I’m not a stereotypical guy, and I’m pretty proud of it. I like baseball, and I like opera. I’d just as easily go to an art museum or dance concert as I would watch a Cowboys game or play paintball. My iTunes database is full of 22.11 GB of everything from Vivaldi to Sigur Rós to Manu Chao.
Despite my commitment to diverse tastes, I still run into people (even some of my friends) from time to time who take it upon themselves to judge me by my cover: white 20-something male, suburban upbringing, Cristiano Ronaldo-inspired haircut (true story). They assume I’m a stereotypical guy from some prime-time TV show.
And as if that weren’t enough, they judge me for it. I’m a guy, so I must have a messy house. I must be incredibly forgetful, and I must be utterly clueless when it comes to art and music. Most hurtful of all, they assume I’m as emotionally bankrupt as any of those prime-time guys, only capable of demonstrating love and affection in rare circumstances.
None of these things is true about me. In fact, none of these things is true about many guys.
Prejudice sucks, and it’s often left me feeling disrespected and cheapened. I’m a pretty well-rounded person. I like to think that I can find something in common with almost anybody. I do my best to understand people for who they are. (I’ve not always done well at this, but I’m learning.) I think it’s only fair that I expect the same out of those who meet me.
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