Questions That Drive Us
Want this plot to twist, I’ve had enough mystery."
Why are you so quiet?
I think that the last time I was asked this was February 2003. Senior year, finishing up my last semester of high school. I was in a pretty good place in life. Accepted to college, participating in school activities, and feeling genuinely happy and comfortable about the life landmarks I was about to leave behind.
Yet I couldn't answer this question, unwilling to step up and face the gravity of the answer. I danced around it, first putting it off, then changing the subject, and then not really talking about anything at all. Eventually it was forgotten, and I sighed in relief that I didn't have to go digging around and soul-searching. I hate doing that.
I've always kind of disliked the question. It had sort of a piercing quality to it. Why don't you talk? Don't you want to talk? What kind of person are you that wouldn't? What's wrong with you? Maybe I read into that a bit much, but to me it's like asking "Why are you yourself at all?"
But the question never really went away. I'm still quiet, and I still struggle with it to some degree from day to day. People around me grow accustomed to it, I guess, and learn that I'm not mad/sad/moody if I'm not talking. I'm just listening, observing, or being somewhere else. And I guess I still don't know why. Every time I talk there is that same apprehension, the same fear, the same awkwardness that I've experienced for years. I don't remember a time when I didn't fear talking to people. My parents tell me that I used to be a loud, outgoing kid. And now? Well, I'm quite a bit different I guess.
So here's your answer, or answers, or as many as I can come up with, along with excerpts from my quiet little life.
--
It is graded discussion day. Where the class rearranges the tables in the classroom and talks about a book we all dislike. The one day out of the semester where I'm ripped from my comfort zone and forced to talk. I hope I don't say something stupid. There were two books, half read one, half read the other. In an effort to achieve maximum attendance the people not discussing had to write down what a particular people said so that we could get graded for talking. Its busy work, but how else would you get the other half of the class to come on a day when they know they aren't doing anything.
A girl sitting behind me leans back to the person sitting behind her, "What's his name?"
I know they're talking about me. She has to write down what I say.
"Uh, Keith?" he says quietly to her, unsure exactly. I've only told him my name once at the beginning of the semester. I haven't spoken to him since, even though we sit next to each other.
"Keith? Keith?" she asks. She's kind of cute. She participates in class and is friendly to the people she sits next to.
I turn around, "Huh?"
"Is your name Keith?"
"'Fraid not, its Josh."
"What?"
"Josh, my name is Josh."
"Oh, sorry. He said it was Keith." The guy behind her shrugs.
"Its ok. I guess they're sort of similar. You know, having an 'h' and all."
"Oh, hmm."
I thought it was funny. She didn't hear what I said. Neither did he. They both look back down to their papers. She scribbles down my name. I keep looking back a split second longer than I should, then finally give up and turn back around.
Damnit.
--
This happens a lot, especially with the simple stuff, like names. Most times it isn't their fault, they just don't hear. But other times I simply can't say anything. The words don't come, my mouth doesn't open, and I simply shut down...
--
"Hey Josh, take a look at this."
Zac walks in to my room with his shiny new iPod, wanting me to see if I can figure out how to put on the iPod condom so the glass won't get scratched. The problem is that the glass fitting that goes underneath the rubber is too loose and wants to fall out. Zac figures me being technical and all that there's some lip or ledge that he's missing, so he comes down to see me.
What I don't realize is that the scratch-resistance glass plate actually scratches the plastic iPod screen. I try and fiddle with it, moving the glass around under the plastic coating. Yeah, I scratched it.
"Don't scratch it!" Zac yells at me.
I realize what I'm doing as he grabs it from me. He takes it out of the package, holds it up to the light.
"Yep, you scratched it, fucker."
I feel terrible. He just got it (though he nor his parents paid for it), and wants it to be perfect. I understand this. Hell, I don't think I let anybody touch my laptop, my cell phone, my camera, or really anything cool I own for a long while. I want to say that I apologize, and that I didn't mean to, and that its stupid to have a scratch resistant lense actually scratch the iPod, something to make it seem like I didn't just scratch a $300 aesthetically pleasing hard drive. I just blurt out the most emotionless and heartless:
"Sorry."
That's it. Nothing else. I'm stuck. Frozen. Obviously pissed, he picks up the iPod box and leaves. I go back to reading my pirates book and shut my door. I don't come out for the rest of the night. We haven't spoken since.
--
Like I said, stupid little things. Stuff most conversationally inclined either shrug off or disregard. Or their third option, talking even more, either by repeating what they said, or saying what they mean.
That's not to say I don't say what I mean. I just have to say it in a way you'll hear it. Hehe. Let me explain.
Other conversations. Crinkling paper. Doors slamming. Phones ringing. Trains, planes, and automobiles. All are my enemies when I'm trying to talk. My voice, as I'm told, blends and fades away into everything, making talking over anything near impossible. I've learned to cope with it, though. If I want to say something, I wait till there's a break in the conversation when nobody's saying anything. Most times that's a long time off. My sentences are short, my words simpler, and my phrases are all well-used clips and cliches that people can easily identify. I even stopped using superfluous words and ended up dropping the leading subject of most sentences. This used to be hard as I talk pretty fast and pull most of my vocabulary from programming manuals. But now I guess its second nature. Now I feel as if I'm talking down to people. It’s not the greatest compromise I guess.
If you're telling me, "Just speak up," then know that it’s not that easy, and that I'm flipping you off as you read this. That's right, I can hold it all day. I've tried to talk louder, enunciate, open my mouth wider, accentuate my consonants, speaking slower, speaking faster, and tensing my diaphragm and neck muscles. Anything and everything so I can talk like a normal person. People still don't hear. And I just feel less normal.
--
So that's kind of the thick and thin of my experience being quiet. Call it dramatized, or self-defeating, self-centered, or whatever you want. There isn't a name you can call it that I haven't judged myself by. Its something I consider a failing point on my personality to a certain extent. I don't know how many times I've been told that humans are social animals. We're built to talk, to need each other. It fills some sort of void in us. Makes us whole, makes us feel part of something. So then what does that make me? Its biting, painful when I can't bring myself to meet people, talk to them, get to know them. Instead meeting people is a passive activity. Like in my story last week, I sit next to people for a semester at a time and know nothing about them but their name. Heh, I guess it really wasn't much of a story then, was it?
What? I have to be willing to repeat myself? To introduce myself? Talk loud and possibly make an ass out myself?
That's possible. Probable, even. Maybe I'm just not willing to make mistakes. Maybe I'm afraid I'll say something stupid, something unforgivable, something to make somebody, everybody mad. Everybody will think I'm unintelligent, unremarkable. Stupid. I'll say that its good that women athletes are finally hot. I'll point out that the only time she's excited about anything technological is when I'm not telling her about it. I'll tell them that to get respect you have to give respect.
I'll tell you to get off your high horse.
I'll tell you that your fly is down.
Your tag is sticking up.
You look terrible today.
I can't believe you just said that.
Maybe I'd say what I really thought. Not what other people want to hear. Not what you want to hear. Not what common courtesy defines as unmentionable, but it’s the first thing that comes across your mind. The kind of thing that puts ice in your stomach and stops a conversation dead. Its what's on everybody's mind, but they're too 'nice' to say it to their face. Instead they have to wait till later and share it with everybody else. If you think you haven't done this then you are lying to yourself.
And I lie to myself. I tell myself that it’s better to stay silent than to speak, be honest. I tell myself that nobody wants to meet you, know you, judge you if they can't hear you. I tell myself that what I have to say isn't what people want to hear, want to know about you. And then I tell myself that I wasn't thinking those things. Not me. I didn't say anything. Did I?
Fear is my problem. Fear of being judged for what I have to say. Expression, for some people, is how they define themselves. What they think, what they know, and how they communicate it to other people. And this isn't wrong. What do we have to know others by than what they say and do?
You'll notice I made a jump there, from defining ourselves to how others define you. Quick, huh? I just realized that too. To me, I find little difference between the two. Call me a pleaser, self-less, a soulless tool. Don't worry. I've got those covered too.
I worry too much about what other people think. If people judge me like I judge them, then I have something to worry about.
So my solution, tried and tested over the years, formed and perfected, artfully crafted and masterfully executed?
Be quiet.
Because nobody can really judge you if they don’t know who you are.
Dot, dot, dot.
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