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This is a rather droning paper I did for English. Gaia lets me print it on the other computer...
I Wore a Mask and My Face Grew to Fit It
If I force my mind to sift through sands of ancient first grade memories, an image of my undiluted, young self appears. Her image is slightly decayed and chipped with age, but has enough life to convey a social “drifter.” She was a person who, as sporadically as a butterfly, would flutter from one group to another with her face changing ceaselessly to suit the mood. See this picture here, where she is chatting up meaningless clouds of gibber jabber? Or here, where she jumps to forego the chatter with a goofy game of keep away? Or perhaps here, where she stops to confide in a boy who would rather speak in pictures? This ancient image will eventually fade to dust. I hid her away a long time ago, and she might be gone from my history forever.
The social ease I had in my first few years of school were bolstered by my mother’s presence as the school’s counselor. Long before kindergarten I walked the halls of Thalia to my mom’s office. I met the teachers, knew the hallways, became absorbed in the school. It was familiar to me as my backyard was familiar, and therefore I sat in my classes with the comfort of my favorite swing. Back then most of us were too young to know what it meant to truly exclude someone; therefore, I felt no worries about having to hide my true self to fit in. This freedom changed the year after we moved.
Third grade displaced me into a strange, new school. I still remember getting lost from the bathroom the first time, and how I suddenly realized how fond I had been of Thalia. I didn’t like the new playground because it burned in the sun. Thalia’s had been in the shade. I didn’t like the classes that were tucked away in strange places. I knew where all the Thalia classrooms were. The library was all the way at the front of the school and I never passed it unless I tried. At Thalia I could peek in to see all of the books waiting for me there.
Most importantly of all, the kids at Kingston were mean! At least, that is what I thought at the time. It was partly true, of certain kids in any case. Third grade was the dawn of my first experience of judgment. At my little four-table island I desperately wanted to shake off my uneasiness. Taking a chance, I told the table a silly joke my friends and I had made up last year. My friends and I had nearly spit out juice at the joke, so surely the Kingston kids would also. If their silence didn’t convince me otherwise, their looks surely did. That joke was stupid, those looks said. You’re stupid, sneered those looks. So I kept my mouth shut when the next opportunity came around.
I did eventually make a friend that year. She was also new and we both had the same, easy going personality. Social drifter that I was, I had never really had just one best friend before. In a way, it was kind of nice to have someone I knew well enough to share anything with. We could share the silly right along with the serious and the rest of the year had much less of an edge. However, like all good things, her company slipped away too soon. The Navy moved her family to California and I was left to start fourth grade all over again.
Somehow, talking became even more a leap than the year before. Perhaps it was because the cliques of middle and high school were starting to take more of a shape in fourth grade, as evidenced by my next choice in friends. These friends were not so easy going. They often got into fights with each other and giggled meanly at what some other girl was wearing. They had Cheshire cat grins, hiding something mysterious and possibly cruel. Usually there were only three of us, and two of them preferred each other to me. To my eyes, all other social circles were closed to me, so I allowed myself to just sit and listen - to be the “quiet one” that they wanted me to be. The truth was, other people would have been perfectly happy to be friends with my talkative self. But I allowed a few cases to blind my eyes to those willing people and I was soon the “quiet one” to everyone.
I managed to find a more stable friendship in fifth grade. She was much kinder, but she also was much less sure of herself. Often I would see my words get bent into some form of insult and anything I tried to say afterwards was frozen over by a cold shoulder. I soon learned that I had to be very cautious with what I said, or the wrong throw of a word could get me into trouble. My mom and others now noticed how quiet I had become. A couple of people pushed me to be louder, more outspoken, more sociable. These urgings made me aware of the mask that had been placed on me. The mask of silence was a strange one, and I could never quite explain to my mom why I couldn’t take it off. How would it look if I went dancing into class all of a sudden, talking to all these people that didn’t even know me? I would look crazy! They knew only my mask, and I would look unrecognizable to them without it.
Middle school modified my mask and secured it closer to my face. Riveted on now, it was no longer the thin paper bag mask of the “quiet one.” Now I heard people talk about me, saying things like, “She never talks!” It wasn’t just a label, but an accusation. More people, new teachers and friends, pushed me to become louder. But I became resentful of those pushes, and sometimes I still am.
Being quiet can cause problems, and I still believe that I will eventually step forward, maskless, when the time comes. But my mask no longer seems like just a mask anymore. Silence has allowed me to just sit and observe the world and me deeper than I ever would have without it. A fondness for quiet and contemplation has become a part of me that will hopefully not leave with my mask. I became select with my words to please my friends, but I believe I will keep the introspection allowed by the mask as a treasure for myself.
 Wingwax · Thu Sep 20, 2007 @ 03:06am · 0 Comments |
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