I Don’t Know It, And If
I Did, I Probably Wouldn’t Show It That Way
By Dave Woehrle
Like most people about
to turn thirty, I’m trying to figure out where it all went wrong. In analyzing my
childhood for possible wrong turns, I found the culprit: the song “If You’re
Happy and You Know It.”
This
is no silly song. It’s a goddamn existential riddle. Why, you ask? Because the
lyrics don’t go, “If you’re happy, clap your hands.” It goes, “If you’re happy,
and you know it, clap your hands.”
Firstly, how does one know one is
happy? It’s a difficult question, especially for a pre-school student. Adults spend
lots of money in therapy answering such questions.
Secondly, the first word of the song
(“if”) makes it a conditional tune. Yet the alternative is unknown. It doesn’t
go, “If you’re happy, and you know it, clap your hands; if not, the Play-Doh is
over there.” That would certainly be a better song. How can it be true
happiness when there’s no element of choice involved?
Let’s take this song phrase by phrase as I give you my
running commentary.
“If you’re happy…”
Sure. I’m a happy kid. I
run through water sprinklers and enjoy juice boxes. My parents haven’t scalded
me with acid or anything. My brother is kind of a dick but he’s fun to watch wrestling with. Yeah. I’m happy. Sure.
“...and you know it.”
Wait. What? How does one
know it? I thought I knew it. Or maybe I felt it. Am I supposed to know
everything I feel or feel everything I know? Is happiness just a good thought?
What do I think about how I feel? And how do I feel about that thought? Damn.
This shit’s heavy. Metacognition is not for five year olds.
“...clap your hands.”
Okay, slow down. I’m
still grappling with self-aware happiness and you are all clapping like circus
seals. It’s disorienting. Happiness is hand-clapping? Really? This is how you
show happiness? That seems an abrasive, narrow view of such an emotion.
"…If you're happy and you know
it, and you really want to show it…”
What if I don’t want to
show it? What business is it of yours, anyway? How can anyone be happy around forced,
non-consensual hand-clapping? This is nonsense. What if I show my happiness by
leaning on a maple tree at dusk, eating dinosaur-shaped fruit snacks in my
backyard alone while I have weird sexual fantasies about April from Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles? Where’s that
song?
The song gives two more actions for
happiness-showing.
“...stomp your feet.”
Jesus. Really? If I’m going
to move my feet, it’s to travel about as I please, not to perform some
obligatory military stomp.
“…shout hooray!”
I’ll shout when I want
to shout, thank you very much. I’m still thinking about this happiness
business. Can’t we just finger paint and forget this enigmatic tune?
The song ends in a
trifecta: “…do all three!”
No. I’m not doing all
three. What happened to “Old MacDonald”? There was a song and a man I could
respect. No one questioned if he was happy. He had farm chores. He had animals
with their fine hilarious noises. Old MacDonald didn’t need to clap.
So there it was. My first taste of
happiness: it’s something you do loudly in unison in public with predetermined
actions. It was a sick, joyous cacophony of
non-thinking. It seemed like bullshit.
My lack of participation
in this song made me an instant outcast in school. I got invitations to birthday
parties, sure, but my peers feared my lack of hand-clapping, foot-stomping, and
hooray-ing. At the Chuck-E-Cheese, while my friends played Top Gun and Mario in
the arcade, I escaped to the room with the sea of plastic balls, sank to the
bottom, and quietly pissed my pants.
The song haunts me to this day. How
can it be happiness if you don’t have a choice? A big part of freedom is the
freedom to be miserable. And that makes me pretty happy.
Here’s my revised
version of “If You’re Happy And You Know It”
“If you’re tolerating
existence with a sense of grace, then that’s a really good thing. You don’t
have to do anything with your hands, feet, or voice. Unless you want to. Then
go ahead. We’re gonna get through this, damn it.”
