Raising my hand

It seems that my "time out" from blogging has entailed a more general moratorium on writing in these parts. To be honest, my failure to write much since submitting my last article probably has as much to do with having no real deadline staring me in the face as it has to do with my not writing here. But writing here *did* prevent me from a kind of passivity that sets in when I start my day reading, rather than writing, blogs, a passivity that tends to seep into the rest of my day, I think.

I've always been more comfortable being passive than active, something I blame on both nature and nurture. I have several memories of feeling shy when I was quite young. (In general, I remember very, very little of my childhood.) I remember trying to get myself to raise my hand in elementary school when I knew the answer to a question, but then being paralyzed by the overwhelming sound of my heartbeat and the sudden inability to think clearly. My earliest such memory is from 2nd or 3rd grade, but I also have clear memories of feeling that way in high school, college and even grad school.

I also remember a moment when I was sitting in the back seat of our car with a couple other kids, being driven by my mother to a music class. We were, maybe, 10 years old. One of the kids was a very witty, smart guy who lived down the street, on whom I perhaps had a little crush, and whose wit indimidated the hell out of me but also inspired me to try to join in. (I've since learned he's gay--of course.) My mother also clearly found him witty and charming; I remember her laughing at his jokes. The painful part of the memory is this: I got up the nerve to try to participate in the witty banter, and clearly wasn't up to it. I don't remember what I said or why it so obviously failed. But I do remember my mother telling me later (had I said something to her first?) that sometimes it's better not to speak than to make a fool of yourself. OUCH. That really stuck with me, and pretty much defined my approach to socializing well into adulthood. I'm more confident now, but still hesitate to speak particularly around witty, articulate people. Writing this down (and I don't think I've ever uttered this story "aloud" before now) is making my fingers shake, so it must still resonate.

Hmmm. Still making myself uncomfortable here, but I think maybe that's what I need to be doing, or at least need not to be repressing.