The man in the picture, I don’t recognize him. I’ve heard his name from my father’s mouth, from my grandmothers. But with his rounded belly and tousled hair he could look like anyone. A nobody, his identity held in reverence by the few that met him. What I do notice right away is that he’s smoking with Hank Aaron.
Dad gives a slight smile, and taps his finger on Mister Nobody. “There he is boy, right there. That’s your granpops, and that’s his buddy. Hank and Frank,”
My father-his own belly rounded, his hair disheveled in a familial way-turns the page. There’s this nobody, this middle aged white guy that was related to me. But more importantly (to me at the time) was Hammerin’ Hank caught mid-laugh. I was six, I worshipped Babe Ruth. Who cared who the other guy was? Right there in our family album was Hank fucking Aaron.
Pops goes on to tell me all about my grandfather. How he was a POW in Korea, how he was given a full-auto shotgun. How war was terrible and Frank was never the same after. I’m sitting there, waiting on him to turn the page. Waiting to see if there were even more pictures of Hank, hanging out with my family. Smoking cigars, drinking beer with a man I’d never met.
“Yeah, when he worked at Hasbro, they made cards I think. Hank came in to tour, and him and your granddad hit it off real well. Good man,” he says as the marlboro in his lip shifts left. His eyes hold on the page a long moment as the cherry glows. He pulls it from his lips, and taps it on a glass ashtray on the table.
“You mean Grandpa?” I say, my eyes glued to the page.
I look towards dad, and watch him wince. At the time, I thought it was because he took a drag. He shuts the family album real slow, and gives a crooked grin. One I would learn to use just like him.
“Nah, I meant mister Aaron. C’mon-go get washed up, and maybe you can listen to some Casey Caseum before bed alright?”
“Yessir. I love you dad,”
The smile on his face, it grows until it’s genuine. He stamps out his cigarette, and nods. “Love you too, boy. Don’t you ever forget it,”
I slide off the chair, and lean forward to give him a hug. I wash with a speed that would have made Hermes pause. Casey Caseum! He was so cool! I didn’t want to miss that! I hopped out of the shower and clambered into my Batman pajamas. Later, after my prayers and a kiss from pops on my forehead, I hear the radio crackle to life. Casey is right there at a volume just loud enough for me to hear but not focus on. Dad flicks the lights, and my eyes start to get real heavy. I dream about being on the radio, doing the top forty weekend countdown.
This sliver of an evening, just a few grains in the hour glass, this was life for a long time. The occasional family legend, mention of stars held in as much reverence as the saints at sunday mass. Casey or Wolfman Jack on the dial or tapes lulling me to sleep. All of these tiny moments sifting to the bottom of the person I would become. Hank and Frank, they swayed me as much as Bruce Wayne.
I look back, just a few years shy of that evening with my father. I see who and what I’ve become, the people I’ve met and influenced in my own way. As I sit here, I can’t help but wonder if those stars, family members and radio dials were for the best. I pause and think of the friends I’ve made, those I’ve mentored.
I wonder to myself, am I being better than those that taught me my own way. Am I, through my actions and what comes out of my mouth, giving a greater comfort than those afforded to me? Because no matter how much I deny it, I’ve been successful. I’ve a reach, however small. I’ve influenced others, a concept that sits like a loaded gun on a coffee table in my skull.
Influence is like that. It can be a life saver. It can be a powerful, deadly thing you clutch in a shaking grasp. A security blanket you don’t really need. In the modern era, it’s far easier to acquire than ever before. We’re even less trained in using it.
Today, I’d like to take a moment and touch on the power of influence. It’s something we all possess, even if we think we don’t. It’s my sincerest hope that in writing this, I can illuminate how widespread a simple word can be. What’s more-the drastic consequences of shared existence.
Influence As A Concept
To speak on power, we first have to understand the nature of things. Influence isn’t any one talent, gift, spoken phrase or method. It’s neither the hope of reward or fear of retribution. Rather, influence is a nebulous sludge of all these that pervades all our interactions. It can be small or large, lasting or fleeting. Influence, by nature, exists beyond what the word alone can grant.
As the unseen binding behind all interactions, we’d do good to mind influence and use it as contextually and morally appropriate. Maybe you’re trying to talk a friend into the movies, or secure a bank loan. Maybe you’re running for public office. Regardless of the circumstances, what ultimately determines your use of influence as “right” is social queues. These, like influence, can be nuanced and layered. At best when we exert influence, we are making an informed guess that things will go how we desire based on information. We make a socially conscious and aware choice.
This, in turn, is what makes the apologies of those revealed to have made extremely poor use of their influence all the more damning. They’re aware. They know what they’re doing. And they still chose to use the less desirable of all outcomes, often only to the benefit of themselves.
Influence as Power
“Social Media Made us All Rockstars”.
I still remember that headline. I can’t remember if it was on a site or print media, but I think back to it every time I make a professional milestone. Because were we to deconstruct it, the irony of its execution is laid bare.
Social media as a platform didn’t turn us into rockstars. What it did was compartmentalize and section off social interaction. In “expanding” our social circles, what it effectively did was place blinders on us. When we as individuals eventually pull those away, we look out into a world where our influence seems magnified. Rockstars? Absolutely not. But of some importance? Even if it’s to our only follower, of that we’ve zero doubt.
It’s a blessing and a curse. I myself have had many positive experiences developing an audience and making lasting social connections. Professionally, Splathouse wouldn’t exist and I would still do IT full time. I’ve also found myself thrust into a world where I can witness the affect my thoughts, words and actions have on others. I can see my sectioned piece of the social pie shift based on my tweets.
I’m absolutely certain one of you is already rolling your eyes and saying “well of course, actions have consequences and rewards”. Sure. But influence by nature is more than simply that. Influence, no matter how small, holds weight and power. It wasn’t always this way, either. In my life time, I remember perceived authority being tied to membership join dates and post count. All those media personalities I looked up to had agents, people who handled their press, “hype men”. We didn’t see their slights and transgressions-because their influence had been delegated to others. The need and awareness for social cues and moral choices were the worries of their interns.
That changed with the advent of social media. At Splathouse, I’m my own agent, marketing team, artist, secretary and boss. In my field, I absolutely am not alone. Almost every single performer I know wields their own sphere of influence. They, like myself, effectively shape their social reality every single day. This, for a generation raised in sectioned social environments, has a drastic effect on our ability to perceive those vital cues. We’ve less barriers between us and our audience than ever before, but are we equipped to handle it?
Well.
Would you say “rock stars” were great at making judgement calls?
Can we, in good faith, hand wave away transgressions simply because of who someone is?
Influence As Consequence
That wince I saw in my fathers face, I remembered it later. I remembered how he deferred from talking about his own dad. I held onto that, tucked away in the creaking colonial that composes my memory. I didn’t ask about it though. Not for a long time.
As I grew and pulled away from his influence there was conflict. He didn’t like that I wore my hair long and my clothes dark. He didn’t understand the time I wore a choker, or painted my nails. What’s more, why I didn’t want to follow lock-step in his footsteps. My maturity was an affront to his masculinity, but more importantly his parental influence.
That faded in time. Love prevailed. I wasn’t following behind him anymore, but alongside him. A son. A friend. Someone that loved him with the fury of ten people. After a while, he’d proudly clap a hand on my shoulder and introduce me again.
“This is my boy, and he’s even more skilled and good lookin’ than I am,”
Everyone laughed. I’d clap an arm around him, and tell him how much I loved him. Just as I did when I was young. My influence in his life had grown to rival his in mine. We had both finally picked up on each other’s cues and enriched our lives by respecting them.
I didn’t wince. But I remembered his. When the time came, I asked him about it. He still had a marlboro jammed in his teeth as we were flipping through that family album again. I smirked when I saw Hank and Frank. Dad didn’t say a word as he turned the page.
“Pops, ya’ know. You never really talk about grandpa Frank,” I said.
The words hung in the air a minute as he exhaled a grey cloud. He gave a nod towards a chair. I sat, then rose as I eyed the coffee pot in the corner. I poured him a cup as he pulled out another cigarette and I sat back down. The quiet grew, and with a cough I’d recognize anywhere he spoke.
“Boy, your grandpa Frank. He, well. He wasn’t like me. And when you n’ your sister came along, I knew that wasn’t how to do it. Don’t always feel like I rightly knew how to raise you, but I knew it wasn’t like that. And I’d say you turned out pretty damn fine,”
He gave a crooked smile. One I’d grown to imitate effortlessly. Influence, good or bad, shows in our habits. I nodded as I took a deep breath and laced my hands.
“Pops?”
“Yeah boy?”
“Thank you,” I said to him.
Dad looked at me, the puzzlement etched at the corner of his eyes. “Fucks sake, for what?”
“For being a good man,” I replied.
Dad didn’t say anything. But I could see through the thick beard on his face his cheeks get red. He always got bashful when people said positive things to him, even if they were true. And like always, he deflected.
“Well uh, your mum has dinner planned, and uh-”
“I’ll do the dishes,”
He smirked, and gave a nod. “That’s my boy,”
It took over thirty years for anyone to admit my grandfather Frank had been a monster. Even in the slightest way. To verbalize how his influence had left a shadow on my dad’s entire family. For my father to look me in the eyes and admit it had been wrong in any fashion was monumental. But he knew.
Instead of putting the man in a place of prominence, instead of pretending, he tucked him away from my sister and I. He put him on a shelf no one looked at, where that shadow couldn’t reach and twist us too. When the time came to speak up, he didn’t run.
Influence has power. Beyond words, beyond flesh. To use the influence we have in negligible, horrific fashion exploits the love and care those that interact with us could give. Here we are, in an unprecedented maze of constant power grabs. Within our communities are shadows just as long, twisted and nasty.
I’m here to tell you, sunlight is the best disinfectant.
Maybe it will take time, maybe it won’t. Maybe all it takes is the right moment. But if you ever find yourself on the receiving end of influence used as a club, your consent and boundaries matter. Shout, scream, froth at the mouth. Reveal it quietly if need be. Reveal it on a grand stage. But never, ever feel as though your voice and influence is far too small.
Likewise, I urge my peers in the field and others to tend towards good. Be it just a kind word or a moment of understanding, your influence carries prominence in the mind of your audience. They look to you for guidance, leadership and often to make the path revealed.
The world has had enough assholes.
All my love, deviants.
-j