Please allow me to be self-indulgent here for a moment, as I discuss a subject that is very near and dear to my pride.
Since I was a little girl, I have been called “quiet” by a wide variety of acquaintances. Of course, “quiet” is not necessarily a bad thing. Teachers always loved me. So did old people and librarians. I was the good little girl who listened in class and did well on tests; who played four square or hopscotch at recess with a small group of equally well-behaved friends; who seamlessly followed the rules and never caused ruckus in gym class.
This dynamic seemed to work for me, as I was always a pretty happy kid. I was never bullied and never had a shortage of friends. Notably, they were always among the most non-judgemental of my peers, but looking back I can see this was most certainly a good thing.
As adolescence approached, however, other kids my own age began to feel the need to point out to me my quietness. I’m sure that they never meant to hurt my feelings – their tones and expressions were always more surprised than derisive. (Why kids who had known me since grade two would be surprised at my being quiet is beyond me, but that’s how it was.)
I became increasingly sensitive to this label, and tried as hard as I could to show my peers that I could be as loud and jovial as they were. The problem was that acting in such a way was contrary to my natural personality, and I lacked entirely the instinct of how to convey my desired image. Case in point: my favourite quote as picked by my classmates for our grade eight year book was “I’m not quiet.”
By the time I reached high school, I had pretty much given up on ever being the chatty, giggly girl everyone seemed to expect me to be. Terrified of being called “shy,” something far worse than “quiet,” I involved myself in the drama club as much as possible. Thankfully, drama kids are some of the most non-judgemental people in any school setting, and their acceptance, combined with the presence of my long-established elementary school friends, allowed high school to be an enjoyable time for me.
Next came university, where there were simply so many other students that no one really cared whether or not I was quiet. Also, speaking up in classes or seminars was never a problem for me, nor was giving presentations. In general, I have always been quite confident on the subject of bookish things, and contrary to popular belief I am not shy about speaking in front of people.
Admittedly, I can be “quiet” - especially when I am the new person amongst a group of people who have known each other for years and already have a well-established dynamic. Indeed, many people I have encountered through the various jobs I have held since graduating have felt it necessary to inform me that I am, in fact, quiet.
“It’s a compliment,” says my mother. Yeah, about as much as telling someone to their face that they’ve gained weight is a compliment.
“They want you to come out of your shell so they can get to know you better,” says my husband. Pray tell, thou who is supposed to know me better than anyone else in the world: what is this shell that you speak of?
I love people. Really, I do. That’s one of the main reasons why I love my job. I enjoy talking to people, learning about what they do, and sharing in some small way their passion for a particular activity or cause. I can honestly count on one hand (well, maybe two) the number of people I have met in my life whom I genuinely dislike.
To be a writer one first needs to be an observer, and that suits me just fine. I believe in listening over blabbing my mouth off, and if that means people will perceive me as quiet then so be it.
After 27 years, I won’t be changing any time soon.
