I want everyone reading this to do me a favor. Just bear with me a moment and everything will become clear.
Pretend for a moment you’re an imbecile. If you have no prior experience in this field, then imagine your brain as a pair of hands encased in mittens wrapped in duct tape and covered in tiny red ants. The biting ones.
Now, imagine the rest of the world, the rest of life, is a delicate, intricately fashioned puzzle. Or maybe a violin. Okay, imagine the rest of the world as a violin that’s made entirely of miniscule interlocking segments that you have to assemble before you play it. Also, the pieces are made of roughly cut glass filaments.
Finally, imagine that every single day of your life takes place in a huge amphitheater. And that you must play an impossibly complicated solo or risk a most unpleasant demise. Now would be a good time for you to remember that your hands are essentially useless, sticky clubs no better suited to playing violin than a bear is to playing cribbage. Also, you’re still covered in biting ants.
That’s what it’s like to be an imbecile. The only difference is that they (the imbeciles) don’t realize their gluey mitten-hands are unsuited to violin playing. They believe the conductor is to blame for their wretched performance, and that the audience’s inability to stop bleeding from the ears is entirely the fault of the audience. I guess in this horribly mangled metaphor the ants are the thousand everyday annoyances that turn the soloist into seething, incoherent rage machines. The duct tape is probably capitalism or something.
Now imagine you’re the conductor of this God-awful caucophony of idiocy. You’re the capable, inspired mind behind the podium waving your white-gloved hands in hopeless arcs all the while praying for God to strike you dead where you stand. Imagine it’s your job, your duty, to extract a coherent and euphonious pattern from this doomed scenario. You are expected -nay, required!- to guide the blunt, senseless hands of the shouting, illiterate buffoon through the entire piece of music, no matter how complex.
Have you got all of that? Excellent. Let’s continue.
Now, take everything you just patched together from that incoherent tirade and translate it into a technical support scenario. That’s what I do for a living. I’m the conductor and you -yes all of you- are the the soloist.
When you can’t string together a three-note melody because it’s clearly not your job to know how to operate your own instrument, I am your instructor. When your face, neck and taint are so agonizingly blistered and seeping from the wounds of thousands of aggressively attacking ants, I apply the balm. When you are unable to read your sheet music due to loss, excessive jelly stains or plain old illiteracy, I hold your useless paw and sound out every passage. When you can’t even so much as find the other end of the stage, I guide you through the footlights to your proper place.
Not to worry, though, because you aren’t expected to do a single thing. Just stand there in your oversized Tweety Bird t-shirt and your shapeless velcroed shoes and complain about how long it’s taking me to find your bow. Don’t strain yourself – it isn’t good for the heart, you know. And whatever you do, don’t ever learn a single thing about your craft. You are absolutely correct in your assumption that I am required to do everything for you. I mean, I practically held a gun to your head and made you buy that violin. How dare I! To go so far as to completely wipe your mind of any trace of coherent understanding of the instrument was beyond cruel. I should be ashamed of myself.