Expressive On The Inside

I was hard at work and trying to ignore the chaos surrounding me, but at some point my mind registered that someone had been speaking to me moments earlier. One of the project managers was looking at me, I sensed. And then, a few moments after I registered it, my brain somehow replayed his comment, something that needed acknowledging. I turned to him and said: "I was nodding, but only in my head."

Minutes or hours passed. Then the director was sitting next to me and telling others a story that, again, I was trying to ignore. Once more, however, I inadvertently picked up the gist of it. Something about an employee being let go, and how he -- the expressive person that he is -- immediately did a jig. Then, after admitting it was an inappropriate time to do a jig, he said he should probably strive to be more like Zeri and that he should express his thoughts on the inside.

I think I turned to him and smiled, but I can't be sure. In reality, my mouth may or may not have moved.

 

On Bantering And Warmth

There is a group of six or seven people gathered just a little way behind me who have aroused my curiosity a little. I naturally assumed at first that they were a group of friends out together for the evening. But as I listened to their exchanges, it became apparent they were strangers who had just happened upon one another here on this spot behind me. Evidently, they had all paused a moment for the lights coming on, and then proceeded to fall into conversation with one another. As I watch them now, they are laughing together merrily. It is curious how people can build such warmth among themselves so swiftly. It is possible these particular persons are simply united by the anticipation of the evening ahead. But, then, I rather fancy it has more to do with this skill of bantering. Listening to them now, I can hear them exchanging one bantering remark after another. It is, I would suppose, the way many people like to proceed. In fact, it is possible my bench companion of a while ago expected me to banter with him -- in which case, I suppose I was something of a sorry disappointment. Perhaps it is indeed time I began to look at this whole matter of bantering more enthusiastically. After all, when one thinks about it, it is not a foolish thing to indulge in -- particularly if it is the case that in bantering lies the key to human warmth.

Excerpt from The Remains of the Day
by Kazuo Ishiguro

---

I like this quote mainly because I had similar thoughts and questions frequently while growing up. I wondered about the skill of talking and about whether people practiced at it, and I wondered whether people felt more or less close because of it all, etc.

But as I was looking up the wording for this quote online (I'd listened to the audio format), I found it referenced in a book called "Bullshit and Philosophy", which was amusing. Bullshitting is a good thing, it asserts, and I don't disagree. As it goes on to say:

"Just imagine that every conversation were to be informed with a strong concern for the truth. Conversations would be terribly fatiguing."

Then again, conversations are often fatiguing for me. Even the amusing ones.

 

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.

 

On The Birthing Of Words

Not many weeks ago, I told a colleague that I'd prefer him to use my full and correct name, and -- in case he couldn't handle that -- I offered up a couple of acceptable nicknames. I don't always respond to the name he had been calling me by, I told him.

Now, whenever we meet, he struggles to call me by anything else but his original name for me. After convening today's meeting, I mentioned this to another coworker.

"He has trouble calling me by my real name," I said.

"Yeah," my coworker said, "but he corrects himself half the time."

"True," I said, "but I wonder why he struggles. I think it's because he's a talker."

"Yep, he's a talker," my coworker said. "He's not like us. His words are more quick to come out."

It's not a bad trait to have, being a talker, but it's not one I readily understand. I can't imagine having difficulty with someone's name. While my colleague struggles to stop words from coming out, I struggle to make words come out at all. I deliberate on nearly everything I say. I tend to mean what I say, and I usually chew on things before they come out. Whereas he seems to have thoughts speed from their conception to his mouth, mine take long and winding detours before they're birthed.

But sometimes I wish I could be more free with my words. Or, at the least, I wish my thoughts could be more speedy.

 

On A Conspiracy To Let Me Be Myself

During a meeting with my fellow co-workers, our new product manager went around the table asking us about our existing tasks and projects. When he got to me, he said, "I've been told to let Zeri do his own thing, so that's what I'll do."

Surprised, I asked to whom he'd been talking. His only response was to reiterate that he was given advice about me, and that he was planning to give me space to do what I do.

Fumbling for words, I said, "Well, I'm glad someone is looking out for me."

It didn't pass my notice that one of my co-workers was sitting quietly, smiling to himself in response to all of this. I'm guessing he was a part of the conspiracy, and I made a mental note to thank him in some way in the future.

It's rare that my work/personality style is accepted so readily, but I'm pleasantly surprised when it is.

 

How Quickly They Catch On

On the way out of the office this afternoon, knowing that my coworker would be hosting a New Year's Eve party, I said to him: "Enjoy your party."

He said to me: "Thanks. Enjoy your quiet time."

What's funny is that this is a new job as well as a fairly new coworker; also funny how quickly they catch on.

 

On The Torture Known As Interviewing

Earlier this year, my day-to-day existence underwent a bit of a shake up when my employer for nearly sixteen years decided to close their Seattle office. What had been a fairly stable livelihood for me suddenly went up in the air.

After enjoying a short respite from the rat race, the search for new employment began. It was not the fun kind of search, unlike a treasure hunt in every way; in fact, it wasn't something I would wish on my worst enemy.

For my profession, the interview process involves three parts; in general: 1) the first part was a call with the company recruiter, a short evaluation of my aspirations and general fit; 2) the second part was a technical phone screen lasting about an hour and typically involving some coding exercises on a shared screen; 3) the last and worst part was the in-person interview, which would last anywhere between four and six hours, and it involved lots of white-boarding, code exercises, and discussions to evaluate my emotional intelligence.

Multiply this excruciating process by however many interviews I had, and you can imagine what kind of state I was in. I was exhausted. I'm not one you would ever expect to be able to talk for five hours straight.

In hindsight, some of it was amusing. For instance, before each interview my various recruiters -- without fail -- would advise me to "be outgoing" and to "act like a team player". I did almost laugh the first time I heard that. I would have directed them to this blog, but I knew they were only trying to be helpful.

All I can say is that I'm glad my search is over. It's a huge relief not to have to be so damned extroverted. Hopefully the new job sticks for a while. I don't look forward to going through that again.

It's definitely time to start working for myself.

 

Silence Holds No Fears

Still no response, but now I wasn't going to say anything either. Silence holds no fears for me. I never feel the urge to fill it as so many other people do.

Excerpt from Just One Damned Thing After Another
by Jodi Taylor

I must say that, though I relate to this quote for the most part, I do feel the urge to fill silences at times; usually it's to make others feel comfortable. Any uneasiness that I feel isn't due to the silence, but to another's discomfort. I'm not heartless, after all.

 

The Unapologetic Introvert

Whenever I meet someone who works from home, I immediately become very jealous. For many reasons, I know I'd like to do so myself again one day (I was fortunate to own a business when I was younger, and I absolutely loved working from home). Yesterday I came across an excellent article that expresses much of how I feel about the subject and about being an introvert in general. It's about escaping the workplace in order to more easily thrive as an introvert, and I wish I could share the entire thing. Instead, here's how it begins:

Sometimes people ask why I work from home. Well, if you must know, I work from home to avoid a lot of things: the average American commute time of 26 minutes, obnoxious open-plan workspaces that encourage nothing but the sale of noise-cancelling headphones to skyrocket, and the ever-enduring attitude that the ideal worker is the one who puts in the most face time, not the one who is most productive. But most importantly, I work from home to avoid something very painful: the need to be extroverted.

Excerpt from an article on Salon.com,
The unapologetic introvert: I had to leave the U.S. to stop pretending to be an extrovert
By Chantal Panozzo

 

Noticeable

We live in a loud world, and silence is easy to spot. The quiet ones are anomalies. Exhibiting such unobtrusiveness doesn't always feel as harmless as it should. Ironically, we call attention to ourselves by trying not to. The best way not to be noticed, it seems, is to be noticed just enough. We learn to be social so that nobody will notice how unsocial we are. We find ways to get attention on our terms rather than when it's unwanted. Intentionally or not, we find creative ways to be ourselves.

 

Not A Mentioner

"It wouldn't be his way, to mention it," Augustus said. "Woodrow don't mention nothing he can keep from mentioning. You couldn't call him a mentioner."

Excerpt from Lonesome Dove
by Larry McMurtry

 

Moving Apart

Call got a plate of food and went off by himself to eat. It was something he had always done -- moved apart, so he could be alone and think things out a little. In the old days, when he first developed the habit, the men had not understood. Occasionally one would follow him, wanting to chat. But they soon learned better -- nothing made Call sink deeper into silence than for someone to come around and start yapping when he wanted to be by himself.

Virtually all his life he had been in the position of leading groups of men, yet the truth was he had never liked groups. Men he admired for their abilities in action almost always brought themselves down in his estimation if he had to sit around and listen to them talk -- or watch them drink or play cards or run off after women. Listening to men talk usually made him feel more alone than if he were a mile away by himself under a tree. He had never really been able to take part in the talk. The endless talk of cards and women made him feel more set apart -- and even a little vain. If that was the best they could think of, then they were lucky they had him to lead them. It seemed immodest, but it was a thought that often came to him.

And the more he stayed apart, the more his presence made the men nervous.

Excerpt from Lonesome Dove
by Larry McMurtry

 

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.

 

Community Member

... life is a constant struggle between being an individual and being a member of the community.

Excerpt from The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
by Sherman Alexie

 

When Parties Become Bummers

I've been feeling inadequate lately. I mean, more than usual.

I was at a holiday work party, and a friend told me that he didn't trust me as much as he once did. Apparently, what started this feeling of his was my avoidance of the monthly office birthday celebrations. Somehow he got the idea that I had promised to attend them all, as if that mattered, and because I haven't attended for ages his respect for me has diminished.

The whole thing is silly, but it cut me to learn that my friendships were so easily lessened.

He told me that he doesn't know me anymore, and that I should subject myself to the office birthday celebrations so that people could know me better. It reminded me of a quote that I heard in a show once:

"There's a selfishness to the silence of the cowboy. It forces others to carry the conversation."

At face value, I agree with this. Everyone is selfish in his own way. But no one, not even the silent ones, are forcing anyone else to carry a conversation. That's a choice. If you feel forced, then don't do it. If you want to get to know me, then talk with me. Don't make me attend some ridiculous office birthday party. I want to get to know my friends better, but it isn't going to happen there.

I often feel that the situation is hopeless. But this is what I need to accept. It's difficult to find a balance between too much and not enough in the friendship domain, or anywhere else for that matter. The very act of trying to find a balance is a selfish thing, and everyone does it. I'm not the only one being selfish, and I need to accept that I'm not going to live in an ideal world: ever. If I can get close, that would be amazing.

Until then, I've got to stop from feeling that I'm not good enough. I'll never be what everyone else wants.

 

Bursting Inside

Rarely am I as boisterous as those around me. I decline to take front stage unless there's a need for it. For a long time I worried that my lack of boisterousness was interpreted as a lack of enthusiasm, or -- worse -- as a lack of conviction, as if I couldn't truly mean it without saying it loudly. But I am enthusiastic... in my own quiet way. When I'm bursting with joy, a warmth fills my chest, my face radiates, I tense up with excited energy, and I'm often paralyzed by the enormity of my feelings. It doesn't need to burst from my mouth in order for it to erupt from within me. I don't need to voice it in order to be certain that it's there.

I realize, of course, that there's something to be said about expressing myself to others, that it's a good thing. It doesn't need to be boisterous, though: it just needs to be true.

 

Better Descriptors

"Hand me that book," Vivian says. She takes the hardbound green volume, with gold lettering and a line drawing of a girl with abundant red hair in a chignon on the front, and opens it. "Ah, yes, I remember," she says. "I was almost exactly the heroine's age when I read this for the first time. A teacher gave it to me -- my favorite teacher. You know, Miss Larsen." She leafs through the book slowly, stopping at a page here and there. "Anne talks so much, doesn't she? I was much shyer than that." She looks up. "What about you?"

"Sorry, I haven't read it," Molly says.

"No, no. I mean, were you shy as a girl? What am I saying, you're still a girl. But I mean when you were young?"

"Not exactly shy. I was -- quiet."

"Circumspect," Vivian says. "Watchful."

Molly turns these words over in her mind. Circumspect? Watchful? Is she? There was a time after her father died and after she was taken away, or her mother was taken away -- it's hard to know which came first, or if they happened at the same time -- that she stopped talking altogether. Everyone was talking at and about her, but nobody asked her opinion, or listened when she gave it. So she stopped trying. It was during this period that she would wake in the night and get out of bed to go to her parents' room, only to realize, standing in the hall, that she had no parents.

"Well, you're not exactly effervescent now, are you?" Vivian says. "But I saw you outside earlier when Jack dropped you off, and your face was" -- Vivian lifts her knobby hands, splaying her fingers -- "all lit up. You were talking up a storm."

"Were you spying on me?"

"Of course! How else am I going to find out anything about you?"

Excerpt from Orphan Train
by Christina Baker Kline

---

What I like about this passage, among other things, is that the word "shy" is replaced with two others: "circumspect" and "watchful" -- two words that are immeasurably more appropriate for introverts than "shy". One of these days, I'm going to compile a list of words that are more accurate in their descriptiveness. Maybe none of them alone will fit perfectly, but perhaps a combination would do nicely.

 

Ingoing: Redux

Within the pages of a book I recently read, being used in complete sentences, I was excited to find a term that I imagined I had coined: ingoing. Damn. I knew I should have registered a trademark for the word. I could at least be receiving royalties for its usage.

Regardless, I'm glad to see the term taking root.

The passage, without further ado:

---

"I have nothing at all against George."

"But?"

"But?"

"But there's a 'but' coming here, isn't there? It feels like there's a 'but' coming," mumbles Elsa.

Dad sighs.

"...But I suppose George and I are quite different in terms of our... personalities, perhaps. He's very..."

"Fun?"

Dad looks stressed again.

"I was going to say he seems very outgoing."

"And you're very... in-going?"

Dad fingers the steering wheel nervously.

"Why can't it be your mother's fault? Perhaps we don't visit you at Christmas because Mum doesn't like Lisette."

"Is that it?"

Dad looks uncomfortable. He's a rubbish liar. "No. Everyone likes Lisette, I'm well aware of it." He says it as people do when considering an extremely irritating character trait in the person they live with.

Elsa looks at him for a long time before she asks:

"Is that why Lisette loves you? Because you are very in-going?"

Dad smiles.

"I don't know why she loves me, if I'm to be quite honest."

"Do you love her?"

"Incredibly," he says, without any hesitation.

But then he immediately looks quite hesitant again.

"Are you going to ask why Mom and I stopped loving each other?"

"I was going to ask why you started."

"Was our marriage so terrible, in your view?"

Elsa shrugs, "I mean, you're very different, that's all. She doesn't like Apple, that sort of thing. And you kind of don't like Star Wars."

Excerpt from My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry
by Fredrik Backman

 

Sometimes Opposites...

She liked talking and Ove liked keeping quiet. Retrospectively, Ove assumed that was what people meant when they said that people were compatible.

Excerpt from A Man Called Ove
by Fredrik Backman

 

Deflection: A Strategy For The Quiet

Because this was what Ove had learned: if one didn't have anything to say, one had to find something to ask. If there was one thing that made people forget to dislike one, it was when they were given the opportunity to talk about themselves.

Excerpt from A Man Called Ove
by Fredrik Backman

---

It took a long time for me to learn to talk with others competently, and I can't deny that one of the first and best strategies I learned was to ask questions; in other words, I learned how to deflect. At first, I didn't even know how to do that well. I didn't know what types of questions to ask, or how best to phrase them. Some of the hardest situations were ones in which -- not only did I not have anything to say -- I couldn't think of anything to ask in response to what others had said.

I eventually learned, partly by listening in on other conversations, but also by paying better attention and being prepared. What's more, I found that I enjoyed asking questions. It's a strategy worth learning if you're planning to be in the company of others, but it's also a useful skill all on its own. Understanding others was a great way to begin understanding myself -- both what I am and what I'm not.

Nowadays, having little to say is less of an issue for me than having too many questions to ask. I guess anything can be overdone. Still, even if I don't care as much about whether others are comfortable with my silence, I find it invaluable to be able to join in when I want. And in those cases, being able to deflect will always be handy.

 

Being Seen

Was this it? All I had needed the past few months? The perfect stillness? Or did I just need to be seen? Seen right through without fear? I walked over to the edge of her pinions and a jackrabbit shot from under a saltbush and zagged off into the false twilight. Most of us are never seen, not clearly, and when we are we likely jump and run. Because being seen can be followed by the crack of a shot or the twang of an arrow.

Excerpt from The Painter
by Peter Heller

 

On Invisibility And Preferring Not To Speak

The first thing people tended to notice about Phillips was that they hadn't noticed him earlier. He was so recessive that he could be in a room for a long time before anyone realized that he was there... He had a tidy, pleasant, boyish face that tended to blend with the scenery. This probably contributed to his invisibility, but what really did it was his silence. Phillips was an amiable man and was, judging by his letters, highly articulate, but he preferred not to speak. You could park him in a crowd of chattering partygoers and he'd emerge at evening's end having never said a word. People had long conversations with him, only to realize later that he hadn't spoken.

Excerpt from Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption
by Laura Hillenbrand

 

On Being Beneath Notice

Man is by nature a social animal; an individual who is unsocial naturally and not accidentally is either beneath our notice or more than human. Society is something that precedes the individual. Anyone who either cannot lead the common life or is so self-sufficient as not to need to, and therefore does not partake of society, is either a beast or a god.

Excerpt from Politics
by Aristotle

 

More Walls, Please

The best time of year to work at the office (as opposed to someplace else) is now, the holiday season. Just about everyone is away on vacation; unlike most other days, the place is nearly empty and wonderfully peaceful.

My office, you see, has an extremely open layout (i.e., where the walls between desks are low or non-existent), and it can feel quite overwhelming. Look up from your computer, and you find yourself staring into your neighbor's eyes. Extend your legs too far and you're playing footsie with him or her. Coworkers gather behind your chair to chat; in fact, conversations are never-ending all around you. Read an email, or look at your bank account balance at your own risk; when you do, everyone will know about it.

I've always been surprised that others don't seem to mind open offices. According to an article I saw yesterday on the Washington Post, though, people mind more than I knew. The lack of privacy, and the distractions, appear to affect most people. Not only does it diminish productivity, but it makes people feel "frustrated" and "helpless". I believe it. If only I could convince my boss to believe it.

Apparently, the main selling point for the open office idea is that it "enhances interaction" between coworkers. That, I'm guessing, is an idea originating from an extrovert. For me, less interaction would be ideal. And more walls.

It's an amusing article, and I like how the author ended it by promoting the work-at-home solution. "At home," she writes, "my greatest distraction is the refrigerator." Well put.

 

Attendance Is Tentative

During the last several years at work, I've gradually developed a nifty habit. When I receive meeting requests via email, those Microsoft Outlook invitations that list me as a required attendee and ask me to accept, I always -- always -- respond with a "Tentative", even when the person organizing the meeting could fire me himself or have any number of others fire me.

Most people have shrugged it off, though, dismissing my responses as quirks of mine, or at least they did so at first. I'd still go to most of the meetings for those first couple of years, despite my tentativeness. But slowly I began missing meetings, or calling into them. Or finding reasons to work from home. And nowadays I rarely attend meetings at all, except for the ones that I've organized myself or that I know I'll get something out of.

I treasure this habit, and I've even been asked how I'm able to get away with it.

I know this is terrible by most standards and that I've probably ticked off many coworkers. On the other hand, I've become much more productive and incalculably happier at work. It's a relief to skip meetings, especially since they end up being filled with small talk and repetitive discussions that won't contribute to my productivity at all. Wasting my time just so that I can be seen as a participant is irksome. I'd rather not be seen at all. Just let me get my job done!

I worry that I may be missing too many meetings lately, though. My habit might be getting dangerously out of hand.

Today, for instance, I received an email saying:

"Hey Zeri,

Hope you are enjoying the alone time ;)

Could you please join the [very important company] call next week? They were all wondering today what we are up to..."

Sigh. I guess I'm in trouble. But if people want answers from me, I don't understand why they don't simply ask. Conference calls and meetings seem entirely unnecessary.

In any case, I'm thinking of attending the meeting next week. Tentatively, at least.

 

A Developed Feeling Of Apartness

The feeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not always developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he, as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has been called a social animal.

Excerpt from Of Human Bondage
by Somerset Maugham

 

When Looks Say Enough

He found that silence helped him much more than words. He could look inexpressible things.

Excerpt from Of Human Bondage
by Somerset Maugham

 

On Getting Fined For Wordiness

In my last annual review at work, my team leader said that if there was an area where I was lacking, it was that I could be taking more ownership in my projects. I didn't agree, but what could I say? I sometimes feel that I'm the only one taking ownership, and other times I feel like I'm begging for the opportunity.

Lately, though, I've been taking so much ownership that my days have been filled with the kind of electricity that accompanies those on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I still avoid meetings when I can, quite intentionally, but nowadays it seems like I talk with everyone. I talked with my team leader today, and it was one talk out of far-too-many. I was asking him to help out on an upcoming project, and in that moment I realized that I was taking ownership, possibly more so than he was comfortable with. I was enlisting my team leader to work for me, and while I was chatting with him, I remembered his comments from my last annual review; and then my jaw started to lock up.

I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt like I'd exceeded my annual limit for spoken words, and like I was starting to get charged extra; in fact, I was getting fined for going overboard with my wordiness. I was finding it hard to breathe.

In moments like these, I continue as best as I can. I tell myself to focus, to relax. I do what I need to do, say what I need to say, and accept that I can get back to the frills later. Once I'm away and my head isn't vibrating so intensely, I find a way to recharge: I do a tiny task, one that involves no communication, and another, and another. Soon enough, the emergency subsides.

Although I love taking ownership, does it need to involve so many people? Can't I just get things done?

 

Illuminated

While sitting with relatives at the back of the house one night in a suburb of Chicago, I found my attention drifting from the conversation. I was mesmerized by the brief flashes of light around the yard.

"Lightning bugs," I said, smiling. "It's been so long since I've seen them!"

"You don't have them in Seattle?" my aunt asked.

I shook my head, and continued watching the fireflies dance.

After a while, one of my nieces came up to me and opened her hands. She held out a lightning bug for me, and I thanked her. I reached out and let the bug crawl onto my finger. Soon, my hand was glowing.

Later, I thought about that kind gesture, and about how -- while I'd been focused on keeping up my part of the conversation with my relatives, and probably struggling to deal with all of the attention -- they'd simply been conspiring to see that I was happy.

Sometimes, I guess having the light shone on you isn't so bad.

 

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.