Optimism vs. Naivete

I have been told on more than one occasion that I am naive. I try to believe the best in people, and I often give people more credit than they necessarily deserve. I have faith in the good side of humanity, and I trust in each person's ability to redeem themselves if redemption is what they really want. To me, this is optimistic and far preferable to the alternative, but to others, I am apparently - hopelessly - naive. I admit that sometimes I may deserve this title, but other times I am shocked by the audacious person before me who feels compelled to make such a sharp judgment against someone they barely know (and thus my optimism works against me!).



The first time I recall being labeled naive, I was a junior in college. I had just transferred from my community college, and I was taking Playwriting I. The instructor was a less-than-pleasant man who wanted so badly to be artsy and unusual that he wrote page-long descriptions of one paragraph assignments and then read them to us as a class, each one topping the last on how we needed to "play" with the assignment, "dance" with the requirements, and, finally, make our products "sparkle." Yes, he used those words in exactly those ways.



As the class progressed, I found myself disagreeing on more than one occasion with another student, a man who spent more time instructing people on how to pronounce his last name than he did actually working in theater. On this day, however, we were debating the purpose and motivation of writing. This man, a self-proclaimed artiste, explained that it was necessary to put his art aside in order to cater to the masses (cue dramatic music). I, of course, disagreed. I replied that, while his method may have worked wonders for the likes of Louisa May Alcott and Margaret Mitchell, it was unlikely to produce a satisfied artist. Instead, I explained, I wrote (and write) for myself. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it, and if I never stage a play or sell a novel, so be it. The disgruntled artiste promptly told me I was naive for thinking any successful artist behaved in such a manner. Just as I came up with a response more artistic than "Bite me," the instructor cut us off. That was the last time I engaged in a conversation with that student.


After I finished my undergraduate work, I moved to upstate New York to work on my M.A. After a long semester of semiotics, hermaneutics, and hundreds of hours ensconced in theory that I promptly forgot, I found myself taking a very enjoyable class on literature by ethnic women. As a starting piece, however, our professor assigned "The Yellow Wall-paper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Now this professor was an incredibly impressive woman who deserved no small amount of praise for her work and intellect, and I would have been happy to worship her accordingly had she not been so busy telling me how much praise she deserved. That being said, the overall class was great and I still build upon the foundation of knowledge she set for me. With this particular story, however, our ultra-feminista professor lectured us on how all women fall victims to men much like the woman in this story. She wailed about the loss of livelihood that each woman experiences when she sacrifices (yes, sacrifices) her self and her future at the hands of her controlling husband (cue more dramatic music). When I tried to explain how I felt that surely not all women lived like this, I was once again branded "naive."

So, there you have it. Call me optimistic, call me naive, call me whatever you want. I will continue to believe in the good side of humanity and assume that everything is going well, and I will be happy. You will be next to me, judging me, labeling me, and ultimately calling me naive. Luckily, I'm optimistic that you will change your mind.