I Am Cringe But I Am Free (You Should Be Too)
The year is 2016. I was 14 years old, and I had earlier discovered the pinnacle of musical prowess that is My Chemical Romance. My “tumblr emo” phase was at its apogee. I sported exclusively band t-shirts and loose beanies; wore dark lipstick and smudged eyeliner. I had a Wattpad account, where I posted badly-written fanfiction about real people. My superficial, underdeveloped social and political views were as dreadful and extremely left-leaning as my outrageous side part. The accomplishment I was proudest of then thus far was my MCR fan page on Instagram, where I had somehow managed to amass some 4,000 followers. I’d imagine those apostles of mine were in large part probably like-minded 14-year-olds whose “creative expression” too consisted of sad and borderline-concerning poetry.
Managing that fan page took over a large portion of my life then. Each MCR-related meme I posted had been carefully deliberated and laboured over, in a shitty meme generator app on whatever second-hand Android phone I was using back then. Most of the responses and comments I received on my posts were positive; either making references to our collective love for the band, or expressing approval for the accompanying wannabe-witty caption. But occasionally I would receive the casual snarky hate comment (usually left by a jaded someone twice my age) making impertinent, unsympathetic remarks about how I try too hard, how my memes were terrible, and how the Beatles were a WAY better band than any emo band ever was so it was entirely disrespectful for me to compare their bowl cuts to Brendon Urie’s 2006 hair (true story).
In retrospect, they absolutely were correct. Yes, I was trying way too hard; and yes, the memes were bad. They were transparently desperate attempts at being funny, and I was obviously overcompensating for the insecurities I had accumulated and been harbouring in my actual life. I had few friends back then, and I was riddled with identity-related qualms and anxieties about my standing in the vast infinity that is the broader universe (as most 14-year-olds tend to be). Having that fan page was a way for my inner life to be acknowledged, to satiate my self-doubt with the thought that I occupy a space in strangers’ online lives; that they interact with me and my painstakingly-whittled, punctiliously-handcrafted memes not because they are socially obliged to, but because they actually think my content is worth their attention and time.
What appalls me most about those hate comments (from adults, no less) was not the fact that they were hurtful in their insulting nature, but rather the actual lack of empathy required to make them in the first place. Even now I cannot fathom making fun of teenagers — who already have a hard time navigating the world — just trying to put themselves out there and find their own crowd. Yes, it’s fucking cringe. That crusty light blue eyeshadow doesn’t look good, and the baggy pants don’t stay in style forever. It’s easy to look back at our younger selves and feel a tinge of embarrassment or even laugh at our own expense for how utterly ridiculously we behaved, but we often conveniently forget the fact that we simply were doing the best we could, with the limited knowledge and experience we had at the time.
Maturing is realising that nobody can be universally likable and also have a functioning personality at the same time. If someone — in all of their self-assigned superiority — finds your interests/ your hobbies/ the way you talk/ the way you walk/ any other manner you carry yourself in the world, however minute, annoying: then congratulations, you are an actualised person with dimension and free will. It is difficult to hear unfiltered criticism from others as it reminds us that we are not always seen in the positive light that we may hope for. But it also is a reminder that no matter what great act we put on, no matter how much time and effort we put into ridding ourselves of the cringe that is embedded in our genetic makeup, we will never be the shiny reflective surface of which others can fully project their own desires and worldview.
The year is 2023. I still love My Chemical Romance, though my music tastes have since branched out and become more diverse. I still wear eyeliner and dark lipstick. I have a middle part now; and my views are still left-leaning, albeit much more well-informed. I write essays and art criticism instead of fanfiction. I still love memes (both making them and consuming them). I am sure in another seven years I will look back and cringe nonetheless. But eventually we realise that the key to self-gratification is to accept our cringe in all of its glory, and to constantly find new ways to express our cringiest selves. Is it not more meaningful to be loved in spite of our worst flaws, rather than loved for just our well-designed virtues?
