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The Season of Militant Shyness

It begins in early childhood. A hesitation, an impulse to hide from strangers. Ducking behind furniture when company comes. Perhaps it is genetic, a survival trait, that long ago may have protected the young from wild, hungry predators.

As the toddler grows, she learns a new word: “shy.”
There is something in how the word is uttered, an anxious or even scornful tone, that makes the child flinch from it and want to deny it.
Teachers talk about “bringing her out of her shell.” At first, she is happily surprised to hear this, since she had not known she had a shell, and likes the idea. She loves turtles, especially baby ones, and thinks it would be fun to carry a house on her back.
But the mood does not last; parents and other children urge, “You need to talk more.” The confused child does what she is told; she forces herself fill the air with empty words. The discomfort she feels with this, she is taught, is something she must “overcome.”
She does not like to hear this. But that word, “shy” – it fills her with shame and makes her feel apologetic. Her thought is,“something is wrong with me, so I need to hide, so no one will see it and make fun of me.”
She is told not only that she is shy; she is told why she is shy: they say it is because she does not like herself very much.
The words ring true; but she is very young, and she does not stop to consider that she had liked herself fine before people started telling her that she was shy, and that that was a bad way to be.
Her quietness was at first nothing more than that; a trait that was a little different. But now she is told that the shame she feels was there all along and is the reason for her problem.
She believes them, and she now feels apologetic not only for being shy, but for having something called a “low self-esteem.”
The kids everyone likes do not have that. They talk a lot and everything they are feeling shows on their face. The bad part is she likes them too.
She tries to change, she tries to change, she tries to change.
In her desperation to be liked, she ends up alienating those whose approval she seeks. She does not know who she is, and always feels as if she is reaching for something not there.
With every effort to be normal, more confusion follows. Others confuse her too; like the teacher who ridicules her in front of classmates, and when she asks why, the teacher says it is only to “bring her out.”
When she reaches junior high school, she notices others, boys and girls. They sit in their desks, heads lowered, keeping their arms tightly to their sides. She thinks she knows how they feel, and makes a point to talk to them.
They are afraid to talk back, and she understands this well; but they are also afraid to be quiet. They stutter. They apologize. Then they apologize for apologizing.
The absurdity strikes her. Why should you ever apologize for not talking, if there is nothing that you want to say?
She thinks of all the big talkers she has known. Many had nothing to say, and were grating. And there were the bullies, who used their many words to hurt and humiliate; and the liars. Was lying better than being quiet? Why should you have to say aloud everything you were thinking?
In her epiphany, she rebels. She embraces the word others have said with scorn and rejects the idea that she should “overcome” anything. She now envisions her shyness in a different way: as a shivering, misunderstood puppy seeking shelter from the icy rain; from now on, she is determined to defend it. She gives it a new name: Fido.
“C\’mere, snuggy wuggy,” she thinks. “I\’ll protect you from the big, bad extroverts.”
The name Fido seems better, because it is unclear what the word “shy” really means. Is it being quiet? Is it thinking about what you say before you say it? Does it mean, as many believe, hating yourself?
She decides that she will remain “shy;” To reject the term would mean conceding that it is something bad. But she will never hate herself. She will be shy, but she will not be apologetically shy. She will invent a new kind.
The season of militant shyness begins.
I haven\’t seen you in awhile. Have you overcome your shyness yet?
Not yet. Have you overcome your shortness?
She does not say this thought aloud, and she must admit, this is a drawback to being shy. Fido is high maintenance sometimes.
She quickly discovers that there are limits to how militant shyness can be. The strongest expression of in-your-face shyness goes something like this: “I am shyand damn it, if anyone tries to tell me not to be, or says anything about it at all, I am going to tell them…nothing, and how will they like that? And if anyone tries to change me, I swear, I will reach into my bedside table drawer and pull out my crossword puzzle book and silently gnaw on my pencil until the eraser is just a tattered, rubbery blob of debris. Then they\’ll be sorry! Ya-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Well, she had never said there wouldn\’t be paradoxes.
The changes occur within. She no longer accepts what she has been told – about anything. She begins to think and trust her own observations. The world becomes a more interesting place. She studies hard. She discovers writing as a way to explore the hidden depths beneath spoken words.
She focuses on what she loves: words with their cadences and rhythms, the books that pull her into another place and time. Academic subjects she had always thought were boring become fascinating, once she gives them a chance.
It happens gradually, and she almost does not notice it at first.
Until one autumn day when she is taking a walk. A solitary leaf catches the wind and drifts down, slowly rocking back and forth. As she watches she has a startling thought:
I am happy.
All of the struggle. But all it takes for a moment of happiness is a leaf.
Not everyday is perfect, and Fido is inconvenient sometimes. But everything has changed. If she had only known that she did not have to change who she was, she could have focused on what she loved; she would have been happier.
Sometimes, she hears parents talking about their children in worried tones: they are too quiet, they think too much before they act; something, they are sure, is wrong with them; it must change.
Make them stop, she thinks. Tell them that badgering their kids and forcing them to be “normal” is hurting them and making everything worse.
Tell them, Fido.
She imagines Fido stirring and stretching. He is a quiet dog. Maybe some day, he seems to say. A high wind whistles outside, but inside it is warm and still. In her imagination, Fido closes his eyes.
Some day.
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