It’s another day tending the home fires, with our local handyman doing a number of repairs around the house that I’m either too lazy or incompetent to do myself. While he’s doing that, I’m knocking out some cleaning around the house (and writing this blog post). I’ve also been calling various vendors to setup appointments.

I just got off the phone with the pest control company. We haven’t had any major issues with pests, but I wanted to get us signed up for quarterly sprayings because, well, this is South Carolina and the roaches are big as mice, and we don’t want those hanging around in our walls. The receptionist was very friendly and, when she realized I am a teacher, she started to ask some questions.

You see, for the last fifteen-ish years I’ve taught both history and music. I don’t have any degrees in the latter, just a great deal of experience writing, composing, arranging, transcribing, playing, performing, and teaching it. When I returned to teaching in 2011, I had a golden opportunity: to teach history (in which I have two degrees, although I learned far more in high school and undergrad—and after graduate school—than I did working on my Master’s, and this was before wokeness took over the academy) and to create a music program from scratch. Someone with my credentials should not, the world tells us, get that opportunity, but that’s the beauty of the world of private education.

I relayed an abbreviated version of this to the receptionist—we Southerners are very chatty when completing even perfunctory administrative tasks—and she almost immediately asked if I teach lessons. What started as booking our pest control spraying turned into a friendly sales pitch for music lessons.

I did not go into this interaction expecting to book a new client. It emerged organically, through friendly conversation while the receptionist keyed in my credit card information. My personal e-mail address (which has “history” in the slug) piqued her interest, and that opened the door for me to share my unusual pedagogical journey. That, in turn, prompted the inquiry about music lessons.

Why would this lady potentially trust me to teach her son guitar? Well, I’m friendly, for one. I’m a somewhat known quantity—I’m a teacher, and (as a girl once noted on a first date) I’ve had to pass a background check. Because I teach at school and with private students already, I have some reputation, even if I’m still a virtual stranger to this woman.

But throughout the entire interaction, I was polite, upbeat, and courteous. When she informed us that we had an unpaid balance of $100 from our termite traps, I didn’t balk or get angry; I thanked her for letting me know, and told her I was glad I found out this way instead of some unpleasant alternative (I stay on top of our bills like a twitchy teen playing whack-a-mole, so I was a bit embarrassed that we hadn’t paid this bill). When her computer was slow to load up the calendar to schedule our visit, I told her, “no worries, take your time!”

All of that was before a single word about guitar lessons was even uttered. I had zero idea or intent that the conversation would go that direction. But by simply being kind, respectful, and patient, I unwittingly built the scaffolding upon which confidence rests. Because of the friendliness of the interaction, the conversation opened up, and the lady inquired about lessons. She felt comfortable doing so, I imagine, because I was personable. When I told her the music program I created is essentially School of Rock (2003), she told me that I reminder her of Jack Black—ha! I assume she means the Jack Black of the early 2000s, not the bearded, swollen, homeless-looking Jack Black of today. But, hey, I’ll take it!

This analysis isn’t just me bragging about how great I am. Look, I can be a pretty surly individual, and as I told her, I’m not the best guitar player, either. The point is that you are always selling yourself, even if you don’t realize it. I know, I know—some people will decry this concept as some indictment of late-stage capitalism’s commodification of everything. Obviously, I believe people have innate dignity and souls, and we are inherently worth more than what we can produce. But not everyone cares about our innate human dignity if we’re unpleasant buttholes.

Also, at a deeper level, we have an obligation to others and to ourselves to be, to some extent, winsome. That looks differently for different people. I get really energetic when I talk about music, and it can be infectious to some people; others, however, can find it overwhelming. Some folks are more aloof, while still approaching social interactions with a stoic gentility that is, nonetheless, fundamentally respectful and friendly to others. Regardless of how we show it, though, it’s important that we put forth a positive version of ourselves. It may or may not result in cash, but that’s not really the point. The point is that it smooths out social interactions and puts everyone a bit more at ease.

Being kind and sociable is not weakness. It is also not being a chump or a pushover. You can be respectful and friendly without sacrificing your principles. Yes, some people will mistake kindness for weakness, and that is a drawback, but that’s really just a convenient early warning system that you don’t want to associate with such people. If you are forced to do so, such as through work, you can easily correct people’s perception of you by standing firm. For many “nice” people, it’s hard to say, “no,” but it is an absolutely essential skill to develop. Some people are born with it (my younger brother once told me his default answer when someone asks him to do something is “no,” which blew my mind; I didn’t fully appreciate that that was even option until he said it); others, like yours portly, struggle with it (although I’ve become much better at it, and my life is much better for it).

Ultimately, though, you’re always selling yourself to the world—perhaps “presenting” yourself is a better way to put it. Regardless, the way you do so will affect the outcomes you get in life. No one wants to be around a surly grump all the time. It’s unfortunate, because surly grumpitude tends to breed more of itself, as resentment builds. Being artificially nice, or expecting rewards for kindness, will also breed resentment, as you realize the world doesn’t care that you’re a good boy.

But finding that balance—being kind and sociable while standing on principle—can yield rich rewards, if not monetarily, then socially, spiritually, and societally. If we want to have a civilization, we need to be civilized.