I Am The One Who Never Claps
Your Medium story delighted me! But I do not clap.
You gave me “Five Ways To Listen Better In Relationships.” I liked all of them! But I do not clap.
You explained, “How Cryptocurrency Will Change Everything.” Never heard of it before. Learned a lot! No claps from me.
You revealed, “What Having A Spicy Extramarital Affair Taught Me About Love.” Remarkably insightful and touching. Here are zero claps for that.
I read your entire Medium story, top to bottom, and it certainly held my attention and gave me lots of to think about.
Should I clap? No! I mustn’t! I’m way too scared.
I’m under the radar, you see. I’m flying behind the scenes, just like daddy and mommy taught me.
I can’t bear to put the spotlight on myself with something so glaring, so forward, so outrageously outgoing as hitting the clap button on your story.
My god… Just think of the embarrassment clapping could cause me!
You could click on that little hand-clap icon on your story, pull up the clap list, and discern the name of my already anonymous Medium account. How horrifying and gauche!
When I was young, my family went to concerts, plays, and croquet matches. But if I giggled or made noise, mommy and daddy would give me THAT LOOK and their eyes would vibrate furiously, as if to say, “Not in this family, we don’t!” Clapping was out of the question.
Now, my heart does a quiet leap each time I see your Medium stories.
“The Surprising Truth About Startup Equity.” Incredible. No clap.
“Why Your Morning Routine Actually Sucks.” Astounding. Nada claps.
“175 Quotes About Stoicism That Will Make You Go Nuts.” Wow. Nothing.
“I Have Some Opinions About Gender: Thought You Should Know.” Literally perfect. Zero.
It makes me remember.
Once when I was but a child of fourteen, daddy and mommy took me to see my favorite ballet, The Nutcracker. We’re such big Tchaikovsky nuts that our entire family flew to Russia just to see it performed by the Moscow Ballet.
It was incredible. They even used traditional Russian folk characters, such as Snegurochka (Snow Maiden) and Ded Moroz (Father Christmas) to add emotional heft to the already phenomenal Act Two!
By the time the cast came out for the final curtain, tears filled my eyes. I leapt to my feet, cheering and clapping with my entire soul. Mother’s eyes bulged out of her sockets and after quickly pushing her eyes back in her sockets, she grabbed my arm and pulled me down to my seat.
“Shhh, be quiet! Be still! Someone might see us!” she hissed.
Then we squatted on the floor and hid under the seats for the rest of The Nutcracker.
After the performance, we crawled out of the theater on our hands and knees, went back to our hotel, and lay on our beds with the lights off, saying nothing.
An hour passed, then I spoke.
“Mama, why are we not allowed to clap?” I asked.
“Clapping is for attention whores,” she explained, which made sense.
And so I confess: I absolutely adore your writing, but my hands remain parted like Romeo and Juliet.
But now you’ve gone and done it.
You unleash your masterwork: “7 Ways To Be More Outgoing.”
Not just one way… But seven ways!?
You genius! You poet! You sage of sages!
Clearly, I need this one.
Oh, this time you’ve done it. You’ve torn open the hidden dimensions in the manifold and showed me Xanadu — naked, serene, beautiful.
Oh, joy of reading!
Oh, joy of following!
Oh, joy of understanding, so much greater than joy of browsing the apps!
In my mind’s eye, I ascend the bleachers.
I, your new biggest cheerleader, climb to the summit and raise my fists to the heavens, chanting your name!
YOU. ARE. THE. BEST. WRITER. EVAH.
My hand flies to the mouse finally, just this once, to give you the recognition you deserve.
But memories of The Nutcracker come flooding back.
A God appears in the sky with the terrifying face of the Red King, and his eyes vibrate, just like daddy and mommy.
I fall to my knees in sobs, wretch that I am.
What have you done to me!? You showed me Love then you Tore Me In Half.
I awake in a cold sweat and crawl under my bed.
You won’t see me again, for I slink now into the shadows, and my Truth is Silence.
Sorry, buddy. Loved your story. Can’t help you today.
I do not clap.
Read Part One:
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Alex Baia contributes to The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, and other publications.