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 Responding To Sounds

I recently learned that I'm losing hearing in one of my ears. This has presented me with a new challenge and a new perspective. Now I'm not sure which is worse: hearing too much, or hearing too little.

I've always been a bit overwhelmed by my senses. I've felt like I was seeing a little too much, catching scents that I didn't want to catch, and hearing more than I could absorb at once. With every other sense competing for my attention, I couldn't understand how others managed to be so on-the-ball. My brain might eventually catch up, but by the time it did, it would often be too late.

Making sense of what people were saying to me has frequently been an issue. I heard them well enough, but the surrounding noise would interfere; and then, of course, even when I could hear a person's words correctly, there was the problem of interpreting their meaning. To this day, how everyone else succeeds at this so easily still baffles me.

Now I need to learn all over again how to respond when my hearing fails; this time, it's from hearing too little. Maybe I can respond the same way that I did when I heard too much. I don't yet know.

 

On Easing Up The Sound Barrier

There are ways of making your presence known that some would consider uncouth and even shocking. There are ways of announcing yourself that stand out in a peculiar, and even in an amusing way. And often they happen accidentally. Yes, I'm referring to farts. But, belches count, too.

And, yes, I'm going there.

I grew up in a family that had no shame, and no compunction to refrain from making such bodily (sometimes musical) refrains. Farts were something to laugh at, or something to blame on the nearest victim. They were performed loudly and proudly, or silently and furtively (the furtive sort are the worst, as everyone knows). My family got enjoyment out of the littlest of things, this among them. I liked how easily they could laugh, even if I was usually only smiling and shaking my head.

Rarely did I share in the fun. I remember my sister saying, years later, that "Zeri never farts". It's untrue, of course, but I acknowledge that I was much more restrained than the rest of them.

Holding back was, like many things with me, a reflex. In most ways, I hold back from bringing attention to myself. I speak up only when I mean to, and that includes speaking by way of fart. Not wanting to be noticed (and thus be dragged into conversations), I would tamper any kind of noise-making I might produce. Unless by accident, sounds didn't escape from me without a lot of effort. It's funny: I've only thought about it in terms of oral sounds in the past, but I suppose I was quite deliberate when it came to other bodily sounds, as well.

It didn't bother me when others farted (unless it was the furtive sort). I didn't feel like a more proper person. My only motive was not to be noticed, although, as I've said, the act of not being noticed became habit early on, and I hardly had to try. Even today, I hardly try.

But sometimes it helps to let your voice be heard, no matter where it's coming from. Sometimes, I've learned, being heard helps make others feel comfortable. Maybe it's not always important to do so, but when those people matter, then perhaps it becomes another kind of communication, a way of saying: I'm okay being fully human with you. In those cases, maybe it's best to try easing up with the sound barrier.

Then, maybe some extra humor can be had, and some extra closeness to boot. One more way of becoming close, at least with the right people, never hurts.

Just be wary about proximity.

 

Where It Came From

I have two fathers: one who raised me, and one who I didn't get to know till later in life. The first provided an example for me as I grew up; the latter provided half of my genetic material.

My father, the one who raised me and adopted me, was usually a man of few words. He could be intense, but he was rarely angry. He taught me how to fix things, mainly by showing how it was done. I don't recall many of his words, but I will always recall his actions. I'm sure that I must have picked up some of his mannerisms and behaviors, but -- that being said -- I didn't see myself in him, nor in the rest of the family that I grew up with. My mom and my siblings, for instance, are some of the most talkative and social people that I know, so much so that it used to drive me a bit nutty.

As taciturn as my father was, he didn't mind the company of others, and -- believe me -- our house was bursting with activity and people. What felt like chaos to me didn't faze him at all. My impression was that he enjoyed large gatherings, and he seemed to do well in highly social situations. He was involved with our family, laughing often and readily; he was easy-going. Though he was less talkative, he wasn't withdrawn, as if he needed to recuperate (unless, of course, I count his cigarette breaks).

My mom called him "quiet", a term I eventually came to know well. She said it as if apologizing for him and for me all at once. "You're quiet, just like your dad," she told me. "You must have gotten it from him. Even though he doesn't say much, you should know that your dad loves you." I liked his quietness, but -- as much as I wanted to -- I didn't feel a connection with him because of it. I think what I took in most from my father's mannerisms was not his quietness but his calm demeanor.

My other father, the biological one, I met about fifteen years ago, when I had already been an adult for quite a while. I didn't know he was my biological father at the time, but it made sense when I did find out (after the DNA tests). Not because we look the same, but -- oddly -- because we act the same, very much so in some ways. It was a very strange thing for me to discover, considering I spent most of my life without knowing him or being influenced by him. I was astonished at how big a role genetic material could play. As long as I've known him, he's been on his own, and he seems to thrive that way.

One day I asked my biological father what he would have taught me had he been around when I was younger. I could have used his guidance, I told him, especially when it came to being introverted. His response shook me, leaving me empty, as only truth can. He said he'd have taught me nothing, and that we each have to figure things out alone. I knew he was right, but it still felt cold. Becoming who we are is a solo project, I guess, introvert or not.

Still, I don't think we start with a blank slate. We start with what's given to us. From my biological father, I've gained the tendency to dive deep and to fall within; to find enjoyment in solitude, nature, and independence. From my adopted father, I've gained peacefulness, the ability to relax and to laugh, even if quietly; to be open to the chaos of social environments, as uncomfortable as they may seem.

This is what I started with, and I'm thankful for it.