of us are regulars—and almost nothing of substance has ever been planned or produced. I usually end up watching the clock, fiddling with my bike helmet if I’ve brought it inside, or checking Twitter (as I did Saturday for updates on Iowa’s game) as the usual suspects bemoan the demise of the peace movement, glorify (obviously) left-leaning media, and make the same rant against the military-industrial complex. I fall squarely in the libertarian left quadrant of the political compass and agree with much of the Green Party platform, but I feel out of place at JCGP meetings sometimes. I’m not that far left and feel much more realistic than the others. I don’t say much, because it’s hard to respond to delusion.
Anyway, I almost did not go to the JCGP meeting Saturday because it coincided with Iowa’s first football game. I decided to attend, though, because a city council candidate planned to chat with us. He/she never arrived, unfortunately, but the first half of the Iowa game was uneventful, so I did not miss much.
After I returned from a bathroom break, our de facto leader asked if I could open an upcoming book reading because nobody else could. It was a simple job: mention the sponsors and introduce the author. It would take two minutes at most.
I was unexpectedly back in that place I’m so familiar with, that small space between the rock and the hard place: I want to say no because I don’t want to do it, because I want to stay home and veg out after work, but I should say yes to appease others, should step up to the plate because somebody has to do it and nobody else will.
“Sure,” I said. “I can.”
I regretted it immediately. The Tuesday night duty began weighing on me as I noted it on my phone. After some promising initiative for future action and my usual clock-watching session, I made a meek attempt to weasel out of the responsibility: I let it be known that I was not 100 percent comfortable with it, but I would do it if nobody else was available. My discomfort had nothing to do with a fear of public speaking or anxiety. Instead, it was the fact I did not plan the reading and knew nothing about the author or his books. It was not my thing. Other JCGP members are seemingly in love with the author and his work—I wish I had $20 for every time his name and books are mentioned at party meetings—and they were the ones who planned the reading, so shouldn’t they open the event? Regardless, I rode home on my bike, cursing myself for once again saying yes when I felt uncomfortable doing so.
It’s something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. It’s gotten much worse recently, despite New Year’s resolutions to do otherwise, to say no. Why do I do it? Why can’t I assert myself? Why do I cave under peer pressure?
Part it may be the sense of duty instilled by my parents. They stepped up to the plate when others wouldn’t. They were the ones the school and church relied on for years, and they led by example. They stopped being yes-people eventually (though my sister seems to have them on a short leash) so that is an example I should follow as well.
Another part is the fact I’ve never been able to withstand peer pressure. I can’t not do what other people want me to do. That’s how I get people to like me, right? No, it’s not, but I feel the need to appease people anyway, just as I appeased my parents to make them happy. Having just written (and realized) that, I think that is the biggest factor. I felt intense guilt whenever I disappointed my parents or made them mad, and I feel the same way about everyone else. I can’t disappoint or upset them.
A sense of duty and not wanting to disappoint others are not bad things, but they are detrimental to me when I accept responsibilities that make me uncomfortable, trigger my anxiety, and interfere with my life and sanity. That’s why, staring into the bathroom mirror on Sunday, the event opening sitting on my conscience, I decided to flip the script, decided to make the event something I eagerly anticipated and welcomed. I decided it would be the last thing I agreed to do as a yes-man. Afterward, I would say no whenever I wanted.
Amazingly, my anxiety melted away. My responsibility became just another event, another thing I needed to do, and no longer instilled angst.
I watched the clock on Tuesday, knowing what was ahead, eager to get it done. The de facto JCGP leader said she would forward information about the event and author for me, but she never did. I found an email from someone else with info, so I cobbled together an author bio with information about his books. It was in my pocket, folded, when I arrived at the public library 30 minutes before the event.
I didn’t have to open the room, so I waited outside until someone else arrived. I asked if she, one of the organizers, wanted to give the opening, but she declined.
I helped post posters and carry boxes of books into the meeting room. A library staff member set up the mic and I chatted with the author. He was cordial and engaging; I felt it was a pleasure to introduce him and resolved to check out his books. With the minute hand on the wall clock past the half-hour mark, I said, “It’s time.”
The author sat in a chair next to the lectern, I looked out at the audience, and opened the event.
I had been thinking about this moment for days, ever since I meekly agreed to open the book reading and discussion co-sponsored by the Johnson County Green Party and Veterans for Peace. It weighed on my conscience as another duty I took but did not want, another example of my bad habit of saying yes when I wanted to say no. It was fuel for my worsening anxiety; the disquiet it gave me was akin to the dread I felt before school and church programs when I was a kid. Instead of being nervous, however, I was calm and collected at the front of the room, everyone watching me as I leaned over the lectern toward the mic. I was ready to do it, to get it over with. It was, I had decided, my last duty as a yes-man.
It all started three days earlier at the Johnson County Green Party meeting. JCGP meetings tend to be uneventful discussions about current events and local news, a chance for members to meet and talk. They’re lightly attended—only five of us are regulars—and almost nothing of substance has ever been planned or produced. I usually end up watching the clock, fiddling with my bike helmet if I’ve brought it inside, or checking Twitter (as I did Saturday for updates on Iowa’s game) as the usual suspects bemoan the demise of the peace movement, glorify (obviously) left-leaning media, and make the same rant against the military-industrial complex. I fall squarely in the libertarian left quadrant of the political compass and agree with much of the Green Party platform, but I feel out of place at JCGP meetings sometimes. I’m not that far left and feel much more realistic than the others. I don’t say much, because it’s hard to respond to delusion.
Anyway, I almost did not go to the JCGP meeting Saturday because it coincided with Iowa’s first football game. I decided to attend, though, because a city council candidate planned to chat with us. He/she never arrived, unfortunately, but the first half of the Iowa game was uneventful, so I did not miss much.
After I returned from a bathroom break, our de facto leader asked if I could open an upcoming book reading because nobody else could. It was a simple job: mention the sponsors and introduce the author. It would take two minutes at most.
I was unexpectedly back in that place I’m so familiar with, that small space between the rock and the hard place: I want to say no because I don’t want to do it, because I want to stay home and veg out after work, but I should say yes to appease others, should step up to the plate because somebody has to do it and nobody else will.
“Sure,” I said. “I can.”
I regretted it immediately. The Tuesday night duty began weighing on me as I noted it on my phone. After some promising initiative for future action and my usual clock-watching session, I made a meek attempt to weasel out of the responsibility: I let it be known that I was not 100 percent comfortable with it, but I would do it if nobody else was available. My discomfort had nothing to do with a fear of public speaking or anxiety. Instead, it was the fact I did not plan the reading and knew nothing about the author or his books. It was not my thing. Other JCGP members are seemingly in love with the author and his work—I wish I had $20 for every time his name and books are mentioned at party meetings—and they were the ones who planned the reading, so shouldn’t they open the event? Regardless, I rode home on my bike, cursing myself for once again saying yes when I felt uncomfortable doing so.
It’s something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. It’s gotten much worse recently, despite New Year’s resolutions to do otherwise, to say no. Why do I do it? Why can’t I assert myself? Why do I cave under peer pressure?
Part it may be the sense of duty instilled by my parents. They stepped up to the plate when others wouldn’t. They were the ones the school and church relied on for years, and they led by example. They stopped being yes-people eventually (though my sister seems to have them on a short leash) so that is an example I should follow as well.
Another part is the fact I’ve never been able to withstand peer pressure. I can’t not do what other people want me to do. That’s how I get people to like me, right? No, it’s not, but I feel the need to appease people anyway, just as I appeased my parents to make them happy. Having just written (and realized) that, I think that is the biggest factor. I felt intense guilt whenever I disappointed my parents or made them mad, and I feel the same way about everyone else. I can’t disappoint or upset them.
A sense of duty and not wanting to disappoint others are not bad things, but they are detrimental to me when I accept responsibilities that make me uncomfortable, trigger my anxiety, and interfere with my life and sanity. That’s why, staring into the bathroom mirror on Sunday, the event opening sitting on my conscience, I decided to flip the script, decided to make the event something I eagerly anticipated and welcomed. I decided it would be the last thing I agreed to do as a yes-man. Afterward, I would say no whenever I wanted.
Amazingly, my anxiety melted away. My responsibility became just another event, another thing I needed to do, and no longer instilled angst.
I watched the clock on Tuesday, knowing what was ahead, eager to get it done. The de facto JCGP leader said she would forward information about the event and author for me, but she never did. I found an email from someone else with info, so I cobbled together an author bio with information about his books. It was in my pocket, folded, when I arrived at the public library 30 minutes before the event.
I didn’t have to open the room, so I waited outside until someone else arrived. I asked if she, one of the organizers, wanted to give the opening, but she declined.
I helped post posters and carry boxes of books into the meeting room. A library staff member set up the mic and I chatted with the author. He was cordial and engaging; I felt it was a pleasure to introduce him and resolved to check out his books. With the minute hand on the wall clock past the half-hour mark, I said, “It’s time.”
The author sat in a chair next to the lectern, I looked out at the audience, and opened the event.
