Shy…

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Posted On October 21, 2014 By chromedust And has 49 Comments

Watching mom with her measuring spoons and vanilla extract was, in my young mind, like watching a chemist in a laboratory. Mom had it down to an exact science – every ingredient to mix and beat and stir. As the late afternoon sun would shoot across our kitchen, mom would look down at me and ask “would you like banana’s in your ice-cream today?” The memory has the sweetness of the treat, and the sweetness of my mother’s ways.

When it was just the two of us alone together in the kitchen, I could breath easy. I would smile and say yes. But when there were others around things were different. I would get ‘shy’. And my memories of those times are not sweet, but darker and more complicated.

Whenever my parents had friends over I knew what was expected of me. I would follow mom out into the back yard to the wooden ice-cream maker, and find my seat at the old picnic table. Silently, without a sound. I remember Goat coming over and leaning against me. I put my arm around him but didn’t dare utter a word. Like mom and her ice cream making, I too had perfected an art. The art of becoming invisible. The art of silence.

On this particular Sunday afternoon my parents had gone horseback riding. Even though I’d babysat my brother, sister and their friends’ child, I knew it still wouldn’t matter. I still wouldn’t be included. My father would still think I should keep my head down, not draw attention to myself, not ‘embarrass’ him by simply existing. And so over adult conversation and the churning of rock salt and crushed ice, I sat motionless. Praying no one would try to talk to me, as this would only make my father angrier.

My mom lifted the lid off the ice cream and instructed everyone to grab a bowl. I suddenly felt his thumb and forefinger push deep into my shoulder, and his breath hot against my ear. “Take your ice cream inside. You don’t want to make our guests sick watching you eat….”

And so I would flee. “He’s so shy”, everyone would be thinking. But it didn’t feel like shyness, it felt automatic. My father had been in the military, and this was his standard drill. I knew I was expected to remove myself from the group. Back inside the kitchen perched on a barstool, I could hear the voices outside, exclaiming over the taste, the texture. Mom’s creamy sweet confection was delicious, as always.

I had to continue to be invisible and silent. At least once finished I could find solace in my bedroom and bury myself in some music. But suddenly one of our guests stepped into the kitchen, and discovered me eating my ice cream alone. That distorted feeling came over me – when I’m seen in spite of being invisible, in spite of working so hard to be invisible.

“Eddie, why are you so shy? Come out with everyone!”

I was so embarrassed to be confronted, and terrified my Father would discover us talking. That I would be accused of trying to draw attention to myself when I should “know” that my mere presence was unacceptable to our guests. So I simply shrugged and looked down into my bowl. “Eddie, you’re so shy.”

Shy. Am I really shy? Or am I really just hearing a voice telling me that who I am is unacceptable? A voice telling a boy that the sight of him eating ice cream would make people sick. Just a boy eating his mother’s homemade ice cream. I became “shy” to keep my father’s voice out of my head, and to keep from hearing his hurtful words. I internalized my father’s unwarranted criticism – I hear his voice telling me that the sight of me eating ‘would make people sick’. I realize now that he was just grasping at his own anger – saying anything that would make me hide myself away. Where no one would see me, no one would ‘guess’ my secret. I had to learn to shut down his voice in my head. I know that his criticism wasn’t based on anything real. But sometimes when I least expect it, his voice can sneak up on me. I can be enjoying a meal with friends and suddenly my comfort zone wavers. I hear his voice. Even when wounds heal, the scar can remain.

But now I look back, and even though I carry some marks from the kinds of things my father said to me, I realize that ‘shy’ isn’t really one of them. Letting people think I was shy was my strategy – shyness is something people understand and they’re comfortable with that label. I am quiet, and I can be reserved, but I know that I’m not shy. I know that I have something to contribute to any conversation, and I know that I am valued, and loved. I know when someone seems shy, all they might need is a warm voice and a ready smile to encourage them to talk, to engage, and join in. And a bowl of ice cream doesn’t hurt either.

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