Whenever my childhood friends and I wanted to talk our buddy Tommy into doing something questionable, unnecessary or borderline stupid, we had a foolproof strategy: Call him “chicken.” That was it. No debate. No logic. No PowerPoint presentation.
Tommy would puff up like a defensive rooster, yell, “I’m not chicken!” and immediately do the exact thing we wanted him to do, whether it was jumping off something, climbing something or poking something that absolutely should not be poked.
I miss those days. Managing adults is much more complicated. Calling people “chicken” in staff meetings is frowned on. Still, if we are being honest, most of us are at least a little bit chicken. Just more selectively.
Musician Jim Stafford made a career out of admitting it with “I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes.” A relatable anthem, really. Nobody has ever said, “You know what I need more of in my life? Spiders.”
Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day wrote “Basket Case” to deal with anxiety and panic. This is a healthier coping mechanism than what most of us do, which is Googling symptoms at 2 a.m. and deciding we have 14 rare conditions.
And then there is Metallica, the band that gave us “Enter Sandman,” a song that made an entire generation slightly suspicious of going to sleep. Thanks for that.
But fears aren’t just for song lyrics. We all have them. Some are logical. Some, less so.
As a kid, I was convinced every unfinished basement was basically the opening scene of a horror movie. Especially my grandparents’ root cellar. Dark. Damp. Mysterious. There was zero chance I was going down there alone. That is, until my brother solved the problem by pushing me down the steps. Turns out exposure therapy works faster when it is involuntary.
My aunt and uncle had a painting of a clown that watched me. You know the kind. Eyes that followed. Smile that knew things. This was long before “It” hit theaters, but that clown didn’t need Hollywood’s help. To this day, I don’t trust clowns. Except Bozo. Bozo gets a pass.
I don’t mind spiders or snakes much, but mice? No thank you. I spent enough time working on farms as a teenager to know that mice have absolutely no respect for personal space, especially when your feet are inside rubber boots.
And then there are the classic nerves. Before competitions, I always had “butterflies in my stomach.” At some point, I competed enough that the butterflies calmed down. They never left, though. They just got older. Probably pay taxes now.
Heights don’t terrify me, but they sometimes make my stomach file a formal complaint. Roller coasters? Love them. Strap me in. Let’s go. Ferris wheels? Absolutely not. Something about slowly rising into the sky in a swaying metal chair gives me time to reflect on my life choices. And not in a good way.
This brings me back to Tommy. Maybe he had it figured out all along. Maybe fear isn’t something you eliminate. Maybe it is something you manage, negotiate with, occasionally ignore and sometimes get shoved through by an older sibling or a group of so-called friends.
Or maybe we just need someone, every now and then, to look us square in the eye and say it: “Chicken.” Because deep down, we are all still that kid on the edge of the basement stairs, pretending we are not scared and hoping nobody notices. And if being called chicken is what it takes to take the next step — well, fine.
Just don’t be surprised if we squawk about it on the way down.
Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707