You Cannot Always Be Cheerful

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
March 26, 1954


   NOBODY, unless he has a twisted mind or a chronic backache, derives satisfaction from being in the dumps. And while it should be every man's privilege to sink into occasional despond, the fellow able to lift your spirits is a noble soul indeed.
   But the fellows who don't lift mine are the Happiness Boys, the brash cheer-er-uppers, the Pollyannas who go around with set smiles, convinced that they are ordained to spread gladness in the land and sell one and all on the absurdity that nothing is as bad as it might be. If you break an arm they tell you to be glad it wasn't your neck. This is cold comfort.

   THESE JOY BOYS are forever circulating about in hail-fellow manner, slapping on the back every solemn-faced character in the place.
   "Chin up, there, ol' boy, ol' boy," they admonish. "What's the trouble? Come on now, it can't be that bad. Give us a big smile!"
   Anyone so assailed should have the inalienable right to bounce a beer mug off his tormentor's skull. I would defend his action to the death. Why should the glad guy assume that "things can't be that bad"? What does he know about your problems?
   Before we'd been parents long enough to know better, we often commanded our youngsters to smile when they were in a pout. We soon abandoned the practice. It worked in reverse, bringing tears and rebellion.

   YOU MAY figure this to be the bleat of a sourpuss. If so you figure wrong. While I sometimes wear the expression of a St. Bernard, I do have moments when I'm glad to be alive--enough of them, I think, to rate par for the course.
   But it's simply impossible for the average mortal to be constantly happy--or even to appear to be. Billousness assails him. He finds himself short of rent money. Fears and frustration rack him. His feet hurt. He misses that promotion. He's beset by traffic jams and flat tires and detours.
   More often, of course, his digestive tract is clear, he has money for the income tax, his wife has sewn the buttons on the shirt he plans to wear to the basket social and life is beautiful.
   When it isn't, however, if you expect him to invariably rise above vexation you expect too much. When he barks at his wife and she barks back there is usually more behind the brawl than innate cussedness. He may have been bawled out by the boss. She may have found ink spots on the new carpet. Life being what it is, a certain amount of waspishness should be expected, and accepted.
   And in fairness to the Happiness Boys, I guess you cannot scoff at them too much. Theirs is an endeavor noble in motive. They fail because they are too obvious, because of their forced heartiness, because they seem to feel that bright moods can be switched on as you switch on a light. But due to this wrong assumption they defeat their purpose. All they do is bring your resentments to a boil.

   HAPPILY, though, there are those individuals referred to in paragraph one. They are the real gloom chasers. Their tribe should increase. They are the true gentility. They are cheerful, accommodating, vital--and genuine. They moralize not, neither do they pound you on the back. Merely by being themselves they make you glad you're here.
   One of them drives a bus which I catch too seldom at Eighth and Hennepin. Another, agonized by arthritis, used to operate the elevator and do janitor work here at the office. You find them in police forces and fire departments, clerking in stores and ushering in theaters. They are in big jobs and on milk trucks, in reception rooms and information booths. Some, serving without frowns or squawks, are in high-tension, exacting jobs that would drive most of us to the bottle in a week.
   I wish I were one of these, that I could rise above travail, headache and athlete's foot and spread joy without apparent effort. But I cannot and shall not try. Some Gloomy Gus would see through the sham and let me have it.

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