The Tyranny of Charlie Brown
Growing up in 1970’s California, Charlie Brown was everywhere. Every Sunday comics section was headlined by Peanuts; every holiday was highlighted by a Charlie Brown and the Gang cartoon special. Their antics were sweet, endearing, and harmless. But looking back across the sweep of my life, I see strange ties between myself, the round-headed kid, and his creator. A recently published biography of the cartoonist Charles Schultz caused me to re-examine certain aspects of my childhood and personality that I had not considered before.
A shy, insecure child, I never quite fit in with the crowd. In times of frustration, I was sometimes consoled by my parents. They would tell me that I was “Just like Charlie Brown, in that everyone likes him.” They left the second half of that coda unstated, but it was there nevertheless… “but no one respects him.”
Children learn to mimic what they see. They absorb values and attitudes from their environment the way oysters filter plankton from the water around them. After watching Lucy pull that football away from Charlie Brown enough times, I learned to sabotage myself in ways that ensured that I, too, would never quite connect with my goal. Every time I acquired a very cool or highly desirable object, I would somehow manage to lose or destroy it. Eventually, my parents, in frustration, bought me only the most inexpensive and most easily replaceable commodities.
I learned to expect disappointment, mediocrity, insecurity, failure, and rejection. The Great Pumpkin would never make an appearance; the baseball game would never be won; all romantic advances would be rebuffed.
And it all seemed so right. Life was supposed to be painful, frustrating, and humiliating. If you excelled at something, then that must not be valuable; better, then, to focus on your weaknesses, hammer away at them until they are smooth and even. If you enjoy writing, then it is clearly not a goal worth pursuing. Better to pursue math, for which you are only marginally inclined.
In reading Charles Schultz’s biography, it became clear to me that he lived his life by these principles. He was always insecure, never feeling himself to be as good as his fellow cartoonists, to the point of lashing out in a childlike manner against perceived threats. His romantic relationships were difficult, frequently due to his own acts. And even in the waning years of his life, he remained bitter and withdrawn, unable to move beyond his childhood insecurities.
Thankfully, after almost two decades in the realm of the adult, I have acquired enough insight and perspective to see these self-destructive behaviors and begin to wean myself from the self-sabotaging thought patterns that I held. Reading Schultz’ biography brought me to sympathize with this lonely, bitter man, and allowed me to recognize the lonely, bitter person I was, at one point in my life, in danger of becoming.
Growing up in 1970’s California, Charlie Brown was everywhere. Every Sunday comics section was headlined by Peanuts; every holiday was highlighted by a Charlie Brown and the Gang cartoon special. Their antics were sweet, endearing, and harmless. But looking back across the sweep of my life, I see strange ties between myself, the round-headed kid, and his creator. A recently published biography of the cartoonist Charles Schultz caused me to re-examine certain aspects of my childhood and personality that I had not considered before.
A shy, insecure child, I never quite fit in with the crowd. In times of frustration, I was sometimes consoled by my parents. They would tell me that I was “Just like Charlie Brown, in that everyone likes him.” They left the second half of that coda unstated, but it was there nevertheless… “but no one respects him.”
Children learn to mimic what they see. They absorb values and attitudes from their environment the way oysters filter plankton from the water around them. After watching Lucy pull that football away from Charlie Brown enough times, I learned to sabotage myself in ways that ensured that I, too, would never quite connect with my goal. Every time I acquired a very cool or highly desirable object, I would somehow manage to lose or destroy it. Eventually, my parents, in frustration, bought me only the most inexpensive and most easily replaceable commodities.
I learned to expect disappointment, mediocrity, insecurity, failure, and rejection. The Great Pumpkin would never make an appearance; the baseball game would never be won; all romantic advances would be rebuffed.
And it all seemed so right. Life was supposed to be painful, frustrating, and humiliating. If you excelled at something, then that must not be valuable; better, then, to focus on your weaknesses, hammer away at them until they are smooth and even. If you enjoy writing, then it is clearly not a goal worth pursuing. Better to pursue math, for which you are only marginally inclined.
In reading Charles Schultz’s biography, it became clear to me that he lived his life by these principles. He was always insecure, never feeling himself to be as good as his fellow cartoonists, to the point of lashing out in a childlike manner against perceived threats. His romantic relationships were difficult, frequently due to his own acts. And even in the waning years of his life, he remained bitter and withdrawn, unable to move beyond his childhood insecurities.
Thankfully, after almost two decades in the realm of the adult, I have acquired enough insight and perspective to see these self-destructive behaviors and begin to wean myself from the self-sabotaging thought patterns that I held. Reading Schultz’ biography brought me to sympathize with this lonely, bitter man, and allowed me to recognize the lonely, bitter person I was, at one point in my life, in danger of becoming.
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