QUEERAT!VE

Throughout the first half of the pandemic, I was single. And added to that, I was very much looking for love. When I think back to that time, I’m struck by how disappointing most of my experiences with men were. Not only that, most of them ended with some kind of rejection. All this led me to consider the very nature of rejection and how it may be time to rethink the way we see it.

At the end of the first summer, I dated a guy for around 6 weeks. Our first weeks together were really enjoyable and I probably had one of my best first dates ever with him. As the date drew to a close, I remember feeling an exciting discomfort brewing. I wasn’t sure if we were going to kiss or not. Until I made the move and kissed him. Afterwards, I felt so proud of myself, as usually I’m the one who holds back and regrets not acting later. My lasting memory of him, though, is a bit different.

In the weeks after the first date, I soon realised there was a problem. He would often take around seven hours to reply to a text. Not only did this cause me a great deal of anxiety between replies, but it also became increasingly difficult for me to not interpret his response time as a sign he was either losing interest or had already lost it. When I brought this up to him, his response was something along the lines of: I’m not the kind of person who replies instantly or I’m just not someone who’s always on their phone. I didn’t take the discussion much further.

Although I understood his position, how else was I supposed to gauge his level of interest besides how readily he replied and how often he wanted to meet up? What else do we have to go off when we first meet someone? And, when we factor in the virtual realm – being able to see likes, stories, even read receipts – isn’t it safe to say rejection nowadays has taken on even more forms?

In hindsight, I’ve come to understand that forging a new relationship isn’t just about catching feelings. It also encompasses working together to set a range of terms that both of you are happy with. With seven-hour reply guy, I knew I wasn’t going to be happy with such infrequent communication. But I continued things in the hope of reliving those first few moments together and that things would change. By the time it became clear that they wouldn’t, he’d ended it. I’d been chasing a previous rush of wonder and excitement that was never going to come back. And that form of rejection hits just a bit different.

The experience, however, made me realise I needed a more present partner in order to feel safe and wanted; and that meant replying to messages promptly and making an effort to see me as much as possible. Those are some of my terms, along with everything else I bring to the table. Seeing the beginnings of a relationship in this way has helped me reframe rejection into something softer, like incompatibility, for instance; a phrase that is kinder, less one-sided and less destructive for both people involved. And, given that our society is more divided, hurt and lonelier than ever, why shouldn’t we centre care and compassion, especially when it comes to matters as delicate as those of the heart?

When I was in my teens, my Dad decided to build his own hot tub in the back garden. He completed the design; dug a 1m hole in the ground and installed a round slab of concrete to form the rim of the tub. And then, he stopped. The forever-unfinished hot tub became a running joke in our family. So much so that my Dad eventually moved our (equally dormant) childhood trampoline over the hole, forever hiding it from view. Now, most of us probably will never take on such heavy-duty DIY work, but isn’t leaving a passion project unfinished something we all have in common?

Now, you could say it was a case of my Dad biting off more than he could chew. But, I don’t see it that way. My Dad built the house we grew up in, so he most certainly wasn’t lacking the skill; he just fell out of love with the project. Or rather, he fell out of love with the process. It was clear from the beginning that the outcome of his project held great appeal, but the reality of the actual process involved did not. And that’s probably the reality of most big projects: lots of little, potentially boring or fiddly, processes to reach the end result.

My intention here is not to shame having ambition (or my Dad!); it’s to remind us to think carefully about our motivations for doing something. And more importantly, to consider ways to find value within the process, not just the product. It’s a call to move away from placing so much importance on the outcome of an endeavour and towards an appreciation of what goes into it. Where the joy of making or creating something is the main act, instead of having something to show for ourselves.

So what does that mean for each of us? It could mean reflecting on how each of the words applies to our own lives and how we find a balance between them. It could also mean asking ourselves the hard questions like, how strongly do we feel the need to constantly produce? If so, where does this need come from? Or even something broader like, is my worth ultimately based on what I am or what I do?

Nonetheless, an easier question to finish with is this: so, what came of the hot tub? I can tell you that it was never actually completed; it became part of another project. Working together, my parents covered the area with a wooden patio, creating an alternative setting to enjoy their bubbles from. Itself an important reminder to never shy away from asking for help, even if stuck in a hole you very much dug yourself.

Back in September, I signed up for an account on Instagram again. For context, I had a profile from early 2015 to mid-2019 and chose to delete it after going through a break-up. I recall feeling quite worn out by the demands of social media by that point, as well. Four years later I came back, owing to a simple reason: for people my age Instagram is the primary way to network and forge connections with people, especially new ones. Giving out our phone number has become forceful and intimate and kick starting a conversation with someone after an event or party via text seems formal yet invasive. Unless we’re texting to arrange something in particular, why message?

Since returning to the app, I noticed that a lot had changed; not just in terms of its design, but its overall aim. What initially struck me was just how aggressively the app started suggesting content, whereas previously it had been pretty intent on connecting me to people I know (or thought I would know). The app almost instantly (and from then on, rather relentlessly) exposed me to a remarkable array of perfect strangers. People who I had no real-world connection with, that it thought I would be interested in seeing. This change, when considered more deeply, seemed to represent a wider shift in the platform’s priorities: of bulldozing you with content over pushing for connection. I also began to question: who actually has agency here? Is Instagram shaping our behaviour or is our behaviour shaping Instagram?

What’s more, I started to consider if the way we narrate our lives via Instagram has also influenced how we do so verbally. Have our everyday interactions come to parallel how we conduct ourselves online? When catching up with friends or family, do we take part in a delicate dance of quick-fire attention grabbing, of commenting (but not really engaging), of editing stories to paint the most attractive image of ourselves as possible?

What might be the effect of this? That we see our conversation partner as a news feed rather than a human being, as a source of entertainment rather than a source of human experience. Is it any wonder that the practice of active listening has become a rarity, when our vision is well and truly saturated? More worryingly, how can we go about forging a true sense of community in the midst of increasing forces of endless distraction and disconnection? Do we actually end up the same way as Instagram: opting for content over connection?

A week ago, I returned from Greece, where I was fortunate enough to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. In addition to the crystal-clear waters, mouth-watering cuisine, a lasting memory I have of the country is the kindness we were shown by locals. Not only the level of kindness, but the genuineness of it. Those working in restaurants, bars and hotels seemed genuinely pleased to welcome us, almost wherever we went. This got me thinking: how often in life do we encounter genuine kindness or gratitude?

Showing kindness is often taught to children as the hallmark of an orderly, considerate society. If you can be anything, be kind is what many British primary school kids are told. But such lessons in kindness do not necessarily follow through into later life and for some adults, notably men, kindness is even viewed as a weakness; an act that puts us at risk of being taken advantage of.  So, is it not safe to say that we have gone from promoting kindness to somewhat discouraging it?

Kindness has become so uncommon in daily life that we refer to its expression as an act or a display; as something momentary as opposed to customary. We make kindness seem like hard work; we refer to it as putting ourselves out there for someone, as if being kind is some sort of exhausting venture into the unknown. We’ve coined the term emotional labour, which turns sharing feelings into hard work. But, is it true to say that many people do not know how to be kind? Or rather, have they simply forgotten what it means to be kind?

Perhaps forgetting isn’t the right word for it; devaluing may be better. The value of kindness may be taught at school, but the world outside the classroom could hardly be said to reinforce such values. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there is what children soon learn; put yourself first, always. For those who grow up witnessing online trolling and hate speech, the message is not show kindness: it’s defend yourself, attack if necessary. Watch out for your own interests.

This is perhaps the paradox of today’s society: we are better connected, yet more self-invested than ever. We crave connection to each other, while rarely putting anyone but ourselves first. We talk about self-care, when really what we’re talking about is selfish care. Ego massaging, persona pilates, yourself first yoga – that’s what they should be called. We exist as a collection of individuals who rebrand and replace rather than forge deep connection and community.

So let’s make this about ourselves as individuals. When was the last time you performed an act of kindness? Ask yourself: did you act kindly only because you were expecting to receive something in return? What price do we each put on kindness and what makes us all so often unwilling to pay it?

Ever since I can remember, strangers and friends alike have commented on how softly I speak. This isn’t something that I find particularly bothersome; other than when the surrounding environment is so loud that it feels like I’m bellowing just to make myself heard. But no, what intrigues me more is why the volume at which we speak is so often equated with the perceived value of what we have to say. And more broadly, why did softness become such a taboo? And why did hardness, aggression and toughness become practically the norm?

I don’t have so many memories from being a young child, but one that I do hold onto is being in bed with my mum the morning before my first term at secondary school. I had come to her, looking for comfort, terrified at the thought of having to play rugby that year at school. I recall asking my mum if it would be possible for me to not take part in the game, and instead be the referee (for reference, I was around 8 or 9 years old…). She reassured me that everything would be fine, but my terror at being forced to take part in such a violent sport didn’t really subside. Looking back, I can understand that inexplicable aversion to violence and aggression; that deep unease at having to pretend to like something I was supposed to be like. It’s something I still carry with me today. 

I mention this memory because quite obviously when we see softness through the lens of toxic masculinity, the story deepens. I want to, however, take a different approach. And explore why softness is viewed as a problem. Why did softness become so slippery and uncomfortable?

When I think of instances when someone tells me I’m speaking softly, of course, the natural reaction on my part is to consider ways to rectify this. Do I adjust my volume? Do I ask for us to move to a quieter area? Do I double-check that I’m not inconveniently standing in front of a loudspeaker or source of music and find an alternative location? But, what about the other person? On a good day, perhaps the other person will take the initiative to propose changing location or search for a quiet environment to begin with. This requires readjustment and flexibility on their part. Perhaps I will still speak too quietly even in a calmer setting. How will they react to this? It requires a great deal of patience and understanding from them to support in setting up the right environment. For many reading this, it would simply be understood as an inconvenience: “Well, you just need to speak louder”. But in the same way, if an eight year old boy doesn’t want to play contact sports, do we force him? Well, normally, as a society we do – yes!

Based on this, we can see that much of the slipperiness comes from the supposed inconveniencing that softness (in whatever form) presents. Softness is seen as being the contrary of solid, smooth, dependable, reliable. And we like solid, smooth, dependable and reliable;  it facilitates falling into habit and presents us with no further obstacles to have to deal with in our day-to-day life. Softness presents friction; it slows us down and gets in the way. Work hard, play hard is society’s current motto. So what would work soft and play soft mean? I’m not entirely sure how well “work hard” and “play hard” has been working out for the majority of us, so should we give it a try? I don’t know! 

I’m still trying to figure out if I could wear stripes and finally become that referee. 

As a teenager, I remember the vigour with which my mother tried to find an alcoholic drink that I liked the taste of. I remember her solace, mixed with a dash of regret, when the only beverage she found success with was a martini lemonade. And, a weakly made one at it.

I had never been drawn to alcohol and to this day I can remember the acute displeasure I felt when tasting beer for the first time. To my eleven or twelve-year-old tastebuds, its flavour was nothing short of unspectacular. It was bitter and slightly vinegary; a mysterious concoction that adults somehow enjoyed drinking. In our family funnily enough, beer was known as “the dirty water”; a term my grandad had picked up while visiting my uncle in Australia and that later ended up being thrown back at him by none other than his grandson: me. “Don’t drink the dirty water, Grandad!” I once exclaimed. Who knew a toddler could be a genuine champion for responsible alcohol consumption? 

As I took my first steps into adulthood, the pressure to drink, much like the intense pressure to socialise en masse, became unavoidable. Do not misunderstand me here: I am not against socialising, but how many of us can confidently say we feel capable of socialising without alcohol? And if we recognise that incapability, does that make us the dreaded d- word: dependent on it? If alcohol were a boyfriend, how would we describe our relationship with him? Tumultuous, complicated, co-dependent, abusive? Much like a burning desire to get married or have children, explaining why we drink is no easy task. 

What I have found helpful, however, is to commit to questioning that desire. And to commit to pursuing answers, even when they may prove as unsavoury as that beer did to my twelve-year-old tastebuds. Am I drinking to escape? To forget? To relax? If so, what am I escaping from? What am I trying to forget? How else am I able to relax? Am I prioritising this way of relaxing over others?

And perhaps, more practically speaking: where do my limits lie when it comes to drinking? How will I stick to these? And am I aware of its impact on my physical and emotional well-being?

We refer to alcohol as a quick fix, but stop short of exploring what it is we’re trying to fix. In my case, I am now aware of how I use alcohol as a means of handling social settings that cause me a great deal of anxiety, namely those with large numbers of people or people I don’t know well. Drinking alcohol not only offsets that anxiety, but conveniently pushes deeper questions like, ‘Well did I even want to be here to begin with?’ and ‘Is this really how I like to socialise or not?’ to the back of my mind. 

Crucially, by committing to asking these kinds of questions, we turn an experience of imposition into an opportunity for introspection. We can learn how to identify, centre and communicate our needs and ultimately how to choose opportunities to mix with others that genuinely fulfil us. And who knows? We may end up causing enough of a stir to reinvent what socialising meant to begin with.