Shy

by Naomi K. Lewis

  reminded me of imagined girls;

  and fleshy backs soft as mine

  shed snows of soap around the drain.

  Change and nakedness were raw

  as my pathetic shape they saw,

  while joking, echoed off a shower head,

  left my manhood there for dead.

  Cloak of Invisibility

  MADELAINE WONG

  JOSTLING BODIES crammed dimly lit hallways. I had dreaded my first day of high school, and reality was more terrible than my fearful imagination. Boys towered over me. No, those weren’t boys. They were giants, with facial hair! Their booming voices echoed in the cavernous halls. The hulking creatures laughed and shoved each other while I dodged out of the way. They could have crushed me beneath the heels of their enormous feet if they had so chosen. I was at their mercy. For protection, I put on my cloak of invisibility. With my eyes downcast and my binder pressed against my chest, I maneuvered through the thick crowd of adolescent madness. My straight, mousy brown hair hung lifelessly around my shoulders. My face had recently erupted in a new crop of bright red zits. I wondered if I had a bad smell coming from my armpits. I was lucky. The cloak was effective. The boys had not sensed my presence.

  But as scary as the boys were, the girls were more terrifying. A little further on my quest to find my locker, I came upon them—the Keres. My blood froze in my veins. They were the evil spirits released from Pandora’s chest, whose purpose was to create havoc on the Earth. They craved blood, feasting upon it after ripping the soul free and sending it to Hades. Those fearsome dogs of the underworld disguised themselves with too much makeup and, like a pack of yappy, pampered poodles in bright dress-up clothes, they giggled and simpered their way to their lockers. Their curly hair bounced as they sang, “Gonna dance with my baby till the night is through. On Saturday night, Saturday night. Tell her all the little things I’m gonna do….” My dowdy self shrank in their presence. They were strong, and my invisibility cloak fell away. They spotted me, looked me up and down, taking in my dull appearance. Their upper lips curled in distaste, like they smelled something foul. Then, from the mouth of the alpha bitch, came the dreaded word—“Loser.” I felt my soul rip away. I was in Hell, branded, my fate sealed. It was the label from which no teenager could recover.

  What was that paralysis, that veil of insecurity that hung between me and others? I could see through it, but it was impenetrable. I was left on the edge, as an observer, not a participant. I stood drowning in a murky puddle of fear and uncertainty, a victim of my own self-consciousness. I couldn’t understand why I was treated badly. The frustration and shame were almost too much to bear.

  I remembered my mother’s words: “Be brave. You need to break out of your shell. Speak up. Once they see what a nice girl you are, they’ll want to be your friend.” What Mother didn’t know was that nice girls were eaten alive.

  I had no idea how to start a conversation. What if they didn’t want to talk to me? What if I said something stupid? I cared only for self-preservation, couldn’t bear the contemptuous sneers, so I kept silent.

  High school was a cruel place for the shy introvert. The ability to quietly contemplate was not a skill valued by the general population. It was a place for loud, obnoxious attention-grabbers who were able to walk that thin line, to stand out and to fit in at the same time. I didn’t want to be like them. Their inane conversations involving boys, drinking, parties, and smoking dope I found artificial and irritating. I had little interest in those sorts of activities. I was a sensitive child in an insensitive world, my quiet voice muffled by swaggering loudmouths.

  I simply wanted to be accepted, and I cared deeply about what other people thought of me. The days passed, and I increasingly felt judged and looked down upon. As a result, my feelings of unworthiness increased.

  Hang with a loser and you become one. That is an unwritten rule of high school. For the loser it meant only one thing—a further fall, to the lowest rung on the ladder. It was the worst of all fates. Woe to that unfortunate soul who became a loner. Even the geekiest, strangest, thickest-eyeglass-wearing boy in the school had a friend. But by the time I entered grade eleven, I had been shunned.

  I no longer needed anybody to tell me I was a loser. I felt it deep in my bones, and I beat myself up on a daily basis. “What is wrong with me?” I wondered if it was possible to rid myself of the affliction of shyness, or if I would have to go through life as a bumbling, stammering, despairing, mass of uncertainty. “Is it possible to change?” I longed to become a different person but had no idea how such a thing could be accomplished. I prayed for help, to be released from Hell.

  The chance came to me by accident, by a twist of fate, or through the grace of God. Call it what you will. I needed an after-school activity, something suitable for one such as me, who did not get invitations to parties, who did not participate in sports, and who had negligible social skills. I took a pottery class. One day, as I prepared for class, I found I had no clean shirt to wear. Desperate, I entered my big brother’s bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. Beneath the assortment of underwear and mismatched socks, I found a clean T-shirt. Alleluia! It was plain white with a picture of some sort of plant on the front. Good enough.

  I boarded the bus and made my way to the SAIT campus where the pottery class was held. I took my usual spot and began to work my clay—pounding, kneading, and shaping. The process was satisfying, creative, but also physical. As my pot took shape, I glanced up and saw that a boy was looking at me, and smiling. He nudged his friends and pointed in my direction. I avoided eye contact. Ignore them long enough and they’ll go away was my motto.

  At lunch break, I lined up to wash my hands. The boy and his friends stood beside me and invited me to eat with them. I agreed, smiling weakly. “Where should we eat?” they asked me. I shook my head in disbelief. They wanted me to pick the place.

  I suggested a place outside, on the grass, in the shade. They followed behind me.

  We sat and talked. “Where do you go to school? Want to hang out after?” they asked.

  They were interested in me. They laughed when I said something mildly amusing. The boy blushed when I talked to him. The girls copied my mannerisms. I became their paladin. I strolled across the campus with my gaggle of eager minions trailing behind me. I was in my glory.

  What was that strange feeling that rose from my chest, which made me want to smile, to hold my head up high, to walk with a determined air? Could it be confidence? What happened that day to make it different from all other days? I contemplated that question on the bus ride home.

  I walked in the door that evening and saw my brother’s shocked expression. “Why are you wearing that shirt? Take it off before Mom sees.”

  “Why?” my naive self inquired.

  “Because, you idiot, that’s a picture of a marijuana plant on the front. If she sees you wearing that she’ll kill both of us.”

  I looked down and it all made sense. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. For one day I had become a rebel, a bad girl, and all without taking a single toke on a joint. I had found my armour, my golden fleece, and I could now enter the Land of Cool. I didn’t have to change who I was, merely how people perceived me. I began to see myself as something other than a pimply-faced, friendless nerd. The girl I saw in the mirror slowly transformed. I learned how to use makeup and a curling iron. As time passed, I learned to hold my head up high and came to understand that I must accept myself before I can expect others to do the same. I then made it clear to the Keres that I would no longer take their abuse. I uttered the magic incantation—a well-formed sentence filled with colourful expletives, combined with a long stare-down. They never bothered me again. I was then able to retrieve my soul and my dignity.

  School cliques are near to impossible to break into when one is branded, so I made a decision. I boarded my Argus and set sail on the unknown seas. I started again at another school. My wish was not to be popular, but simply to
be accepted, and that is exactly what happened.

  Several decades have passed since those events occurred, and I occasionally meet people from my first high school. Most never knew that I left. I guess I really was invisible. It surprised me to learn that outgoing people struggled with the same uncertainty and fears I did. Some continue to delude themselves, covering their inadequacies with cloaks of bravado. I threw away my protection, my cloak of invisibility, long ago. I no longer need it, nor want it.

  Shy and I

  SYDNEY SHARPE

  WHY

  There’s always a corner where the shadows of shyness overrun reason. The heart races as it searches for a space as benign as a yogi’s retreat; where slow deep breaths bring solace, and the armour of cheer slowly recedes into reflection. Calm and even grace brace the body for the next venture out.

  Secluded and content, the racing stops. Shyness eases when the doors are closed and all is contained within. Shyness searches for reasons to stay and never bends to the beyond, even as it beckons repeatedly. But the door to the outside demands to be opened.

  SHY

  It’s so easy for shy to stay inside. The known is contained within a womb where walls of warmth provide all. Outside, the trees are swaying and offering a limb to climb on. The cirrus clouds brighten with the day and then blast off, leaving wanderlust in their wake. It’s time to follow the sky, to see but to blend in. Oh, to become the wings of the hummingbird, flapping so fast that motion is momentary. The tiny bird nestles in life’s nectar, unseen as it sips and then absconds to the next veiled banquet.

  The armour is carefully assembled. Even the clothes convey shadows as shades of black tempt the shy side of the moon. A scarf of many colours conquers the cloak of invisibility. Why not ride the rainbow, every day jumping into the glow of a new colour? Maybe its radiance will release its own invincibility.

  The silent mouth suddenly opens, shielded with lipstick that locks in place. It will pull the voice from within. The eyes rest as they see just what they want until they venture forth, on guard. Lashes, no longer invisible, carry two coats of black for extra protection. It is not enough. Glasses become the safety net for eyes that betray too much. Stroke the hair that is carefully grown, cut, highlighted or lowlighted to catch the sun, but not any notice, as it quietly falls over half the face. Shy hears and sees but is only partly visible—in the mind—and that is all that matters as shy closes the door behind you.

  All that is left is shy and you who become two. Listen to the mind as it tells shy what to do until two takes over. The smile moves from within and frees the face to break with the armour. The smile calms and creates the will to play.

  Shy jostles with the nerves as it picks a place to join. Shy grabs an outstretched limb and settles on. Ready to wrestle with circumstance, shy succumbs to words that want to win. Yes, energy is contagious especially amongst friends, where the will to exchange and participate propels shy to release the bolt of doubt. Contact is composed, even serene, but never secure.

  Don’t trust tranquility, because it can dissolve like a clash of egos fighting for centre stage. Oh, to hide from this performance especially when called on to play. Just smile and step away, all the while looking for a door to dart through and quickly close. The escape is complete, and shy emerges to consider another day.

  Even with an armour of grace, shy and I are one, sometimes two. We—I and shy—settle in for the long haul, sometimes sinking into the stomach so it bends to the swiftly flowing river of fear. As it ebbs, shy and I part ways, if only in our dreams.

  Does shy lack courage? Does shy mask sloth? Does shy get a pass until tomorrow never comes? That way, the cure can’t confront the excuse. Maybe it’s time to tackle shy head-on, to try and mend, perhaps to end. Look in the mirror of the mind and not turn away. Let’s grab two and shy to make I. I will. I do. Every day shy makes the vow to create and conquer the rubber door that too easily bounces off the will to leave.

  Shy—I—assemble every thread of strength to knit a sweater so bold that fear takes a pass. And add it to the wardrobe of deception that’s always in season but never on sale.

  Shades and Shyness

  ARITHA VAN HERK

  SOMETIMES I SCAN THE INTERNET for mentions of shy people in history or of prominent shy people still living. Why? To comfort myself? To alleviate my own reticence? I can’t be certain. I wonder why such lists proliferate. Idle consolation for other shy people, reassurance that we can all overcome being tongue-tied and awkward? Or a prurient interest in those beyond our reach, somehow removed from our regard and thus more intensely the objects of our interest?

  The directory of those noted for shyness or introversion is fascinating, not for the people themselves but for what withdrawal performs. Bertie, otherwise known as King George the VI, his isolation exacerbated by his stutter. Andrew Warhola, who became Andy Warhol and impossible to define, shy because he could not be, prohibited from retreat. Aretha Franklin, introverted but full of voice. Lawrence of Arabia, the illegitimate child of an illegitimate child, fatally injured when he swerved to avoid two boys on bicycles, lost control and was thrown over the handlebars of his Brough Superior SS100 motorcycle. (The neurosurgeon attending Lawrence’s death began an intensive study of head injuries and motorcycle riders; his research led to the use of crash helmets, protective headwear useful to hide behind.) Rita Hayworth, depressive as well as shy, succumbing to bad husbands and, finally, Alzheimer’s disease, probably because she wanted to forget the husbands. Joyce Carol Oates, whose still small centre is offset by the dynamo that produces her novels and short stories. Emily Dickinson, even her poems bashful, so brief and elliptical, full of withholding. Albert Einstein, shyer than any equation. Edgar Allan Poe, tormented by his imagination, the very pennies left on his grave reclusive. Lucille Ball, despite or because of her exuberant laughter. Eleanor Roosevelt, determined to live up to her own plainness. Glenn Gould, whose control and intimacy trumped theatricality, an architecture of precision. Greta Garbo, who wanted not only to be alone but to be left alone, who went from a shy soap-lather girl in a barbershop to a woman wearing oversize sunglasses on the streets of New York, part of her elusive mystique her resistance to garrulousness. J.D. Salinger, practitioner of charismatic glossolalia, a man for whom writing was a pleasure but the publication of that writing an interruption. Bob Dylan, the changeable troubadour, reclusive as folk itself, manifestly uncomfortable. Barbra Streisand, fearful of perfection’s reach. And Robert De Niro, donning and shucking character parts, his evasive eyes refusing to accede, every performance a detour from shyness.

  And me, not at all famous or important, a consummate deceiver.

  I am shy. Not painfully shy, but oxymoronically so, like a puzzling conjunction, meticulously dishevelled or subtly exaggerated.

  I am shy but I am not inhibited. I am not phobic. I often avert my eyes, but I don’t stare at my shoes when I speak. I do not suffer from “social anxiety disorder.” (Can any further disorders adorn the necks of ordinary people and their characters?) If I were to be diagnosed, some expert would probably categorize me as a “shy extrovert,” someone who performs well (or seems to) externally, but who experiences even in the midst of a talk or a performance (and I do plenty of those), painful thoughts and feelings.

  I cover my shyness well, with the expertise born of years of practice. I can face a lecture hall, I know how to look confident and engaged, but inside, I am curled in a nautilus of—not fear or loathing or terror—just shyness, an ineffable combination of diffidence, reticence, and privacy that is mine alone. Perhaps one reason I don’t seem shy is that I want to protect my shyness from people, especially those quick to make judgements and pronouncements, who insist on telling me what and how and who I am, who are quick to assess, quick to dismiss, and even quicker to condemn. My shyness is the secret I hold close, insulate from harm.

  My character traits overlap shyness. I am overly helpful because I am shy. I try too hard to include people, to make them
feel comfortable, because I am shy. And I abhor hurting people’s feelings. I will resort to lies in order to avoid conflict. Of course, because of these chameleonic tendencies, I am often misread, and people feel compelled to give me stick, to misinterpret my hermitic container.

  Shyness is a condition that people misunderstand. In a time of glib essentialism, we have come to believe that shyness means silence, modesty, negation. We’ve been told that shy people are incapable, inarticulate. I am neither, and I appear to be the opposite: capable, articulate, and confident. I am not silent or modest or even self-effacing; I speak well, I know my own abilities, and I will step up to the microphone or the podium with some tremor, but an overall ability to handle the moment.

  I resist the tendency to pathologize or to psychologize every trait I possess; it’s a cheap way to live, when it seems to me better to simply deal with the characteristics I have acquired, by both inheritance and experience.

  I can trace this reserve to the footprint of being a child of immigrants. I have been, my entire life, shy about my background, my family story, my compressed and always inadequate skill, training and achievement. Some would tell me that I suffer from imposter syndrome, an inability to trust my own competence; but unlike the incompetent, who usually do not recognize their own incompetence, I know that I am capable, even accomplished. Occasionally, I surprise myself.

  But the indelible ink of origins watermarks every person. I map my shyness back to my childhood and a time when I developed my wide-eyed and irritating curiosity. Growing up in a rural community, seeing only a few people besides my family, meant that outsiders and visitors were to me strange creatures, exotic acrobats. I watched them unobtrusively, from corners or behind doors, recording their words and actions, gathering up every strand of information that I could. Knowing silent children are usually ignored, I stared and stared, curiosity coded by observational intensity, my scrutiny like the glare of a headlamp. If spoken to, I fled. I learned looking, the human trait that has enabled our species to survive in desperate situations. I wanted to know everything I could decipher about the world, but in the process of all I was accumulating, I did not want to reveal my own gaze, and I did not want the world to look at me. In the confused and shifting confines of my youth, with immigrant parents straddling their own transformation from European to Canadian, their own trade-off of languages and customs, I could not imagine who I was. I had to figure out humans and where I belonged in relation to them by watching carefully, by staring hard. Those early encounters shaped my practice as a writer, that of an observer, vigilant but separate, self-contained. And there resides the kernel of my insistent shyness. I notice, pay attention. But I prefer not to be watched or noticed. I want to be invisible.