I can’t believe the trip is almost over already.
Day Thirteen, very very late
I’m exhausted and using a tiny lamp so as not to wake anyone, so Diary, please excuse the messy handwriting. But I just had to get it all down as soon as I could.
Earlier this evening, when everyone was just hanging out in their rooms, I sauntered into the guys’ room, as casually as I could, to join the conversation. Or to listen, anyway. I’m not very good at joining conversations.
Sean was standing in front of the mirror, combing his hair. He was fooling around with some sort of gel. I sat behind him, on his bed. I could see his reflection in the mirror, and my own. There were other people in the cramped room: Brendan, legs hanging over the side of the top bunk, plucking away at a guitar; Étienne, cross-legged on the floor, writing in a notebook. My insides were a thrashing sea. Twisting into a knot. I had decided that I would talk to Sean that night about how I was feeling. If I could just let it out, tell someone what was going on, everything would be better. I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
I sat there and watched Sean comb his hair into a peak. He laughed and then decided to try something else. There I was, just inches from him. All I had to say was, “Sean, can I talk to you for a minute?” and it would be out, the ice broken, the barrier brought down, the bottle uncorked. I said the words over and over again in my head. Just those few words, to break through from fantasy to reality. In fact, all I had to do was say his name. Then the spell would be broken. I just had to open my mouth, push the air through my vocal chords, shape the syllables with my lips and tongue. Just one word separated my being trapped inside to my being in the real world. I felt like I was getting ready to jump off the highest diving board I’d ever seen. Nothing had ever seemed so difficult.
I sat there watching his reflection in the mirror. I observed the strands of dark hair parting through the teeth of the comb as he brought it across his head in slow, deliberate strokes. My heart was pounding in my ears. My hands were trembling. I slid them under my thighs and sat on them.
Brendan was humming along with his guitar. He made some comment. Étienne laughed and said something in response. Sean turned his head from side to side, admiring his work.
It was clearly a boys’ room: socks, T-shirts and jeans lay in little heaps on the floor, audio-cassettes were scattered about, books and an electric shaver spilled from a knapsack. An orange peel sat on the dresser alongside a dog-eared script. The room had a musty smell, a mix of dirty socks and aftershave.
“Sean.”
I heaved it out like a hundred-pound medicine ball.
He looked up at my reflection.
“Can we talk?” I said.
As if he had been expecting this, he nodded, put down his comb, and walked out into the hall where we’d have some privacy. I followed. My face was hot, my legs were shaking. I didn’t look at Brendan or Étienne.
We sat on the floor. I took a deep breath.
“I just don’t feel part of the group,” I began.
He drew his legs up and put his arms around his knees, watching me.
I focussed on a crack between the floor tiles and tried to explain what I was feeling. It wasn’t easy, but it was so much easier than I had thought it would be, now that the ice was broken. The words came out in a jumble, not at all as I’d planned. When I was finished, I kept staring at that crack. The tiles were a discoloured grey, worn from use.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sean stretch his legs again, lean back onto the wall. He told me that several people had noticed that I wasn’t comfortable and that I was upset. He told me they all wanted me to feel part of the group.
“You have to let go a bit, take some chances,” he said. “If you talk to people, they’ll listen. People want to get to know you.”
He was silent for a moment, and so I looked up. He seemed to be looking at something far away. Then he told me a story about his sister, something about how she was always needy and took everyone for granted and never knew how to thank people, until one day she wrote him a letter. Thank you, it said. It was the most beautiful letter he’d ever received.
I wasn’t exactly sure how this story was supposed to help me. I guess he was saying that some things are hard to do, but you just have to take the risk.
Then he gave me a big hug. I clung to him. I never wanted it to end. I was also afraid that if I let go I’d start crying.
Lulu popped her head out of her room to tell us it was time to get ready—we were all going out that night. So that was it. We stood up and he went back to his room to get changed. But I felt relieved. I realized that nothing was really resolved, but I felt like a big tumour in my gut had been removed. I could breathe a little easier.
I followed Lulu into our room to get dressed. I wasn’t sure what to wear. I didn’t have anything appropriate.
“Here, try this,” Lulu said, digging out a khaki cotton mini-skirt. I put it on over my black tights. It fit well. I’d never worn a mini-skirt before.
“What should I wear with it?” I asked.
She looked through my clothes and pulled out a black acrylic sweater with a wide V-neck.
“Put this on. Wait—turn it around so the V is in back. Yeah, like that. Perfect!” The wide V made the sweater droop slightly off my shoulder, like in the movie Flashdance. Then she said, “Would you let me do your hair and makeup?”
It was nice to have someone taking care of me.
Lulu had me bend my head over so that my shoulder-length hair fell completely upside down, and then emptied half a can of hairspray into it. I closed my eyes and tried not to breathe in too much of the chemical smell. I brought my head up again and she sprayed a bit more, making sure my hair kept its volume but stayed out of my face, and teasing strands in front with her fingers.
Then it was makeup time. She pushed aside my black eyeliner and took out her own plum-coloured eyeliner. My eyes watered as I tried to keep them open so that she could apply the liner under my eyes. Then, eye shadow and mascara. “You have such long lashes,” she told me. “A lot of girls would kill for eyelashes like yours.” Finally, bold, dark red lipstick—Lulu’s trademark. The transformation was complete. I looked in the mirror and was very pleased.
When I came out of the room several of the guys whistled. Sean flashed me a big grin.
“Wow. You look fantastic,” he said.
I felt my cheeks go red under the blush that Lulu had applied. “Thanks. It’s Lulu, really.”
“No,” he said. “It’s you.”
At the nightclub, I sat with some of the girls in a row of chairs near the dance floor. Music blared. Bodies moved through the smoke-filled darkness; a strobe light caught their movements in stop and start slow-motion. I hadn’t had any alcohol but was feeling the buzz of being all dressed up and out on the town with the gang. I belonged. The new Eve.
I started nodding my head to the music. Lulu noticed and gave me a thumbs-up, and I smiled but stopped moving, self-conscious.
Later, someone—I don’t remember who—pulled me to the dance floor. At first I was self-conscious, standing there with the others in the middle of the dance floor, trying to move my feet and hands to the beat, feeling jerky and uncoordinated. I didn’t know if it should be looking at the faces of the people near me or past them or at my own hands and feet.
But then I closed my eyes. And, for a few minutes, I began to…let go. I stopped thinking about everyone else. I just let the music wash over me. The beat pulsed through me, making my body sway and my feet light. The music turned into a wispy substance and my arms moved through it, painting colours in the air. I was weightless. Only the music and the dancing existed.
Then my arm made contact with other flesh. I stopped and opened my eyes. I’d bumped into another girl. She hadn’t even noticed and was still dancing. I tried to re-enter my trance but felt ridiculous, so after a few jerky movements I went back to sitting on the sidelines.
Still, I feel that tonight was
the beginning of something. Something good.
Day Fourteen
This afternoon was our last show. When it was finished and the stage went to black, we all stood there for a moment, not wanting to move. Later we all went for dinner. There was lots of reminiscing about the last two weeks, lots of laughing. Lulu and Hisako cried.
I’m really going to miss everyone. I can’t stand to think about it.
Day Fifteen, on the plane
Sean came into my room while I was packing last night. He took my hands and said, “We’ve got a lot to learn from each other. This is just the first chapter.” Then he gave me a big hug.
I’ve come to a decision: I am going to change. I’ve got to. I’ve got to start showing my feelings more and telling people what I think. It’s going to be hard, but I am tired of being trapped inside myself. I am tired of always being on the sidelines. I have got to start taking chances. A few days ago I didn’t think I had the strength, but since my conversation with Sean and the night out with the gang, I feel like it’s possible. I can do it if I really try.
Anything is possible.
I put down the diary. I close my eyes, digging my palms into my eye sockets.
My life now is Aviva, two and a half, soft blonde curls, a warm little face that comes right up to mine and plants tiny wet kisses on my cheek. She holds my head in her two tiny hands, we rub noses and she giggles. She is mature, determined, assertive: she stands with her hands on her hips, brow furrowed, declarative. Always chattering away, the social butterfly, joining in other children’s games.
My life now is Alex, shy, moody, sensitive like his parents. One minute all boy, running through the house with his toy high-speed train flying on invisible tracks in the air, jumping on the sofa, making silly faces; the next, the studious five-year-old, amazing me with his probing questions and keen leaps of logic.
I think of my husband. Protective, caring. Quick-witted, a problem solver, a doer. But also a romantic and a dreamer. Affected inside by the world without, but not wanting to show it.
And me? Different from twenty years ago, to be sure: engaging with people, with life, more of a participant. But still…there are moments. Moments when I realize I’ve missed a social cue. Moments when the wall goes up again. And those moments are not so few or far between.
I open my eyes, stand up, and wander into the living room. The Lego has been pushed into a neat pile in the middle of the carpet, a half-built spaceship waiting for morning. I run my fingers across the spines of the books lining the shelves—novels, short-story collections. Dictionaries for my translation work, thesauruses, style manuals. Of course they’re all available electronically now, but sometimes I want the physical connection of feeling the pages between my fingertips, flipping ahead too far and then having to turn back, or maybe reading the adjacent entries. Rows of magazines, boxes of newspaper clippings, some of them my own. A literary journal containing one of my short stories.
A truck rumbles by outside. I glance out at the leaves of the birch tree, outlined by the streetlight, and I move to open the window. Cool air rushes in over my skin. I close my eyes. The night air caresses my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. Soothing. Reassuring.
Back in the dining room, I turn on my laptop. I open Facebook and stare at the screen for a few seconds. Then I start to type.
Author’s note: names in this story have been changed.
My Dear X*
ELIZABETH ZOTOVA
THIS LETTER is meant to convey to you the extent to which my adoration reaches. This shall, too, be an outlet for my mind (through which I hope you may come to comprehend me better). Though at the current time, I’ve no qualms about our relationship, I do fear that some problems (minute and insignificant as they may be) could fester. Such a misfortune could ultimately be destructive—thus, I shall divulge upon the matters momentarily.
Please refrain from assuming this is meant to upgrade your understanding of me—the level you’ve bothered reaching is not only satisfactory, but quite admirable. Alas, I must continue this thought, and add, “save upon two matters.”
I believe you have guessed that, primarily, there’s the issue of my eating habits. I do, in fact, eat. I’ve made a habit of surviving, apparently. You must drop all ideas that my consumption is irregular or insufficient. Darling, I adore you, but to say that it “doesn’t matter that I don’t look emaciated,” and can still be “starving myself” is madness. If this ridiculous notion were to abandon your brilliant mind, it would, no doubt, become more lustrous.
Moving on, now, into the very framework of my being, I come to what you’ve labelled as the lesser problem. Indeed, regretfully, the problem is me. The word used to describe my illogical malady is one which causes a great anger to rise up in me, and consume me from inside—“shy.” Three letters, one syllable, a meaning unfit for describing me, and so extraordinarily quickly capable of evoking sadism.
Initially, I was shocked by the disdain which would be shown by grade school teachers, for not being obnoxious, and eager to flaunt stupidity. To think—whole classrooms of blatantly idiotic imbeciles were constantly praised for their lack of self-restraint, while I was reprimanded for my reserve.
Eventually, I began to notice that everyone takes you for an idiot until they see some sort of proof. For me, this has always come in the form of writing—as willingly speaking has never been my strong point. I do agree with assuming everyone’s pretty dim until I obtain contrary evidence. In no way, however, do I uphold the belief which society largely holds—that reserve and preference not to speak constantly and pointlessly should automatically be seen as a flaw.
While I know that, at times, this particular quality of mine causes you mild discomfort, please try to understand that it is absolutely entrenched in me. If I’ve nothing to say, I’ll just as well choose to say nothing at all. There are three possibilities for my keeping quiet: I have nothing relevant to add; I feel out of place; I feel the company is not worth wasting words upon.
You should really try to see it from my point of view. I don’t know how I could stand it if you couldn’t, and just kept pushing me, and trying to nurture some sort of social side. You’ll just keep getting upset every time you fail. I am not one who can easily speak of even trivial things, if it’s with people to whom I’ve not become accustomed. The first month around you, my posture, never mind the conversational aspect, constantly ravaged my mind. A perfectionist I cannot call myself—that’s an unattainable goal. I think I just want to be liked by the few with whom I care to maintain relationships. As the number is low, the quality of the few cannot be compromised by misperceptions.
It’s not that I get flustered, exactly, around others. But I am often left disappointed with my replies, and then lie in bed with a ton of improved and revised answers. Perhaps there is something not quite right with that. My will to please isn’t all that strong. Rather, it is proving to myself that I have self-worth that is what drives me to act this way.
However, since this letter is only supposed to be a small window, I shall leave off going further. I chose to write this because it is the way I can truly express myself. Do not hesitate to question me with regard to any of this content. Please don’t think I am refusing to change because I am stubborn. I can promise to try (at times) to stray from my convictions. I only ask that you try, as best as you can manage, to see this in a light similar to mine.
Liz
* This letter was written to my long-suffering high-school boyfriend. The relationship marked my first attempt at addressing what I’d long known was an issue in my life: my shyness. Since grade school, I was the kid that couldn’t (or wouldn’t) “work well with others,” or “participate” in class. Reading over this, I can see my sixteen-year-old self certainly seemed concerned with how others viewed her—whether she could admit it or not. I guess, seven years later, it’s still hard.
It’s difficult to pick apart your own personality. When shyness is part of who you are, it’s natural enoug
h to be defensive. It becomes convenient to paint up your argument by telling yourself you don’t need other people, and that you’re preserving something (like a special secret). The trouble is, before you know it, you’ve withdrawn into yourself so far, you don’t know what’s what.
Here’s my take on the root of the problem: the shy are bombarded with shame so that they will “hopefully” decide to resist their introversion. Those deemed successful in this endeavour end up like blind little moths in the sunshine, half-heartedly competing with (to be quite trite) all the iridescent social butterflies of the world. We’re rendered, ironically, less functional by society’s well-meaning stereotype of the social cripple.
A real community needs to accept all sorts of people. We’re not exactly scene-stealers, so you don’t hear much from us shy folk—and that’s usually how we like it. But if you did, you’d know that “people-person,” “outgoing,” and “go-getter” make us cringe. We don’t covet those badges. Frankly, if we had it our way, we’d ask, why not reform the loud, the obnoxious? Or at least get them to shut it for just a little bit.
Society’s a rat trap, and those who don’t participate in obvious ways need to stop being punished. How crass it is that subtlety need be a sin.
Change Room
BRUCE MEYER
An adolescent’s greatest fear
is being the last one to mature.
A smooth body is not a man’s.
Power issues from raging glands.
We were hot, salty to the core,
ordered after gym to shower.
The boy who stripped next to me
had grown long, broad and hairy.
Slowly, I removed my cup,
my socks, T-shirt, and stood up.
Naked bums formed a line
and agony boiled beneath my skin.
The tougher ones with shoulder curls
Shy Page 6