The scene: Philadelphia in spring or summer. My mother, my
aunt, my cousin and I were in the city for a day, but the reason escapes me. My
cousin and I were 10 or 11.
We spent the day shopping, I suppose. I don’t recall going
to the city for any other reason as a child before malls had been invented. I
liked the idea of shopping, but the
reality was headache-inducing, what with overheated stores, crowds and standing
in line.
Then there was outside. A rural girl, I found cities gritty,
and sidewalks tiring on the feet that, in those days, had to be in dress shoes
for any excursion. I had yet to own my first pair of sneakers.
Despite the negatives, I found department stores magical;
the window displays a thing of beauty.
But whereas I felt the internal wonder of it all – an
emotion inexpressible in words but easily seen on my face – my cousin was exuberant.
Experience had taught me that verbal expression of my joy led only to ridicule,
from cousins as well as peers.
“You like that?”
“You still believe in that?”
“You’re stupid.”
“You’re a baby.”
“You’re weird.”
My cousin had, apparently, never met with those experiences,
so she didn’t hesitate to say, “Oh, that’s beautiful! I love that! How pretty!”
I would nod, enjoying my internal experience, but apparently
not showing it enough on my face. My cousin had, at every turn, beaten me to
the punch.
The intersection of, “I’m tired and my feet hurt,” and the
thrill of pretty things was face-in-neutral.
Face-in-neutral is apparently interpreted by extroverts as
boredom.
Yes, I am an introvert. I can hold my own and more in a
conversation if it’s something I’m interested in. But starting a conversation
with a stranger or someone I don’t know well is something the other person
needs to do. I can no more get beyond, “Hello. Nice weather,” than my
non-artistic mind can find the horizon line on a blank canvas.
When someone isn’t having a conversation with me, but
enthusing over the sights and sounds of the environment, what is there to do beyond
nodding and saying, “Yes” ?
Perhaps the reason I don’t remember much about the day is the one memory of it that did stick out: my mother scolding me in
the train station – in quiet but deadly “mom voice” – after my cousin and aunt
had departed. “Why can’t you be like your cousin? She, at least, enjoyed this
trip.”
Wait a minute. I enjoyed the day enormously. I got to ride
the train, see the sights, and enjoy the wonder and beauty in my own way. We
even ate lunch at Horn and Hardart’s automat, my absolute favorite restaurant at the time, where I put the coins in the slot
and took out my favorite, beef pot pie, from behind the little glass door. My
cousin hadn’t even liked hers. Why was I expected to repeat every rapturous
thing she said? What’s the point of that?
My mother destroyed the day with her admonishment. Now I
understood: my mother wanted a daughter, but I wasn’t the one she wanted.
I was well-mannered and smart and inventive, and did what I
was told. But somehow I was lacking.
Admittedly, my social skills have always been in negative
numbers. I spent my childhood waiting for friends to happen, and never quite
understood the odd looks or social cues or whatever they were that were
directed my way. Unfortunately, that is still the case.
I liked my cousins. I always liked the idea of visiting
them, but the visits never met my expectations.
No, not expectations; my hopes and dreams of what it would be like to
have someone to play with.
Any of my cousins my age or near it could run faster than I,
climb trees better, and generally disappear so I couldn’t find them. They were
good at grabbing my shoes so I’d have to chase after them in my bare feet, and
when I wouldn’t, they’d toss the shoes into a nearby rose hedge where the
thorns would tear at my skin as I retrieved the shoes.
They wouldn’t discuss books or invent stories or jump rope
or anything I was good at. The trip to Philadelphia fit right into the same
mold.
Which is why I travel alone. And wear sneakers.
