‘Jeff,’ I had this flash, and I knew I was meant to be with Shane.”
“Roxy, are you insane? Why even ask me for advice if you are just going to do the opposite?”
Roxanne shrugged happily. “Like you said, Mila, freedom is a parachute.”
“Paradox, Roxy. The word is paradox.”
“Whatever.” Roxanne shrugged. “I feel so much better now. So light. I bet if a big wind came right now I could just…float away.” She shielded her eyes with her hand and stared across the field. “You know, I kind of envy them, the other team, right now.”
“Really? Why?”
“Mila, if I tell you something, will you promise? Promise, promise, promise not to be mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because of what I am about to say.”
“Roxy, how can I know, unless you say it?”
“Okay. Here goes. Mila, I like playing kickball. Sometimes.”
Mila was silent.
“Maybe the game is stupid,” Roxanne went on, “and maybe Matt is too. And maybe we have to be here. But part of me wants to catch the ball and have everyone love me for it. And now that I made the most important decision of my entire life, I want to celebrate. I want to go kick the ball. For real this time. As hard and as far as I can.”
At first Mila looked as stunned as someone who had just been struck. Finally she sighed. “I knew.” Mila pressed her fingers against one of her temples. “Oh God, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.” She shrugged. “Of course you want to kick the ball.” She looked at Roxy. “You never even spoke to me until a week ago when your life got hard. What are you doing out here anyway, with me and all these dandelions? Anyone can see. You are the sort of person meant to kick the ball, not just think about it. I was being selfish. I am a bad friend.”
Roxanne said, “All I am saying is, maybe there is more to life than being an outfielder. Could you ever learn? To like the game? The wind in your face when you run? Everyone loving you because you made a home run? The cheers? I bet you could be good. And I know everyone would love you if you smiled more. And stopped using big words.”
“Roxy, if you want to start catching the ball, you can. But I like myself the way I am. I tried it, what you said, I used to try. I tried so hard to be good at the game. I always ran past the bases, I did it every time. If there was even a flower in the way, I would trip over it. I could kick the ball halfway across the world and still get tagged. I am telling you: I am bad at this game, Roxy. But what I am good at is thinking about it. I look in from the outside. I see things others miss.”
Roxanne studied Mila. “Well maybe people on the inside see things you miss.”
“Wow, Roxy,” Mila looked at Roxanne in pleased surprise. “Am I rubbing off on you? You said something insightful. I have to say, there is hope for you.” She turned her head away. “Even though what you said has nothing to do with me at all.”
Roxanne was quiet, and so was Mila. “I like being alone, you know,” Mila said. “I was alone before, and I can be alone again. My choice. If you want to catch the ball, you can. Or kick a home run even. You are who you are. And I am who I am.”
Roxanne looked seriously at Mila. “Who are you?”
Mila was silent for a long moment. “An outfielder, Roxy. Always an outfielder. I was born an outfielder, and when I die, someone will have to bury me in the outfield, and if I go to heaven, I will live in the outfield there too. I will be an outfielder until the end of time.”
Roxanne was silent for a long time. “Then I will be too,” she said. “For now. You said I had an insight. I caught a lot of balls in my life, but no one has ever told me I had an insight before. I like this, standing here, in the dandelion patch, talking to you and watching the ball go by. This feeling, right here, I like it.” Roxy stared at the sky. “It is all so very nice.”
“Roxy, never change who you are, not for me, not for anyone.”
“Nothing to change. Maybe I will start back catching the ball. Someday. But not now. These talks, they make my life less hard than it used to be. Hey, look, our team lost. The teacher is waving at us. Come on.” Roxanne grabbed Mila by the hand. “I bet Shane is changing classes.”
“Maybe,” Mila sighed. “But I still think you should go with Jeff. Or no one. Have you ever thought of no one?”
“Mila, you are so funny.” Roxanne let go of Mila, took a deep breath and stretched. “I feel so amazing. I just made the hardest decision of my life, thanks to you. Nothing I ever have to deal with my whole life will be any harder.”
“Glad I could, um, help.”
“Here, Mila, take this.” Roxanne presented an object to Mila, who looked down in confusion. “Please. Seriously. I want you to have it.”
“A dandelion with a chewed off-stem? Oh Roxy, you are such an angel, but I just couldn’t.”
“No, really, take it. My thank-you for making my life less hard.” Roxanne took a deep breath and stretched her arms toward the sky. “Ah, feels great to be alive. What a wonderful, beautiful day.”
Actually, I was wondering.” Mila took the dandelion. “Do you have a few dollars I can borrow? I gave all my lunch money to Mark.”
“No money,” Roxanne said. “But I brought my lunch. You can have one of my pickles.”
Mila frowned. “Just one?”
Roxanne smiled proudly. “Any one you want.”
“Never mind.” Mila sighed. “I guess being hungry is worth our moral victory. I am going to be stoic about it. Today, it was all worth it. Productive, too. The reason so few problems get solved is that everyone is too busy doing things. Imagine what we could accomplish in a world where more people refused to catch balls and spent all that time thinking. I bet we could solve world hunger. Or colonize deep space. Hey Roxy, by not catching balls, we could start a revolution.”
“Really?” Roxy broke into a grin of delight. “And be in history books?”
“I bet we could. Hey, I know. The Dandelion Revolution. What do you think?”
“The Dandelion Revolution. I think I like it! Will kids have to memorize my name? I hate memorizing, but I think I would like being memorized.”
“I tell you, Roxy, we are going to be famous one day as the first ones to say no to catching the ball. We should write a manifesto.”
“A manifesto? Great idea! You can do the writing and I can draw the pictures!”
“Pictures?”
“I know how to draw a dog and a flower. Oh Mila, I am so, so excited. I am going to have so many insights! I bet I can impress Shane and he will stop saying I have putty for brains.” Crossing the field with Mila, Roxanne sighed dramatically. “You know, today was the funnest time I ever had playing kickball.”
“More fun ahead, Roxy. From now on we are going to change how kickball is played. We are going to make our own rules and play by them. We are going to avoid the ball and say deep things about it, and we are going to win.”
“Oh perfect,” Roxanne said. “There is nothing I like better than winning.” Roxanne shook her head admiringly. “You are so wise, Mila. So very wise.”
Mila stuck the dandelion into her front jeans pocket. “I try,” she said. And smiled.
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
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