In the '60s when I grew up, it was difficult not to be an introvert. We were told to use our inside voice when my sister and I sat in church, whispering and tee-heeing in the pew while the minister droned on, and on, and on.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself," was Mom's response when I commented that a lady smelled bad.
On our annual vacation to Myrtle Beach the Big Event was getting dressed up for dinner at a fancy seafood restaurant--gloves, patent leather shoes and all--and I was told to be quiet and sit still.
Children. Seen. Not heard.
People say the '60s were about revolution, challenging conventional wisdom, and letting it all hang out. Not from where I sat, on my little chair, with my legs crossed, and my hair in a swing cut, parted on the side and barretted in place like a big stupid doll. As a child in the '60s, I can honestly say the only revolution that took place in my corner of the world was when I did a little twirl from the runway of Miller's Department Store fashion show.
I didn't like that either.
To make it worse, I was taught a charming tune early on, from the movie, "Annie Get Your Gun." Sing along with me if you know it: "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you." If you don't know the song, or need reminding, click on the link below:
To me, that song was a fun little game about how really and unequivocally untalented I was, compared to only everyone else. I was 6, for crying out loud. I really couldn't do anything better than anyone. It was confirmation that there was always going to be somebody bigger, taller, prettier, stronger, funnier, nicer, smarter and meaner than I am. So why bother?
I didn't. And AS an introvert, that was fine by me.
There were times, of course, when I wanted to stand out, be noticed, or even just be heard. But my inside voice kept telling me to keep my thoughts to myself, that children should be seen and not heard. Years of practicing that habit just made me an older introvert who was, ironically, very, very good at being just that.
Finally. I had excelled at something. But nobody noticed, thank God.
So I have been my own best and worst friend, for most of my life. But two books I've recently read have helped me rethink that paradigm. Not to change into an extrovert, necessarily--just to be more accepting of who I am, and more eager to not let my own fears limit who I want to be, and who I can be. The first book is Quiet, The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. The second book is The Sixth Extinction, An Unnatural History by Elizabeth Kolbert.
Quiet helped me own my own introverted virtues. Believe me, contemplativeness is definitely a virtue, especially in a world that won't stop talking. The Sixth Extinction helped me understand that it really isn't all about me. There's a much bigger thing happening out there, and all of us--intros and extros--need to just get over it.
There is no changing your basic personality, and frankly, how many of us really want to? I will always be an introvert. I'm good with that. But I can choose not to let that label limit me. I can choose to do some "extroverted" things. I can decide not to be afraid. I can take criticism, because no one is perfect, least of all me. I can allow myself to fail, and notice that I'm still alive. So much of the beauty in humans is in the failure, and the getting back up again. The try, try, try until I may never succeed, but keep trying nonetheless, and keep moving beyond the limited view I have created for myself.
"I can do anything better than you can." The song still rolls around in my mind, but these days I change the lyrics to suit my purposes: I can do anything better than I can. Who can do me better than I?
