§ A hive mentality must be genetically embedded somewhere in the human brain, for most of us are heavily invested in trying to force others do things our way. §
I have shortcuts scattered all over the desktop of my PC. Shortcuts to documents, to folders, to my blog, to my recipe books, all dot the landscape of my desktop photo. These shortcuts are carefully arranged in very specific order, and in most cases I’ve chosen unique icons for each, making it easy for me to quickly select the correct shortcut. Yet when I visit “how to” computer instruction sites, my habit of strewing my desktop with shortcuts is inevitably disparaged. According to the experts, my “cluttered” desktop is almost an affront.
I shrug. I like it; they don’t.
As I once pointed out in a earlier blog on this site, most of us are heavily invested in trying to force others do things our way, to like the things we like, and vice versa. A hive mentality must be genetically embedded somewhere in the human brain, for this common behavior causes a raft of troubles, from Twitter wars over whether Indian food is terrible, to political parties, right on up the turnpike to things like Crusades for “the one true” faith.
I recall a friend who, hoping to reenergize her dating life, began spending weekend evenings at craft beer establishments. Urging me to join her in this pastime, she told me that she’d never previously liked beer, but she now enjoyed it. I shrugged. I rarely drink more than the occasional glass of cheap, sweet wine. I have absolutely no palate, and I’m comfortable with that; besides, I’ve always found beer disgusting. I’d sipped a craft beer once and found it no better tasting than the nasty, yeasty drinks that I’d always loathed. I dislike the atmosphere of most bars, as well, so an evening spent swilling down alcohol while having my ears assaulted by too-loud music and attempting to make conversation with total strangers held no appeal. I made it clear to my friend that I wasn’t interested. Yet for months she continued to hammer away at me, hoping to persuade me to join her in one of these outings. “I didn’t like beer either until I tried this!” she repeated ad nauseum, as if by sheer repetition she could convince me.
It was as futile an attempt on her part as those of friends and relatives who try to convert me to an appreciation of Brussel sprouts by dabbing them with olive oil and garlic and broiling them crisply. Underneath it all, it’s still a Brussels sprout. (I understand the British eat Brussels sprouts at Christmas, which along with cold toast explains a lot to me about their culture.)
Actually, a British acquaintance of my mother once mentioned to her that he found mutton inedible. She accepted this and repeated it several times, but not as something her friend described. Instead, she proclaimed, “Mutton is inedible.” Finally, goaded, I asked her, “Uh, Mom, when have you ever eaten mutton?” “It’s inedible,” she insisted. “But how do you know?” I persisted. “A lot of people eat mutton. Just because one person says it’s inedible doesn’t make it so; it’s a matter of personal taste.” I reminded her of my Grandma Marie’s story of serving roast duck to my grandfather, who loved it, although all the rest of their relatives declared it too greasy a fowl to be edible. “It’s all a matter of personal taste,” I argued to my mother, who shook her head in irritation and informed me that I didn’t know what I was talking about.
Mutton may very well be disgusting; I would not know, since I’ve never eaten it, nor roast duck, either. But the point at the heart of this matter is, I think, that of accepting individuality: allowing others their preferences. I prefer a PC desktop that is scattered about with carefully arranged, unique icons leading me with a quick click to exactly the documents and photos I want; a computer purist finds this untenable. I can barely swallow a Brussels sprout no matter how cleverly hidden in broiled spices; others devour them in delight and serve them up as a Christmas dish. An Indian coworker served me many of her home cooked dishes, and I found most of them too spicy for my taste and unpalatable. Yet many of our fellow employees gobbled her food with pleasure. Personal preference. Varying taste buds. Perhaps even something encoded into our DNA.
Much like my craft beer-loving friend, my Indian acquaintance never ceased trying to find dishes that I enjoyed. Occasionally, she even succeeded, since several of the foods she served me were at least preferable to Brussels sprouts.
Yet still, I find myself despairing, for when will we each ever learn to just allow others their preferences, and cease urging them to adopt our quirks and choices?
No matter what, though, I’m keeping my icon-bespattered PC desktop.
(If you enjoyed this post, you might also like “Roses of the Soul”,
which you may find in the archives on 12/16/2017)