I think I was in junior high
by the time I realized that
the people I could hear
laughing behind me
weren't necessarily
aiming their humor my way.
How narcissistic of me, really,
to think I was the focus
of their attention. And why was I
always assuming that their laughter
and just-out-of-earshot murmurings
were derisive?
From the perspective of adulthood
I can see the reasons for my paranoia.
I was a weird child--
the timid offspring of
authoritarian parents,
who cut my hair short
and sent me off to school
in ill-fitting hand-me-downs
or clothes my mother made
from patterns that might have been
published ten years before I was born.
I was bookish, and plump,
and winced a lot during gym.
I had no idea how to socialize
with people my own age,
but my comfort around adults
led me to be outspoken in class,
in ways that only widened the gulf
between myself and my peers.
I still have my report card
from second grade, littered with
the A's that at the time were
my only source of self-esteem.
In the comments section, my teacher
noted that I was "a joy to have in class,"
but "such a serious little girl."
I wasn't the least popular kid in my school.
I know, because I could count how many
lay between me and the bottom
of that particular bucket.
I suppose we're all sensitive
to the minute shadings of social rank--
at least, that's the conclusion I've drawn
from countless John Hughes films
and the perennial success of books
like Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye.
The number varied, though it was
never more than a handful.
Sometimes there was only one
between me and the abyss--
a buck-toothed boy the South Park kids
would have dubbed "a ginger,"
raised by his grandmother
in a dingy little house
by the train tracks.
Still, I was that girl--
the one kids pelted with eggs
from the back of a pick-up,
the one whose very name was a taunt.
We lived in a small town.
I went to school with
the same group of people
until we graduated, so there was
no chance to shed my ungainly past
and start anew.
In other words, for much of
my young life, the people I heard
behind me really were
laughing at me.
Somewhere along the way
I figured that seeking out reasons
to feel self-conscious wasn't going
to help me make friends.
I trained myself to ignore
the instincts that said
that people felt malicious
towards me.
Ignoring those instincts
has gotten me into a lot of trouble
in recent years. I've become adept
at trusting people I shouldn't.
I'm trying to draw a new line
between being cautious and
being paranoid. But as the saying
goes, it would be easier to do
if everyone weren't out to get me.
I'm joking. Kind of.
The reason I'm rehashing my past
in this fashion is because I
read something last night that
maybe shouldn't have upset me
as much as it did. But my instincts
are telling a different story.
Long before I gathered the chutzpah
to start my own, I was an avid
reader of personal blogs.
The open invitation
into other people's heads fascinated me.
I saw pieces of myself in there,
that made me feel less alone.
I loved the creativity encouraged
by the relatively open format
of blog-keeping. I was intrigued
by blogging's social aspects.
I felt like maybe I'd found a place
I might belong.
Of course, blogging isn't a place,
and bloggers are real people,
prone to the same behaviors
that can make real life
so disappointing.
In those early days, I was
a particular fan of one blogger's work.
I still remember my excitement
the first time she commented
on one of my posts. I revelled
in the connection to a world
I'd once only watched through
the glass of my computer monitor.
But I also remember a time,
perhaps even a couple instances,
when words or phrases I used
in my old blog appeared
in this other one, offered up
by the author as examples of
bad writing.
She never cited me,
and the words and phrases
in question were common enough.
I told myself the pointed criticism
I felt was all in my head.
But the fact that these examples
showed up in her work within days
of being used in mine
seemed suspect.
Years passed. I worked on my writing.
I struggled to find my voice.
Then I lost it.
Recovery efforts are under way,
but I can see I've got a lot
of work ahead. It's daunting.
Sometimes I want to quit
trying to make myself understood.
Sometimes I just want to sit
in my broken wing chair
and smoke and brood instead.
Not too long ago,
I joined a project to help
get me over my fears
of writing again:
a daily but low-pressure
encomium to all things hopeful.
The project is sponsored
by that blogger I admired.
My plan for participation
seems to be working.
I'm writing more easily
these days.
But last night, I visited
the sponsor's blog,
and discovered that a word
I used not too long ago,
for her project, no less,
was by its nature so irritating
it topped her list of petty annoyances.
Again, she didn't refer to me
in her post. She might not have been
thinking of me at all.
But I don't pass off that sort of
coincidence as easily as I once did.
My use of the word reveals
bad things about me;
according to one commenter, at least,
it makes me sound like a pompous twit.
I thought it sounded like the sort
of goofy, out-dated language
my husband and I sometimes use
when we're canoodling.
Actually, I still think that.
But I had to fight the urge to
re-write my post to please her.
Criticism is never easy to take
for someone as inherently geared
towards seeking approval as I am.
But I've worked in the arts
for my entire adulthood--
years of studio crits,
seeing my work reviewed,
and sometimes panned,
in print. I've learned to listen
to even the harshest criticism
with an ear for what I can
take away, what I can use to make
my work better.
At least, that's what I try to do.
Turning criticism into a learning
opportunity seems to mitigate
its more soul-crushing aspects.
But there's a difference between
criticism and simple rejection.
What do I do with the knowledge
that my word choice bugs people?
Use more acceptable words, I guess.
I've never been that good at
figuring out what's acceptable.
And I'm not sure "acceptable"
is really the word I'm striving
to have applied to my writing.
So I've parsed the commentary
and found that I don't agree with it.
So I should get over it.
Which would be easier if I didn't
suspect that the goal of using my word
as an example wasn't criticism after all--
that she pointed it out
to knock me down a peg,
to make me feel foolish.
A friend of mine
surprised me once by saying,
"Don't think you can
run with the cool kids,
now that you're all grown up.
Believe me, I've tried.
They can always tell
you're not really one of them."
I didn't think that's
what I was trying to do.
What I loved about the bloggers
I read was that they weren't cool;
they were warm, interesting, and passionate
instead.
But moments like last night
show me the truth:
I may be older, leaner, and faster,
but that fat little schoolgirl,
who maybe doesn't deserve
so much of my contempt,
still manages to keep pace.
