Shy Page 4

  But I also tell her that life itself is immersive, a series of shoves off the highest diving board. And what I believe now is that some of us are simply faster adapters than others, more adept at finding gravity and getting our heads above water; others are held up, slowed down, and we learn that calling out, Wait! Time out! is of no use at all. Even now a feeling comes over me sometimes that I, like The Love Boat’s fundamentally unlovable cruise passenger, no matter how normal I may look and act, carry this trait as an indelible fact. There’s something about me, I want to tell people who seem to accept me anyway. Something about me you should know. But then maybe, after all, it’s just that I—and that so many of us—need to shy away sometimes, to shut our eyes tight against the prismatic distortion of the depths, to hold our breath, animation suspended, before surfacing and trying for words, a language, an attempt to adequately express the latest world taking its shape.

  affect Thrum

  NATALIE SIMPSON

  We have floundered and basted. Our portions have multiplied.

  We are sated but repenting. We are lost to our innermost rhythm.

  Our senses are surfeit. Our form is buffeted.

  A light pulse has led us sparing. We have not sought stability.

  Our uncertainty has charmed us. We are as a gluttonous lover.

  And yet we have been wrenched. We have contorted. We atone.

  Flimsy surrendering baits us. Stubborn thickets spring to our mercy. Sabotage entices our lean baselessness. We hover fearing.

  Our signal is a study in calm. Loop upon loop has cocooned.

  We have endeared ourselves to our other selves. Our clamour subsides. We are burgeoning.

  that animal

  WEYMAN CHAN

  crying myself silly

  when the barn doors of the orphanage

  closed in on my sister and I

  I became that animal

  who chews off its memory

  and limps away

  like all orphanages the other

  animals bite run return

  faces

  swallowed by an unclaimed dark

  our foster mom claimed us

  she wore a tartan that breezed

  my heart to hide in

  that stopped so I hid

  in tree shade near the garage

  next to the hens

  what should I have missed if it wasn’t here

  to hold me

  can’t say

  can’t ask

  I’d bite others

  easily stab them

  with pencils after learning

  what it is to cry out for an other

  what would

  any unfinished

  monster do to find out

  how it cares

  as thoroughly as it learns how

  to

  Creepmouse Manifesto

  SYLVIA STOPFORTH

  It need not frighten you; it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say, so you may be as creepmouse as you like, but we must have you to look at.

  —JANE AUSTEN, Mansfield Park

  SO, I DID A LITTLE RESEARCH, and found that there are a lot of angry extroverts out there.

  Why are they angry?

  Well, they’re tired of being snubbed by a handful of self-absorbed wallflowers who can’t be bothered to respond to a simple, friendly “hello.” They feel, moreover, that there is no such thing as shyness, that this term is nothing more than an excuse, a cover-up, for apathy at best or out-and-out rudeness at worst.

  Indignant, I set out to write a ringing defense of The Shy, to sing the praises of the calm, the quiet, those who spurn the limelight. I was determined to dismantle those condescending definitions—so often written, it seems, by perplexed extroverts—which characterize us as fearful, anxiety-ridden, timid, uneasy, withdrawn, and inhibited. I’d follow this up by pointing out that many successful, famous people have been labelled “shy.” Abraham Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt were apparently among the naturally retiring. As are Don Rickles and Nicole Kidman.

  To refute those who claim shyness does not exist, I’d drop the names of two universities in the United States that have “Shyness Institutes” entirely devoted to the study of this allegedly fictitious concept. I’d cite research conducted in the 1970s (an honest decade, not given to dissembling) which revealed that “only about seven percent of Americans surveyed indicate that they have never experienced shyness in their entire life….Thus, shyness is a pervasive phenomenon; if you are shy, you are not alone.”

  Of course, if you are shy, you may prefer to be alone, but that’s neither here nor there.

  I had structure. I had headers. I had data affirming that shyness exists, is widespread, has not stopped people from excelling in life, and often brings in its train all manner of valid and valuable qualities.

  There was just one problem: none of it mattered. It all rang hollow.

  So instead, I’ll just share a story.

  It was Wednesday.

  Day four.

  Nearing the halfway mark.

  Just three days to go.

  They announced we’d be doing archery after breakfast. Granted, the potential for public humiliation was there, yet the prospect didn’t fill me with dread. After three days and nights of the never-ending presence of others, the non-stop chatter of mosquito-bite-ridden, cabin-fevered girls with whom I had nothing in common aside from the year of our birth, I suppose I’d become accustomed—or, rather numbed—to their constant there-ness.

  And unlike softball, soccer, or the dreaded skits, archery was not inherently a team activity. At least there was the suggestion of solitariness about it.

  But when we got down to the archery butts, the other shoe dropped. A noisome, jostling, herd of boys would be joining us, taking turns in some ill-conceived, prepubescent battle of the genders.

  My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and with a whispered word to my camp counsellor, I fled to the only refuge I could think of. The tiled, spidery building, redolent of mould and chlorine, was the only spot where one could, on occasion, find a moment’s respite from the relentless group-think of the place.

  Through some great stroke of luck, the washroom was empty, the rows of stalls with their sweating pipes abandoned. I leaned on a sink and tried to calm down enough to calculate how long I’d need to wait. I indulged in a moment’s fantasy, picturing an alternate-universe me sauntering casually back to the group just in time to see the boys disappearing and the bows being put away, and to express my aw-shucks disappointment at having missed out on all the fun.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel path.

  I retreated to the far wall.

  Someone entered the building.

  I slipped into one of the stalls, barely breathing as I turned the lock.

  My counsellor called my name.

  I briefly considered the possibility that she would overlook me, that I could avoid notice simply by remaining silent.

  “Is everything all right?” she called, standing outside my cubicle door. I could see her tanned feet in their bright pink flip-flops.

  I could fake some sort of gastric distress. If I was convincing enough, she might leave without me; she might even leave quite quickly. But doubtless she’d report me to the camp nurse, or worse, to some of the other counsellors. Word would get around.

  It came down to the weighing-up of potential mortifications, a calculation at which I excelled.

  “Everything’s okay,” I answered, flushing the toilet and emerging with an attempt at nonchalance, an attempt I immediately knew to be a dismal failure.

  “They’re all waiting for you,” she said, a small frown creasing her forehead, and my heart sank.

  On the way back to the field, she tried for a friendly, conversational tone. But I could hear the underlying bafflement, the familiar impatience with my apparently stubborn refusal to just go along,
to be more like the others, to get over myself.

  It was worse than I’d imagined. Not only had the girls waited, but so too had the boys.

  And what had my counsellor said, as she’d left to fetch me? How had she accounted for my lengthy delay?

  All eyes were on me.

  My heart pounded in my ears.

  Colours brightened, while outlines smeared.

  I might faint. Wouldn’t that be the crowning glory?

  Someone handed me a bow. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. My damp hands slipped on the varnished wood.

  There is a memory of a brief flash of wistfulness, of thinking this was something I could have enjoyed, if not for the fact that I had to attempt it before a Live Studio Audience.

  The rest is blank.

  Once fight is ruled out and flight proven unsuccessful, a sort of manic blindness can take over. An out-of-body, out-of-mind blur.

  Really, it’s a miracle no one was injured, as I let go of the taut, straining bowstring.

  Not until lights-out, when I retreated to my musty bunk bed and the dull exhaustion of the post–adrenaline rush, was I able to reflect on the morning’s events. My motives and reactions formed a tight and tangled knot which I had no power to unravel. I knew only one thing, and that with a cold, sure certainty: I was a failure—a complete, abject, repetitively offending failure. I acted on instinct, trusted my intuition, and it had all gone horribly wrong. Far from avoiding humiliation, I had only managed to draw attention to my defects. What’s more, my actions stripped the occasion of any crumb of pleasure it may have held.

  Thing is, while we shy folk may, from time to time, offend or even injure the unsuspecting, happy-go-lucky extrovert, we inflict the most damage on ourselves. I wanted to blame the boisterous boys, the clueless camp counsellors, or my well-intentioned parents. But in the end I only—and always—blamed myself.

  What was wrong with me?

  Why, when my friends proposed a spur-of-the-moment sleepover, would I instantly start running a ticker-tape of possible excuses through my mind, hoping to find something that would sound plausible, convincing, without giving myself away or hurting someone’s feelings? Why, when everyone else delighted in the prospect of a crowded, noisy party, would I feel a flutter of dread upon being invited?

  There was no element of conscious decision-making here, no casual “can’t be bothered.” When faced with social expectations unanticipated or overwhelming, a sensation I can only describe as claustrophobic came over me, making some part of me gasp for air and hunt for the nearest exit. I’m sure I trampled a few toes in my headlong rush for the door; and this only made things worse, as the frustration and shame were overlaid with guilt.

  At university, I learned that introverts are not simply shy people with defective social skills, but individuals who need solitude in order to refuel.

  This revolutionized my thinking. I was not—at least not only—damaged goods. It wasn’t just that there was something wrong with me. I was simply wired a certain way. Different, not worse.

  But—if I was merely different, then why could I not be accepted on my own terms? All my life I’d been told, in myriad ways, that my natural tendencies were inappropriate, shameful, and not to be indulged. If I tried to extricate myself from some exhausting social experiment, I was either overridden—“Oh, don’t be silly, you’ll have fun”—or accused of rudeness, of being a spoilsport. One option would have been to learn to lie well. But mendacity is also wrong, I was told.

  So the only alternative was to pretend, to live a lie, rather than tell one.

  We frown on most forms of proselytism today. Tolerance is the name of the game—except when it comes to rooting out any whiff of anti-social behaviour. The word “loner” evokes images of Unabombers, psychopaths, addled conspiracy theorists; men obsessed with guns and women who hoard cats.

  Extroverts rule the world—or at least, they become camp counsellors, run for student council and plan events—and they consider it a calling to jolly shy people out of their shells. Often they pursue this goal with an evangelical fervour that would make a nineteenth-century missionary blush. But while some shells may be limiting and unhappy, others have become, over time, carefully crafted shelters, designed to provide much-needed breathing space in the midst of the madding crowd.

  The fact is, they don’t need to be angry.

  And we don’t need to be fixed.

  I recently interviewed a shy young man. He stammered, he blushed, he fidgeted. I found it all rather refreshing, disarming, even, after meeting with some of his overconfident, entitled peers. Clearly, he had not mastered the art of the cover-up. I felt I was glimpsing something real and genuine, something authentic. Not that confidence is always false, or forced, of course. But one thing about shyness is that it’s awfully hard to fake convincingly—especially to one of our own.

  Fisher Woman

  VIVIAN HANSEN

  The light altered,

  and the coral translucence of the fish

  I meant to catch in my barren hands

  shifted, to black.

  Eluding me.

  I want to be a fisher woman;

  a fisher of all women.

  A Woman who Fishes

  without a rod,

  taut steel wires,

  barbed hooks,

  or bait.

  If just the look of me

  would be enough

  to lure the trout

  sliding through my hands.

  Easy pickings for my table.

  But there, the light shifted,

  circled, in cold rain and dun cloud.

  The sun-drowsy fish

  slept and they were changelings

  I could not catch.

  My nightshirt clung to my breasts,

  and there I stood, in wet waking.

  The Culture of Shyness

  ALEX BOYD

  Sacraments of ducked heads and disappearances,

  never interrupting a moment with a mobile phone,

  renting videos unscathed, evenings dented

  by someone’s failure to respond, anxious

  about asking for salt, unable to eat with someone

  looking, arranging books and chairs in cafeterias

  to create tents of space, floating in the babble,

  making note of the spaces between steps, moments

  between events, scattered human anchors

  settled into the soil of peace and quiet to consider

  progress. Stamped out by drama teachers.

  Under the I

  DHANA MUSIL

  Country Time, Country Time, tastes like that good old-fashioned lemonade.

  Since it was the seventies, no one complained that we didn’t use real lemons. Good old Country Time lemonade from the silver canister in my mom’s kitchen cupboard was easy to make, inexpensive, and tasted great.

  My best friend Renata took care of sales while I mixed and poured. Talking to strangers had always been difficult, and I knew a good portion of the world from between my parents’ knees. Stacking Styrofoam cups into towers on the plastic card table Renata’s mother lent us was an ideal compromise—I felt every part of a very important business venture, without having to leave my comfort zone.

  Our first customer wore the kind of dark pointy sunglasses I imagined a criminal would. Though directly facing the sun, he took them off, looked past Renata and straight at me. Couldn’t he see I was the mixer, the cup stacker, the janitor?

  “Good morning, girls.” Though he addressed us in the plural, he spoke to me. “Isn’t it a wonderful day for a glass of lemonade? I sure hope you don’t have any real lemons in here. They make my throat swell something terrible.”

  “Um, well, it’s Country Time lemonade,” I answered, praying the nervous stutter I’d only recently conquered wouldn’t start up again.

  “Great.” The deep wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled were inconsistent with his gravelly voice, glasses, and f
edora. “Two cups, please.”

  As he drank the first cup, a few drops dribbled onto his goatee.

  “Merci. That was delicious,” he said with a wink, and asked for the second cup to go.

  He slowly replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose and said, “I’ll see you girls later.”

  From behind, his walk and baggy pants reminded me of a circus ringleader. I felt momentarily sad for him, but hoped I wouldn’t run into him again.

  Our lemonade ran low around mid-afternoon. Our feet hurt from standing, so we sat in the grass near the bandstand. Renata tallied our profits. We were successful—we had earned over twelve dollars. Our coins divided evenly, we wandered toward the beach and the annual Sea Festival.

  We each had a six-dollar decision to make. The greasy smell from the hot dog vendors and the popcorn stands tickled the backs of our throats, and reminded us we hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The ice cream sundaes at Swensen’s and the fresh baked Cookies by George lured us until we set our sights on the most dominant attraction: the red-and-white striped Bingo tent.

  We crept around the outskirts of the tent. We figured kids weren’t allowed in without an adult, but we were dying to know what kind of prizes the back wall offered, so we peeked in at a spot where the tent flaps overlapped and provided us a glimpse inside.

  The array of potential winnings was spectacular: colour televisions, blenders, five-speed bicycles, bocce ball sets, and beach and deck furniture. There was even a record player with a plastic dome top—the kind my friend Kendall had in her room. I fantasized about listening to my two records on it. Shaun Cassidy and The Adventures of Davy Crocket.