So when did “brave” become a four-letter word?

I think I know. Like so many — too many — things, it’s got something to do with Facebook. You know, that place we all hang around and share what we hope are meaningful snippets of our lives. And articles about things like crocheted men’s underwear, the image of which has unfortunately been seared into my brain for the last day.

Here’s the drill. A Facebook friend posts something about his or her life – her son had an epileptic seizure, his wife died several months ago — and, inevitably, some sort of quip or comment about how they handle it. My friend Karen Bayless Feldman was a funny person before her son got sick, and even funnier now, as she explains how her family addresses Brennan’s epilepsy. Tim McGuire is unbelievably eloquent in his descriptions of how he battles grief.

Our reaction, inevitably, is to say, “You are so brave!”

Is that such a bad thing? Maybe. The other day I had lunch with my dear friend and longtime colleague Robrt Pela, who takes impossibly good care of his mother, who has Alzheimer’s. He lamented that when he posts an image of his mom and a rather dark comment (you have to know Robrt) that people responded about how he’s so brave, such an inspiration.

No I’m not! he practically shouted across the table at Pane Bianco. I replied that I’d seen some of the posts, and the comments and that I had chosen to not comment at all. I didn’t tell him that’s because I have no idea what to say. When your friend spends years of his life caring for his mom (I’ll leave out the details, those are Robrt’s to share) I don’t see how you can respond with any comment other than, “You are an inspiration! You are so fucking brave!”

And yet I knew he didn’t want to hear that.

Then there’s Jennifer Longdon. She has a spinal cord injury and uses a wheelchair. I met her on Facebook, then wrote a piece for New Times about how she interacts in social media — offering valuable insight, advocacy, and, simply, the gift of letting people know what it’s like to live day to day with her injury.

Jennifer is probably the bravest person I’ve ever met. When she reads that, she’ll want to throttle me. The other day she posted a piece written by a woman who is disabled, who listed the reasons we shouldn’t call disabled people inspirational and commented:

This! All of this!! Seriously, please read, internalize and share widely.

“Our daily lives are not yours to cherry pick for teachable moments or perspective on whatever you don’t like about your life.”
“Don’t pity us as a source of self-motivation. If you want to motivate yourself, buy a cat poster.”

Well, I hate cats, Jen, and I love you. I do get that it’s not appropriate to slobber all over your Facebook wall and write “You are SO brave! You got this, girlfriend!” when you’re off to the ER for the umpteenth time. But I’ll tell you the truth: You can’t help but be an inspiration. And I think you know it. And yeah, it sucks that it’s another burden for you. But it’s also a giant gift you give the world.

That said, you should still read the piece Jennifer posted. And consider Robrt’s situation.

Once in a while, someone tells me that I’m brave for raising a daughter with special needs. I usually burst out laughing, because chances are good that I’ve just screamed at my kid or ignored her homework or let her be late for school or leave the house without brushing her hair (or all four in one morning!) and really, for me, it’s not about being brave, it’s just life. And that, I’m pretty sure, is how my friends feel. If your wife died, you’d find a way to go on. If your son began having seizures, you’d use humor to cope. If your mom got sick, you’d change her diapers for years.

Right? I guess so. (Except the diaper part, Mom — don’t worry.) But I haven’t been in those situations, so I honestly don’t know. For me they are insurmountable, requiring great bravery. And that, I know, is what people are telling me when they say I’m brave to be Sophie’s mom. They do not mean to be insulting. They are probably at a loss for words, and wondering how the hell they’d deal with it if it happened to them. Or maybe, just maybe, they truly do find greater meaning in it. And is that such a bad thing?

People bad mouth Facebook, and I get it. But I also love it. It’s pulled down our walls, and certainly it gives us the chance to be fake — but I see a lot of reality, too. And I’m grateful for it. Even inspired.

(And now I’m hiding under the table as the rotten tomatoes fly.)