Neilism: A New Word for the Pathos of Self-Delusion

 

Neilism is a neologism (a made-up word). It’s also an eponym (a word named for a person; in this instance, Neil). There may be another word in English that serves a similar purpose, but for me, this does the trick.

​

I define neilism as a person perceiving something that is worthless or poorly executed as being extremely valuable simply because he/she created it. Seeing only perfection in the item, the creator is proud, even boastful.  Sure, neilism is loosely related to Dunning-Kruger (where people believe they’re better at something than they really are) and know-it-all-ism (where a person’s fragile ego will never let them admit, “I don’t know), but the word is more personal, at least in my mind. Neilism should not be confused with “nihilism,” a perspective of the world in which nothing has value, that everything is senseless and useless. Indeed, in its own small way, neilism is the opposite.

 

We encounter neilism and neilists, in all manner of roles: Executives who think their (death by) PowerPoint is brilliant. Home sellers who believe their muddled DIY chandelier will seal the deal. Cooks who serve their lumpy Alfredo sauce with the confidence of a Michelon-starred chef. And writers (mea culpa at times) who share their clumsy verbosities with the expectation of a Pulitzer.

 

The word derives from one tiny vignette from the life of a peculiar little girl. Me, way back in the day.

 

I was about four years old living with my mother and two sisters in a small furnished apartment in Miami Beach. The building surrounded a pink paved courtyard, and there Neil, who was even younger than I was, rode his tricycle in circles, twists, and turns. Of course, I envied it, not having one of my own, so I ostentatiously ignored him and all his attention-seeking antics. Still, he would not leave me alone.

 

One day, he ran to me in the courtyard, his eyes burning with excitement, his cheeks flushed and little body in a total kinesis of delight and impatience.

 

“I have to show you something,” he said in a high, sweet voice that still managed to be demanding.

 

“What?” I asked, sardonic even then.

 

“It’s a surprise,” he breathed, jumping from one foot to the other.

“I don’t like surprises,” I answered.

 

“Aww, pleeeze,” he said, grabbing my hand.

 

“Com’on. I got to show you!”

 

By this time, I was pretty curious. I let him pull me toward the outdoor stairs, pretending resistance as we both clattered up the terracotta steps. I was hooked. I couldn’t know what he wanted to show me, but I could imagine. A wonderful new toy, a plate of frosted cookies, a secret passageway. Heck, I was even excited about seeing the inside of his apartment.

 

I knew he lived with his grandmother, but that wasn’t unusual in the South Beach I grew up in. In the late 1950s, it was a rundown place full of short-term furnished flats, fragmented families, transient pervs, and discarded geriatrics, some of whom could point to a faded number tattooed on their tanned arms. My own family had no father, aunts, uncles, cousins – nothing that bespoke community or permanence.

 

The front door frame of his apartment was inset with a jalousie window. When cranked open, it contributed to the “air cooled” environment that cunning landlords advertised when they didn’t offer real air conditioning.

 

Neil turned the metal knob and pushed the door open, revealing a studio space stuffed with cheap Danish modern chairs, foam filled cushions covered in loud tropical prints and a daybed serving as a sofa pushed against the wall. A small kitchen with a skinny refrigerator, sink and a narrow gas range occupied one corner. His grandmother wasn’t there but rolls of stockings and knitting needles stuck into a ball of green yarn told of her presence.

 

He pulled me through a door that opened into a walk-through closet. We passed between a row of dresses, skirts and shirts hanging on one side and shelves filled with shoes, purses and sundry boxes on the other. At the other end of the closet was a door with a full-length mirror. Behind this door was a small pink and green tiled bathroom, tub to the left, sink and toilet to the right. Straight ahead was a small jalousie window set high into the wall, over a narrow towel rack and toilet paper roller.

 

He pulled me toward the toilet and raised the lid.

 

“I made that,” he said proudly, pointing to a nautilus-like turd, the color and shape of cooked rope sausage, coiled on the bottom of the green toilet bowl. It was formidable. It was meticulous. It was the best, biggest turd his little body ever squeezed into existence. It was his creation. It was priceless. And he was exceptionally proud.

 

Neil looked at me, gloating over his amazing achievement, prepared to accept my appreciation, my admiration, my awe.

 

I gave him none of that. Instead, I screamed.

 

I turned and ran like a bunny from a hawk. I dashed through the narrow closet, through the crowded living space and out the front door, just as an old woman with a cigarette hanging from her downcast mouth was stepping in. Still, I didn’t stop. I ran down the steps as fast as my stubby legs would take me. I pushed open our front door breathlessly and threw myself on the sofa that doubled as a bed. I think I cried.

 

I don’t know why his proud display upset me so much, or why it stayed in my memory for so many years. Maybe it was the effect of inflated expectation stabbed by disappointment. I expected to see something beautiful, something extraordinary. Instead, I was confronted by a little boy’s poop. A stinker, in every way possible. Our concepts of “extraordinary” were quite different, proving the point that one person’s trash can be another’s treasure.

 

We forgive and even encourage neilisms in young children, hoping they will help them grow confidence, but in adults, it’s a different matter because we believe they should know better. Of course, true neilists rarely recognize their own neilisms in real time (I blush to think of how many I have been guilty of), so we observers are left to smirk behind our hands. While I might roll my eyes when confronted by a know-it-all, feel frustrated when at the mercy of a Dunning Kruger incompetent, or turn my back on the wild emptiness of the nihilist, I sympathize with the self-delusion of the neilist. After all, I've been there.