On Being Family

I'm in Chicago, at a hotel, and I'm having trouble winding down for the night. When I get back to Seattle, I foresee quite a bit of downtime for recovery.

I'm here visiting family. It's been good to see them, but it's also been overwhelming. Seeing family is normally tiring after a few days, but my family in Chicago is a special case. Imagine twenty or more of the most extreme extroverts unintentionally ganging up on you, all of them coming and going, or sitting and chatting, speaking words faster than your brain can process them, all at the same time and not necessarily in English, most of them taking turns talking with you, each of them deserving the title of "Comedian" -- if you could only focus hard enough or listen at supersonic speeds (they always laugh at the jokes thirty seconds before you even realize a joke is being told) -- and that's not counting their kids who are running back and forth and screaming funny nonsense, arms flailing, the oddballs half naked; and you're giving hugs hello as some relatives arrive and hugs goodbye as some leave, many whom you've never met before, and if you're not paying attention, you might get knocked over by a little one planting her arms around one of your legs. Then, as you take your leave for the night, your grandmother -- standing up to hug you even though she struggles to stand at all -- tells you that she loves you, that she's glad that you came, and glad that she could see you again before she dies.

I'm not good enough family for any one of them, but I am glad to have them, nonetheless.

Tomorrow night, my aunt is having everyone over. I'm not optimistic about my ability to participate in two-way conversations. I harbored a small amount of optimism before I came to Chicago; I was sure there were meaningful questions to ask, things to learn about my family, etc., but now I can barely secure a steady train of thought. Writing these paragraphs was like trying to get a frightened, panicked crowd organized into a single-file line. My brain is fried.

I'll probably stutter and blabber tomorrow (unless there are drinks, of course -- in which case I'll probably stutter in the most eloquent of ways). Regardless, I'll be myself, and it'll be no surprise to anyone; they are family, after all. Earlier, my mom was telling a story to my aunt about how, on occasion, she accidentally calls one of my nephews by my name because he reminds her of me. My aunt asked, "Why? Because he's so quiet?"

Yes: they know me a little, at least.

I don't need to be the best uncle, or the best cousin, or the best nephew, or the best grandson, or the best brother, or the best son. But I wouldn't mind letting my family know that I care. I hope they can tell, even if I'm showing them in my own limited way.

 

On Shells And Happiness

Auberon put down the glass, slowly, thinking. "Do you think," he said, "that people are happier when they're alone, or with other people?"

She carried his glass and plate to the sink. "I don't know," she said. "I guess... Well, what do you think?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just wondered if... " What he wondered was whether it was a fact everyone knew, every grown-up anyway: that everyone is of course happiest alone, or the reverse, whichever it was. "I guess I'm happier with other people," he said.

"Oh yes?" She smiled; since she faced the sink, he couldn't see her. "That's nice," she said. "An extrovert."

"I guess."

"Well," Alice said softly, "I just hope you don't creep back in your shell again."

He was already on his way out, stuffing extra cookies in his pockets, and didn't stop, but a strange window had suddenly been flung open within him. Shell? Had he been in a shell? And -- odder still -- had he been seen to be in one, was it common knowledge? He looked through this window and saw himself for a moment, for the first time, as others saw him. Meanwhile his feet had taken him out the broad swinging doors of the kitchen, which grump-grumped behind him in their way, and through the raisin-odorous pantry, and out through the stillness of the long dining room, going toward his imaginary ball-game.

Excerpt from Little, Big: or, The Fairies' Parliament
by John Crowley

Related: The Shell

 

All I Need

"All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends."

by Dorothy Parker

 

On Being Puzzling

"Most people spend little time inside their heads. They don't understand how you live. They're like medieval peasants looking in puzzlement at the troubadour."

Excerpt from Accelerando
by Charles Stross

 

An Introvert Fortune

"A person is not wise simply because one talks a lot."

Photo courtesy of a kind reader.

 

The "Extreme" In Extreme Introversion

Most of us are wary of the extremes. Extreme extroverts are as questionable as extreme introverts. In either case, we might ask, "What kind of drugs are you on?" For extreme athletes, we might attribute a death wish. Look up the word "extreme" on Google, and one of the related searches you'll see is "extreme couponing". Enough said.

It's easier to understand the common ground than it is to venture towards the edge.

Last year, I was asked how I know that I'm an "extreme introvert". I thought it was an interesting question. What makes my introversion extreme? And how do I know that's what I am? These are two very philosophical questions, but I'll try not to get too deep while answering them.

Part of the reason that I use the phrase is because more and more literature is finally being published about introversion, and the topic is described in an overly generic way. It's written about in such a manner as to include most of the world. Evidently, up to fifty percent of the population falls somewhere on the introversion spectrum, meaning half of us have at least some introverted tendencies. When you consider this, you can see why I -- among others -- would try to make a distinction. I classify myself as an "extreme" introvert because my introversion seems to be amplified. It's the difference between having mild tendencies versus being very clearly introverted. Simply put, the word introvert is overused; so I've added a modifier -- if introversion means "turning inwards", then extreme introversion means "turning inwards with gusto".

But how do I know that I'm on the deep end of the introversion spectrum? There's no exact formula for measuring these things -- it's guesswork, at best. There are tests online (e.g., the Meyers-Briggs test) that tell us how introverted we are, as a rough percentage, but the best test is experience. I know how I am in comparison to others because I spend time with people. I put myself in situations that allow me to make comparisons. I socialize now and then. You might say that I experiment.

How do I know? I know because I've tried being like everyone else, and I've also allowed myself to stop trying and to just be me. The difference is huge; in fact, the difference is extreme.

 

So Many Words

Today, we'll send over 300 billion emails, 19 billion text messages, yet we'll still feel alone. The average person will say 2,250 words to 7.4 other individuals. Will these words be used to hurt or to heal?

Touch, Pilot episode

 

Cooperating In Silence

Like the hours on horseback, Royce and Hadrian remained quiet. Hadrian unsaddled the horses and gave them a light brushing while Royce set up a small cook fire. It was entertaining to watch. Without a word, they would toss tools and bags back and forth. Hadrian blindly threw a hatchet over his shoulder and Royce caught it just in time to begin breaking up the branches for the fire. Just as Royce finished the fire, Hadrian had a pot of water ready to place on it. For Arista, who lived her life in public among squabbling nobles and chattering staffs, such silence was strange.

Excerpt from Nyphron Rising
by Michael J. Sullivan

 

Toasted

Although I tend to avoid work outings as much as I avoid mosquitoes, I do find myself attending now and then. The most recent outing was a going-away lunch for a coworker who'd found a better job. There were a lot of us at that outing, and our table stretched beyond the capacity of my eyesight; I couldn't see the other end.

The guest of honor gave a speech at some point. He paid homage to our boss, he reminisced about the good and the bad times, and he poked fun at the lot of us -- including me. That part, of course, went like this:

"...and I'll always remember my attempts to get Zeri to say more than thirty words."

Normally, I might take issue with such nonsense. But on this occasion, I could only nod and acknowledge my coworker's sense of humor; afterall, it was a little bit flattering to be mentioned in a toast.

A glass should always be raised for the introvert.

 

The Triumph In Walking Lightly

Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention.

Excerpt from The Fault in Our Stars
by John Green

I guess I'd say that introverts tend to walk lightly, too. We tend to make fewer connections, but deeper ones. Often, we go unnoticed. Perhaps we leave fewer scars. I don't know.

 

Dear Zeri: On Getting Others To Understand

Thursday, July 25, 2013

I just found your blog about being an extreme introvert and wanted to say thanks for sharing. I'm feeling particularly misunderstood these days.

One thing I'm constantly trying to figure out is how to get people to understand and respect me being an introvert... I've realized that's never going to happen except for people I'm very close with. So I need to learn more coping mechanisms. I wonder if you'd consider writing something about coping in uncomfortable environments (I didn't see if you've already written about that). For example, I just returned from a 10 day vacation with my in-laws (9 people total). I pretty much had a meltdown by the second day because I was getting basically no alone time and everyone was talking all the time at the same time. I even got a really bad cold which I'm sure was related to the stress. I started hiding out as much as possible and I'm sure everyone thinks I hate them... which almost seems true because I find it so stressful to be around them. I'm not sure how to appropriately deal with that situation. I need to get better at being able to deal with these situations I can't control. Any tips?

Thanks again,

L

---

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Hi, L --

Thanks for writing, and my apologies for the late reply. I only check in sporadically, but I suppose it's nearly time for another entry. I have to confess, though, that I try not to give out too much advice on my own blog. I try to keep it more personal. I do know of several forums that have great advice for introverts, though. I'll forward some if you're interested.

That said, I can very much relate to the situations you've described; while I don't have any standard tips to offer, I can tell you what my own experience has been.

First, about the vacation-related stress: that sort of thing happens to me, too. During situations like those, it feels like every muscle is tense, and like I'm ready to pounce on anyone who comes near. Being stuck like that for too long can definitely take its toll on your health. I've found only two ways to cope in those scenarios. If at all possible, the easiest thing to do is to get away. Make time for yourself, even if it seems odd to others. Step out to the bathroom, but go for a walk, instead. The other thing that helps is if you can be honest with others. I know I've struggled with that in the past; it's hard to be honest without being cruel, and so I often avoid saying anything. But if you can calm yourself enough to say what you're feeling in a reasonable manner, others will often understand. Even if they don't make less noise all of the time, they'll at least understand if you need to get away from them. And they'll understand that you aren't really hating them -- that you're just having a hard time dealing with so much stimulation.

There is a third thing that helps in those situations, but it's the one that takes the most time: it's practice. It may never become entirely easy, but I think we eventually find ways to zone it all out. Ways to calm or distract ourselves. It still takes a toll, in the meantime, but it gets easier not to burst while we're in the midst of it all.

As for respect and understanding, those things are fleeting. Not even fellow introverts will always understand you. We don't come across introverts as often, and so we act towards the rest of the world just like anyone else does; thus, we often treat each other, including our fellow introverts, in the ways that give us such a hard time. Friends will falter sometimes, but at least they're friends. All you can expect is that they'll try to be as understanding towards you as you'll be towards them.

Hopefully some of this helps.

Thanks again for writing. Good or bad, it always helps a little to know that others deal with the same things as me.

Be well,

... Zeri

---

Friday, August 2, 2013

Zeri,

Thanks for your response. I really appreciate it. It's nice to feel understood. Sometimes I feel like such a freak when it seems everyone else can cope with "normal" situations so much better than I can.

I understand not wanting to give advice but I appreciate your personal experiences. I often do the thing where I pretend I'm just going to the bathroom or something and then disappear for long periods of time... I think that gives a bad impression, although often I think people don't even notice I'm gone since I'm sort of invisible even when I'm there.

The thing I really want to work on is being more honest and straightforward with people. I've tried this with my mother-in-law. I will say to her, "I'm just feeling really overwhelmed by all the noise and stimulation and I require a lot of quiet, alone time." Her response is always, "Me too! It's driving me crazy... blah, blah, blah!!!" To which I always want to respond, "No I don't think you do get it because YOU are the one I find the most overwhelming to be around!!!" But I don't say that because I think it will hurt her feelings. It's interesting to me that she claims to feel overwhelmed by the chaos and yet she's the biggest contributor to that chaos. At that point I know she thinks she understands how I feel but clearly doesn't because I'm trying to ask her to not talk to me, that I need to be left alone to recover, but she takes it as an opportunity to talk to me even more. Clearly my passive requests are not accomplishing what I want them to. I'm not sure if I need to be even more direct and say, "YOU are talking to me too much and I can't deal with it anymore." If someone said that to me it would really hurt my feelings. But maybe sometimes I need to just stand up for myself and my needs even if it does hurt other people's feelings.

Happy Friday,

L

---

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Hi L --

Yes, it might help to try asserting yourself more. Like I wrote last time, it can be challenging to figure out how to do so without being cruel, but it's important to try, I think, especially if you're becoming stressed out on a regular basis. Friends of mine (and probably many others) use a method of 1) saying something kind first, then 2) describing the problem or stating what is needed, and 3) finishing up with another nice statement. Here's an article that describes something similar as a way of being assertive and nice at the same time:

http://www.positivityblog.com/index.php/2008/05/05/six-steps-to-become-assertive-and-nice/

Personally, I find such steps to be a bit disingenuous; on the other hand, they seem to work well in many cases. You could start by telling your mother-in-law that you like talking with her, and hearing her stories, and getting to know her, etc.; then tell her that, while all that is true, you need a break from it occasionally, and that it's overwhelming; and then, perhaps, finish up by saying that you appreciate her understanding.

That said, she may not ever really get how overwhelmed you become. She may not understand how you are, but it's worth getting her to understand what you need.

In any case, I wish you luck. Situations like that can be tricky to negotiate.

Be well,

... Zeri

 

On Things That Make You Go Quiet

The definition for the word "sardonic" at Merriam-Webster provides an example of its usage:

a sardonic little jab that made her visitor quiet and subdued for the rest of the night

I'm not sure what made the visitor quiet, in this case, whether it was the sardonicism or the jab, but it makes me wonder what would do the same to me. In general, either of these things are likely candidates.

 

How Wonderful To Not Talk

A conversation between CJ and Danny in the show West Wing:

"You know when I came over Wednesday night and it was late and we didn't really talk? We just--"

"I have a vague recollection."

"Did that make you feel bad?

"Bad in a-- in a what?"

"You know-- used."

"For my body?"

"Something like that."

"I'll work through it."

"You sure?"

"It happens. Women want me."

"It's just, I know we have a lot to talk about and I don't want to leapfrog any of it but it was kind of wonderful to just--"

"Not talk."

"Not even a little."

They laugh.

"You want to do it again tonight, don't you."

"I really do."

"I'll leave the door open."

From West Wing
"Requiem", Season 7, Episode 18

 

Silence As Truth

Silences can wound as surely as the twisting lash, the poet Sadiq Khan once wrote. But sometimes, being silent is the only way to tell the truth.

Excerpt from Shantaram
by Gregory David Roberts

 

Unconnected

My father recently replied to an email I'd written weeks before; as to the late reply, he said that he was confused about the issue of "family connectedness" I'd mentioned. He didn't explain his confusion, but I suspect that he wonders whether I've inherited from him a tendency to be less connected.

This is a subject I've pondered in various ways throughout the years. A movie I watched a few months ago caused me to revisit the subject in a new light. The movie, "Giant Mechanical Man", depicts a culture in which people, in general, are difficult to connect with. Everyone wears earbuds; they listen to material on electronic gadgets rather than to anyone else, and no one is available for others.

What I realized while watching is: that's me. I listen to audiobooks every day. I walk to work with earbuds nestled in, and I regularly go out to restaurants while listening to stories, too. I even listen to stories while grocery shopping, and while I'm out running. I'm not doing it to avoid others, yet I wonder whether it's a habit that aids in my tendency to be less connected. Technology is the new evil because it separates us; on the other hand, it's nothing new that being separate is "worrisome."

Maybe I should make myself available to friends and family more often than I do, but I don't think I have a responsibility to make myself available to the entire world. If someone wants to talk with me, I'm not going to avoid them. I welcome it. I'm not trying to ignore people, nor am I callous. While I'm not motivated to create or maintain as many as others might like, I do desire meaningful connections. I may want fewer, but the deeper they are the better.

In a way, I find that it helps that I listen to stories. It helps me to understand myself and the world. It gives me a way to connect with others -- with something that I care about: good stories. And what's the point in sharing stuff unless I care about it?

What's the point in being connected unless I mean it?

 

The Danger In Shielding Oneself

In a story I recently read, Pandora's Star, the human race becomes concerned about a shield -- an apparent force field -- that envelopes another solar system. Why would anyone need to be shielded unless they were a threat? If the shield is a defense, then -- so the reasoning goes -- they're likely to go on the offense.

Although it's only a story, this sort of reasoning is applied to people like me on a fairly regular basis. I've tried to understand it over the years. If I spend too much time alone, or if I don't spill my guts to everyone who wants them spilt, it tends to make people uncomfortable. Liking my privacy has never been an acceptable answer. I think the reasoning goes like this:

I can be private as long as I'm not noticed. If I choose to be in the company of others, or to make myself noticed, then I'm asking to be questioned. If I choose to remain quiet in company, or to remain apart, shielding myself from others, so to speak, then I must be hiding something. And if I'm hiding something, then there must be something troubling me; anything troubling me is likely to become dangerous for others later on.

Or, at least, that's how I imagine the onset of fear progresses.

Not everyone minds having a quiet person around. But it's a rare find. It's a kind and accepting nature that allow others to just be -- to join when we want, to talk when we have something to say, to stick around even when we're not entirely involved.

A shield isn't necessarily a danger. Sometimes it's just a way of life.

 

In Order To Evolve, Like Bread

Making bread is an athletic event. Not only does it require dashing around to several stations of the bakery as you check rising loaves or mix ingredients or haul the mixing bowl out of its cradle -- but it also takes muscle power to activate the gluten in the dough. Even people who wouldn't be able to tell a poolish from a biga know that to make bread, you have to knead it. Push and roll, push and fold, a rhythmic workout on your floured countertop. Do it right, and you'll release a protein called gluten -- strands that let uneven pockets of carbon dioxide form in the loaves. After seven or eight minutes -- long enough for your mind to have made a to-do list of chores around the house, or for you to replay the last conversation you had with your significant other and what he really meant -- the consistency of the dough will transform. Smooth, supple, cohesive.

That's the point where you have to leave the dough alone. It's silly to anthropomorphize bread, but I love the fact that it needs to sit quietly, to retreat from touch and noise and drama, in order to evolve.

I have to admit, I often feel that way myself.

Excerpt from The Storyteller
by Jodi Picoult

 

On Being Neglectful

"Dad?" she said, turning to face him.

"Yes," he said; he always replied to direct questions, but usually with the fewest possible words.

"Dr. Kuroda sent us an email. Did you get it yet?"

"No."

"Well," continued Caitlin, "he's got new software he wants us to download into my implant tonight." She was pretty sure she could manage it on her own, but -- "Will you help me?"

"Yes," he said. And then a gift, a bonus: "Sure."

Excerpt from WWW: Wake
by Robert J. Sawyer

---

The passage above makes me think of myself, and how I must often seem towards others. I worry about being too neglectful, and about seeming too cold. I worry that I give too little -- what with my short supply of words -- and that it translates into a lack of affection; I worry about this especially when it comes to the ones I care about most.

I wish never to neglect those that I love. Although my words may come sparingly, my feelings are profuse. Hopefully they see that I care intensely.

 

Relating To Loners

Years ago, I came across the book Party of One: The Loners' Manifesto, and I fell in love with it immediately. I responded strongly to it, especially to the introduction. Whenever I reread the introduction, I feel my heart leap and my eyes well up.

But I wonder if my response is helped out by my tendency to transpose concepts. Although the book is written for loners, I find it easy to replace the word "loner" with the word "introvert" in my mind's eye, and the feelings described in the book still pertain to me. They are still incredibly accurate. They describe how I've felt for most of my life in a way that I could never have said better. All it takes is to transpose "introvert" for "loner", two concepts that are not equivalent. Granted, the book is also incredibly wrong-headed about many things; yet, it still manages to get to the core.

I wish everyone would read the introduction to this book. It's powerful. Here are some quotes that I like from it; when necessary, I've transposed the aforementioned words:

---

The premise, the presumption implicit in any crowd, from concert hall to kaffee klatsch to office party, that shared experiences are the only ones that count. The only experiences toward which everyone aspires. The only real ones... proved -- what? That anything worth doing is not done alone.

---

This way to be, this way we are, gets us into trouble. We are a minority, the community that is anticommunity. The culture that will not on principle join hands. Remote on principle from one another -- this is our charter and we would not have it any other way -- each of us swims alone through a sea of social types. Talkers. Lunchers. Touchers.

---

We form a chorus, but the oddest chorus in the world, a willful antichorus. In saying entirely different things, usually not saying them aloud to anyone at all, we are saying a lot.

---

Does it matter how I got this way? Not if I am happy. I am. [Introverts] need no more to be cured, nor can be cured -- the word is gross in this usage -- than gays and lesbians. Or people who love golf.

---

I find myself nodding in agreement when I reread the introduction. Society doesn't always get introverts, but we will thrive in our own ways. We'll figure out that it's worth being ourselves, even if it takes a bit more work to get there.

 

Idle, Commonplace, Wishful Thinking

What would the world be like if we all took care with the words we spoke? What if we all said what we meant, or tried at least? What if we listened more and said less? What if our words were important?

 

Not A Bother

Have you ever been jarred awake from a deep sleep? Or yelled at for daydreaming? That's what it's like to be criticized for being quiet.

Some people will attack the most innocent things. I'm not referring to those who are only making fun. I mean those who genuinely seem offended by quietness -- those who take it personally, as though it's an insult to them. I've been called names because of it, been labelled arrogant, self-centered, and rude. I've even been in scuffles because of it. My quietness has been the subject of countless arguments. It's shocking how much animosity I stir up just by minding my own business. After all these years, it still confounds me how much of a bother being quiet can be.

What should be considered harmless doesn't always feel safe.

 

Silent Treatment

Maybe I gave in too quick. Maybe I should have held out longer, but for what? The woman is without mercy. Elaine and I, sure, we had our little spats; she might give me the silent treatment: nothing compared to Marilyn. Marilyn is a whole new universe of silence. I mean, we're talking a silence so cold, so relentlessly powerful, it actually sucks all the sounds out of the air. It's like being vibed into a black hole. You're out in space alone against this galactic vortex of disapproval.

Quote from Northern Exposure

 

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?

 

Very Ingoing

They described themselves as outgoing, a term he heard frequently. "Very outgoing," some said, perhaps to distinguish themselves from the rest. He figured there was something appealing to it. Was it a more prized quality? A more desirable one?

He wanted to introduce himself as ingoing, instead, and he wondered how it would play out. He'd say it proudly. They'd think he was joking, but he wouldn't participate in the laughter. He'd smile and wait for them to understand that he meant it.

Would they think less of him afterwards? Would they pity him? Or would his confession be as celebrated as any other?

No matter the answer to his questions, he knew that he -- for one -- would cherish knowing that there were others like him, that there were ingoers and outgoers and everything in between.

There are prized ways of being, he mused, that we never hear about.

 

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.

 

Rights

Among some of the data regulations being proposed in Europe recently, there's something called the "right to be forgotten". Its goal is to allow information about you to be removed from online networks so that it's no longer available to the public.

Whether I support the proposal or not, I must admit that I like the words on their own. I have a fondness for the unintended meaning in such phrases. Another phrase that I enjoy is the "right to remain silent". My enjoyment has nothing to do with the actual legalities. Rather, I like to imagine that these rights pertain to me, the quiet guy that I am. It's silly, I know, but it feels good to imagine a world where the right to be me is protected by law.

In a world where many seem to fear silence, and where those who attempt to escape -- in essence, those who try to be "forgotten" for a little while -- are looked upon with suspicion, it's nice to dream that there's a refuge.

I like to believe that I have certain rights whether they're made into law or not. Still, it's fun to think of those rights as being protected by the full force and might of ... the people of the world. Such rights should be universally acknowledged, should they not?

 

Knowing What It Means

Everyone is different; yet, some are more keenly aware of it. Some are treated differently. Because you know what that's like, you have a responsibility to those who are also different. You owe it to them to be as understanding as you can be. Even though you may not have always received the same understanding, you know that we all deserve it.

And no matter how much you learn about the traits that make you like others, you're always going to be your own kind of person. You're going to be different even from those who are most like you. Realizing that you weren't alone, and that you weren't the only one going through such things, was just a tiny part of accepting that it's okay to be you. It was always okay.

Others might not understand your differences, but I think it's important that they also accept them along with you. Especially the ones that matter: the ones that you choose to care about. They, too, should know what it means.

 

On The Thoughts Of Others

I didn't know that other people thought things about me. I didn't know that they looked.

Excerpt from The Perks of Being a Wallflower
by Stephen Chbosky

 

Not Really There

... there were times when I couldn't help but sense an area inside Kumiko to which I had no access. In the middle of the most ordinary -- or the most excited -- conversation, and without the slightest warning, she might sink into silence. It would happen all of a sudden, for no reason at all (or at least no reason I could discern). It was like walking along the road and suddenly falling into a pit. Her silences never lasted very long, but afterward, until a fair amount of time had gone by, it was as if she were not really there.

Excerpt from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
by Haruki Murakami

 

A Man Of Few Words

My hesitancy in speech, which was once an annoyance, is now a pleasure. Its greatest benefit has been that it has taught me the economy of words. I have naturally formed the habit of restraining my thoughts... A man of few words will rarely be thoughtless in his speech; he will measure every word. We find so many people impatient to talk... All this talking can hardly be said to be of any benefit to the world. It is so much waste of time.

by Mahatma Gandhi