Still waters
10 December 2010 11:31 AM Categories: Animal/vegetable/mineral
Some of my favorite people, the ones I am closest to, are talkers. A, a friend from library school, always has a lot to say. She knows it and wants to hear what's on my mind, too, so she usually starts our marathon phone conversations by asking about me. G, the best boss I've ever had, whom I also consider a friend, has entertained me for years with her funny and rambling conversations. She's also warm and sensitive and makes a point of keeping in touch. I'm grateful to know her. Then there are N and rcb, friends from my college days who could go on and on about philosophy and writing. They still charm me with their agile and ranging minds. Even my mother, who makes claims to being a solitary soul, a hermit, who needs almost as much time as I do to recharge, is a talker. From the days when I was a kid and would groan when we ran into an acquaintance at the grocery store (blah blah blah for the next 20 minutes and it always happened when we were on our way out) to the way she makes conversation with strangers on Baltimore's buses and trains, it's clear that she is at home with the spoken word.
I was a loud, bossy kid, sometimes getting in trouble for talking in class and on school trips ("I will not talk at the Delaware Art Museum. I will not talk at the Delaware Art Museum. I will not talk at the Delaware Art Museum. I will not talk at the Delaware Art Museum." -- teachers used to place a lot of power in repetitive writing assignments as punishment). I shrieked at slumber parties and giggled behind teachers' backs. But I also was an only child who spent a lot of time alone, reading, imagining, pretending. I didn't necessarily need other kids or conversation. I was bookish (sixth grade end-of-year awards: Most Intelligent and Quietest). Over the years, the quietness deepened. The seeds of social anxiety were already within me. They just needed an abusive type or two to come along at the right moment and coax them into full growth.
I have an uneasy relationship with my own silence. I wish I was more garrulous, less thoughtful, quicker to share. But I also like my cautiousness, like that I have a world between my ears that only the people I am very close to know about. I don't just give away those thoughts to just anyone. They are a gift, a sign of trust, and once you have access, it takes a lot to shut it off. Acquaintances misjudge me pretty easily based on my initial reluctance to talk. Sometimes I let them run with their assumptions, make me into something I'm not. And sometimes their suppositions and judgements get under my skin.
Here's the thing: extroverts, because of their effusive ways, run social scenes. They like everything out in the open. Sometimes they notice the nontalker, the quiet one in the back of the car, across the table, sitting in the overstuffed easy chair. And then they say it, make some sort of ha ha comment, like "Be quiet, Jennifer." Extroverts, loud people, bull-in-a-china shop types, do you think I've not heard this sort of comment before? Do you think noticing my quietness by calling it out will elicit words from me? No. It will make me much more likely to clam up in your presence and think unkind thoughts about you, all while I smile sweetly and hide behind my glass of wine.
Make me uncomfortable and my silence deepens. I am no longer in the moment. I sit back, wordless, and let you define me, think of one of Kevin's poems while I observe your every move:
I am who other people think I am.
What I assume that they assume, I assume.
I work an image out of supposed fact.
The image then determines how I act.
Must I suppose there is no other life?
I have no need to argue with that view.
The picture that I'm working on is true.*
But it's the holiday season, so I will give those who draw attention to my silence the benefit of the doubt, perhaps come up with some kind of pithy, but not unkind, comment to lob back: "I'm not quiet, just bored." Or "I'm working on my plan for world domination."
Surely someone else can come up with better ripostes than these. If you have any suggestions, let me know. I'll take notes and then pass on our comebacks to the kid. He'll need them in his quiet person's arsenal.
*The late Kevin Sheehan, poet, carpenter, my mother's boyfriend of 18 years, was a talker, a true extrovert. I've taken his words and made them fit my own situation. Click here to read Coming True, the full poem.
Image by h.koppdelaney.
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