Several things have crossed my mind recently. Things like, “Electric stoves are more annoying than I remember,” or “Why are bees mysteriously dying all across this nation -- except the nest in my house which has been doused with professional poisons?” Or, “Why do people mention how shy I am?” Oh, right, because I am shy. There are two topics that people usually broach within a couple weeks of knowing me. The first involves the “g” word (I am currently taking bets on how long before the word “gravitas” surfaces among people who don’t know about the blog in MFT. We've come close with "contemplative," but not quite). The second is my shyness, especially in large crowds. Indeed, the amount that I speak at any gathering is inversely related to the number of people present. Of course, if they know me for a really long time, then they start to ask how I became such an astounding beacon of reason and truth. That, though, usually doesn’t occur until month three or four.
For those interim months, I am known as the shy boy – or, er – shy middle-aged guy (sigh). It’s always a little jarring because I don’t actually think of myself as shy. On the contrary, I think that I am really open to talking with anybody. Well, as long as they talk to me first. . . And keep a respectful distance . . . And don’t ask me any questions about myself. . . And I have Xanax in my pocket.
I kid, I kid. I am fairly quiet, but not really shy.
Maybe I don’t think of myself as shy because I know what shy GayProf really looks like. We need to turn back time and think about the era long before I was the “Prof” in GayProf, or even acknowledged the “Gay” in GayProf. Yes, we are talking about the dark, grim years of adolescence.
My tween/early teen years were my Vietnam. Only it didn’t involve gun play, Agent Orange, or all the drugs. Well, at least it didn’t involve gun play and Agent Orange.
All through grade school, I had no problems with shyness. Then my home life and school life went to hell all in one go at about the age of 11. I had the good fortune to go through puberty remarkably early compared to my peers. It’s true what they say about kids and cruelty. Any sign of difference will be a source of ridicule and embarrassment. Perhaps instead of wars we should just settle national disputes by forcing the adolescents of disputing parties to interact for a few months. Which ever group emerges with the least amount of emotional baggage wins!
Being early in puberty brought ostracization. The sense among my fellow students that I was queer brought total isolation (even if I was far from admitting being queer to myself).
Home life was even worse what with the unemployment, alcoholism, and nasty temper . . and that was just the family dog. Just imagine what was happening with the humans.
The way that young GayProf handled these situations was to go absolutely quiet in school. I had one (1) friend in grade six, until he moved to Arizona. Then I literally had zero (0) friends from grade seven to grade nine. Why? Well, it was hard to make friends when a typical conversation went:
Fellow Student: Hi, [future] GayProf.
[Youthful] GayProf: . . .
Fellow Student: Aren’t you in my biology class?
[Youthful] GayProf: . . .
Fellow Student: What type of music do you like?
[Youthful] GayProf: . . .
Fellow Student: Are you fucked up or something, holmes? I am talking to you!
[Youthful] GayProf: . . .
Fellow Student: Screw you – and give me your lunch money, too.
Yes, I would have given Marcel Marceau a run for his money (Goddess rest his soul) in the silent category. He called it art, I called it a typical Monday.
Given how much I was beat up at school, I really yearned to be totally inconspicuous. I decided that the best way to accomplish that goal was to wear the exact same thing everyday. Monday through Friday, I wore a blue hoodie sweatshirt and jeans. Everyday. Yeah, it’s a real mystery why the other students tormented me. I kind of want to pick on twelve-year-old me and I am 33.
During lunch, I hid in the library and read. I was the only student in the whole school who used the library during lunch (or possibly ever). Well, until the school librarian asked me not to come back anymore because my solitary reading bothered her. Yes, she really said that. Adults can be so cruel.
After that, lunch-hour saw me walking around the dusty school grounds in aimless circles staring at my Pic-N-Save shoes. All I could do was wait for the bell to ring or the sweet kiss of death to release me from that mortal coil, whichever came first.
Because of the aforementioned chaos, I didn’t find a lot of good advice/ support/ much-needed-intervention at home. While I know that my mother was dealing with a bad situation for herself, it didn’t help me much that she would periodically ask, “Why don’t you have any friends?” Instead, she might have asked, “Why do you keep wearing the same thing over and over again, crazy boy?”
Now, that was shy. By tenth grade, I made a conscious decision to not be quite so pathetic. I got a job and started buying my own clothes (which involved more than a blue hoodie – To this day, I break out in a cold sweat if I see one hanging on a rack). I also made actual friends – Not just the imaginary ones who lived on the starship Enterprise.
So given how shy that I know that I can be (and have been), I don’t think of myself as shy anymore. Maybe I just use terminology wrong. Perhaps I am confusing “completely socially dysfunctional” with “shy.”
Alas, I have to embrace my quiet ways. I ’ll never be confused with the vivacious Doralee in 9 to 5. **sigh** On the other hand, at least I am not a mute anymore. Now, where did I put that Xanax?
