On Preventing Unnecessary Homicides

... it was not unusual for us to go days without finding anything to say to each other.

The vast emotional distances between the individual members of a Scandinavian family are forged early and reinforced daily. Can you imagine growing up in a culture where you can never ask anyone anything about themselves? Where "How are you?" is considered a personal question that one is not obligated to answer. Where you are trained to always wait for others to first mention what is troubling them, even as you are trained to never mention what is troubling you. It must be a survival skill left over from the old Viking days when long silences were required to prevent unnecessary homicides during the long, dark winters when quarters were close and supplies were dwindling.

Excerpt from Lab Girl
by Hope Jahren

---

Although I wasn't raised by a Scandinavian family, I can imagine questions like "How are you?" feeling personal. Honestly, it took me a long time to not take every question seriously, as if people really wanted to know the answer. And describing how you are isn't always as simple as it seems.

Sometimes you have to shrug off the questions. And more often, you should probably shrug off the need to answer. Not everyone wants to know. Sometimes silences are good. And maybe, sometimes, the silences even prevent unnecessary homicides.

 

On Responding To Invitations

I never respond to invitations. It just smacks of desperation. The only event I am certain to attend is my funeral, and I hope to arrive very, very late.

Excerpt from The Hod King
by Josiah Bancroft

 

Cagey

I was a teenager, and I was working the night shift at a psychiatric hospital. All of the patients were tucked away in their rooms, and I was finishing up my notes in the logs while chatting with the nurse. I don't remember what we were chatting about or why she said it, but I remember it was the first time I had ever been called "cagey". I remember laughing and asking what that meant. I even remember writing a poem entitled "Feeling Kinda Cagey" sometime later, although I unfortunately lost the poem long ago.

Of all the words that have been used to describe me over the years, I could at least appreciate this one for the visuals it evoked. Perhaps I do cage myself up in a way, and even if my cages are ones that I impose on myself, I suppose they're still cages of a sort.

But with my cages, at least I hold the keys. I can choose to sometimes peek out.

 

On Another Start (Or Restart)

A few months ago, I left my relatively new job and accepted an offer at a startup. Returning to another startup after so many years seems a bit crazy, but at least I've joined a small team of guys whom I've worked with for nearly twenty years. Plus, I tell myself, these kinds of opportunities don't come around forever.

Then again, perhaps the real appeal comes from having the following:

• No more war rooms
• Fewer (if any) meetings
• Less bureaucracy (and project requirements that aren't constantly changing)
• A slightly less noisy workplace (at least while the team is still small)
• The promise of some eventual give-and-take concerning my wish to work from home

Admittedly, it's also good to be working with guys who know me, who are familiar with my nature, and vice versa. It's somewhat like rejoining the family.

There are so many little surprises in life, new starts, new adventures, and new challenges. And -- at times -- they turn out quite nicely.

 

On What We Practice

An old friend once said that he used to be quiet like me, but that he eventually got over it and became more sociable. He pushed me to do the same, and told me I could change, as if introversion is something to be cured, something to get over, or something to work against. I was taken aback by his statement. I remember thinking at the time that he should have known better than to say something so insensitive.

My friend knew about prejudices. He faced at least two on a regular basis, one that he could hide from, and one that he couldn't: to be clear, he was both gay and black, and he grew up dealing with these two, natural "hardships". He was also my boss, and we worked in an environment geared towards multiculturalism. As I said, he should have known better. He was responsible for fostering acceptance at work, and he yearned for acceptance in his personal life. I didn't understand how he could be so blind when it came to me.

(As a side note, I should say that it may be far-fetched to claim that there's such a thing as a culture of introversion; yet, I can't help but think that there is. There are common misconceptions about introverts, as well as a similar way of being mistreated. We may not band together, but we still share a lot.)

I was more open-minded back then. Though I wanted to argue the point with my friend, I opted to reflect on his, instead. He seemed to think that -- with enough practice -- I could change. I, in turn, wanted to ask him if he could become less gay with enough practice.

I knew the answers intuitively, but that didn't stop me from trying to see if I really could change. So whenever I went out, I practiced being more social. I tried to understand what it was like to be what everyone else was. I tried to blend in, and to appear unfazed. I tried to participate, and to be "normal". Others who do this call themselves "practiced extroverts". There are even manuals written about how to change from an introvert into an extrovert.

All it takes is practice, they say.

What I say is that it's sad that this is how it is. Certainly it's useful -- practical, even -- to become capable at social activities, but I think we're all encouraged too often to practice the wrong things. Why should we spend our lives making ourselves into what others want us to be? Why are we putting all of this effort into changing into something we're not?

Why don't we, instead, practice getting better at being ourselves?

 

On Fences And Freedom

"That backpack's like your symbol of freedom," he comments.

"Guess so," I say.

"Having an object that symbolizes freedom might make a person happier than actually getting the freedom it represents."

"Sometimes," I say.

"Sometimes," he repeats. "You know, if they had a contest for the world's shortest replies, you'd win hands down."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps," Oshima says, as if fed up. "Perhaps most people in the world aren't trying to be free, Kafka. They just think they are. It's all an illusion. If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind. You'd better remember that. People actually prefer not being free.

"Including you?"

"Yeah. I prefer being unfree, too. Up to a point. Jean-Jacques Rousseau defined civilization as when people build fences. A very perceptive observation. And it's true -- all civilization is the product of a fenced-in lack of freedom. The Australian Aborigines are the exception, though. They managed to maintain a fenceless civilization until the seventeenth century. They're dyed-in-the-wool free. They go where they want, when they want, doing what they want. Their lives are a literal journey. Walkabout is a perfect metaphor for their lives. When the English came and built fences to pen in their cattle, the Aborigines couldn't fathom it. And, ignorant to the end of the principle at work, they were classified as dangerous and antisocial and were driven away, to the outback. So I want you to be careful. The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best. You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself."

Excerpt from Kafka on the Shore
by Haruki Murakami

---

I quoted this entire passage because there are several things that I enjoy in it.

For one thing, I can relate to the backpack metaphor. I used to carry a backpack with me everywhere, even to work each day. And it was a symbol of freedom. I felt that I could go anywhere as long as I had the few things that I carried within it: notepads and pens, a camera, and a book to read. But going "anywhere" mostly meant being able to escape -- to go off on my own somewhere and read or write. That kind of freedom felt comfortable. So maybe in that sense, freedom was a safety net.

Another thing I can relate to is the making of short replies. I've previously noted how often my quietness has been mentioned. In the past, other words have been used to describe me, as well, among them "monosyllabic". I used words sparingly because I didn't think anything more was necessary, and I didn't know what else there was to say. Being terse wasn't always my way of cutting conversations short. It was just my way of being direct and straightforward. It took a while for me to realize that others wanted a little more in order to feel that I was engaged and interested. Giving extra is something that I'm still learning to do.

There's also the idea of fences that I can relate to. Sometimes I wonder if being introverted is just another way of building fences. I know that a lot of people see it that way; I've been accused of walling off the rest of the world, or of walling myself in. Personally, I prefer my own interpretation; I'm certainly not committed to anyone else's perspective. In this case, I'm not sure whether there's more freedom in the outside world or my inner world. I'm not sure which is wilder, and which is safer. I think it's different for each of us. We all build fences in different ways, and we all find freedom in our own ways, too. I have a fence, of course, but not in the way that others see it. I think of it like this: there's only room for a small community in my world, and so I'm naturally more exclusive. I admire those who can include everyone, but that's not the case for me. While I love to explore and to be free, I often feel the freest when I'm lost in my own head. So, for me, perhaps fencing myself off from the "wilderness" would mean not letting myself escape to the inside.

Finally, I can relate to melting into the scenery, and to acting natural so as not to be noticed. Acting "natural" really means acting unnatural, though. It means acting like everyone else, because that's the surest way to go unnoticed. It's another kind of freedom.

The line between fences and freedom isn't always clear. What matters in the end, I think, is how we define these things for ourselves.

 

On Not Explaining Myself

I find myself explaining too often that I'm not shy, and I realize that I shouldn't be making such a fuss. It's really only a matter of semantics, and not everyone cares as much about the distinction in meaning as I do. Plus, why should it matter to me what others think? Especially when I'm not all that close to them?

The next time someone says that I'm shy, I'll remind myself that it's not important to disagree. Perhaps I'll just play along. Why resist? Why not simply agree and say that I am shy? And then maybe excuse myself because I'm too shy to continue talking with them.

Or I suppose I could just let it pass and then continue on to some other topic. It's not as if I can change anyone's mind. Still, I guess I'd rather take an interest in someone who's willing to understand my perspective as much as I'd be willing to understand theirs. But I know this is idealistic nonsense. And maybe it's not always worth the effort.

 

Random Tidbit Concerning Product Choice

When I purchased my cell phone last year, I must admit that one of the things I was influenced by was the manufacturer's slogan. The phone that I ended up choosing was an HTC Eris, whose slogan is "quietly brilliant." I love it. I don't know what they intended by that message, but I like to think that it suits me well.

It's funny how much of a role personality can play in product choice. I wonder how many other introverts were swayed by such slogans.