A few years ago I went on a book-buying spree and picked up Susan Cain's Quiet, the revolutionary book about introversion and extroversion that talks about why introversion is not a negative thing, as so many of us suppose, but simply another type of temperament. The yin to the yang our culture has chosen as the ideal. I read about half of it, then, for whatever reason, stopped in the midst of everything going on in my life. But a week or so ago I picked it up again, started from the beginning and finally finished it. And I can truly say that this book has completely changed my outlook on myself and given me so much peace of mind. So much so, that I want to write about it because, for once, this is a personal experience and struggle I've gone through that I really do want to share with people. So I suppose I'll start from the beginning.
I've always shown signs of being an introvert, without really being aware of the term early on in my life. I was the girl who was perfectly content to draw for hours on end, would fall asleep with The Velveteen Rabbit open on my chest, and overreact to the tiniest of problems in my world, from the toe line on my sock being in the wrong place to not knowing how something would be before experiencing it. I even came out of the womb crying like crazy, reacting to everything around me and apparently screaming in protest that maybe I wasn't quite ready to be out in the world yet. And in many early pictures of me as a baby and throughout elementary school, you can tell that I had been crying right before they were taken. Off the top of my head I can think of at least three or four instances connected to these pictures that my family still loves to tease me about, including one picture when I was about five when my parents had to put a tarp down on top of the fall leaves we were sitting on so I wouldn't be terrified of the possibility of spiders crawling onto me during our family pictures. In another taken a few years later, I'm sitting on a bale of hay holding a pumpkin and looking very upset. Classic Camryn. I felt deeply, I cared deeply, and I definitely had my boundaries between where comfort existed and where danger was sure to dwell. Though I was deeply imaginative and chatty and loved entertaining my family at home, I clung to my mother's legs in public like a frightened deer overwhelmed by the headlights of new experiences and unfamiliar people. When I first started school, though, my mom had no problems dropping me off for afternoon Kindergarten. She says I was completely in my element there. So, I was highly sensitive, living in my own inner world, yet socially adept enough to enjoy school and making friends and being around others once I got acclimated to them. It's not that I wasn't social—I was just social in a different way. But I always knew that I was different, and at first this wasn't an issue. And as I read Quiet, I realized that none of the characteristics of introverted people are really an issue: I knew I preferred talking to others one-on-one or in small groups rather than talking before an audience or speaking up in a larger group setting. I spent most of my time in my head. I was constantly observing, constantly evaluating, constantly aware of my surroundings. I was happy to spend an afternoon doodling or writing or reading a book. I preferred to have fewer friends, but closer ones. I could tell which of them were genuinely my friends and those who weren't so honest and kind in their intentions. I liked to work by myself, spent HOURS on school projects going way above and beyond on them—especially if any level of art or creativity were involved—and absolutely hated being in front of people or having all eyes on me.
But unfortunately, that last aspect of my introversion became the detriment to my confidence. Because, as I grew up and went through the public school system, having an outward, bubbly, loud-mouthed, easy-going personality became something to be valued. Not only by my peers, but also by many of my teachers, adults I knew, and society in general. Suddenly, I had a reason to allow this aspect of myself to become something negative, that I came to view as a fear, a weakness, and a part of me that was holding me back from being what I perceived as my "best self." A self that I couldn't ever attain because of this horrible, embarrassing, unfortunate problem I had of not feeling comfortable being the center of attention or speaking up in class. And I hated it. I lived with the constant tension of wanting to feel fine just being quiet, while beating myself up at the same time for being that way. Why couldn't I just make comments left and right and loudly make a joke in class like everyone else seemed capable of doing? I knew I was smart, I had a reputation for it too, but only those I got close to or spent a lot of time around knew how I really was--goofy, fun, compassionate, and bursting with things to say. Over the years I would toggle back and forth between telling myself that I was okay with who I was, that it didn't matter that I didn't speak up because most of the people who did didn't know what they were talking about anyway and everyone already knew I wasn't stupid--finding a sassy brand of solace in the phrase "'Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak aloud and remove all doubt" and having this sort of "stick it to the man" rebellious attitude about the fact that I was perfectly fine sitting on the periphery of the classroom and not saying a word and no one could tell me that was bad, and feeling completely horrible about myself and upset with what I thought was a limitation, and being embarrassed that everyone must have thought I was so shy and quiet and lame for not being comfortable being brash and witty in groups greater than four or so people. And, obviously, this became a huge problem for me. Probably the biggest, hardest problem I had to deal with—and really, the only thing holding me back in life. The saddest thing is what was holding me back was myself. And I lived constantly believing that I needed to "fix" this about myself.
I remember each year before school would start, thinking that I'd be different that year. That year, I would command the classroom. I would sit in the front, boldly challenge my teachers, and earn the respect of all of my classmates. That year, I would show them what I was really like. I would "come out of my shell." Oh, that phrase. One year at a summer girls' camp, when I was fourteen, I remember an older girl I looked up to writing me a note about how she had gotten to know me better as she spent time in our camp and that I'd really "come out of my shell." I remember that meaning SO much to me. I treasured that note. I felt like I was finally becoming that awesome person I'd always wanted to be, and OH MY GOODNESS this girl had noticed and told me and it felt so affirming and amazing. (I realize now that the reason she said that and felt that I had come out of my shell was because we were spending time in a small group, with people I already felt comfortable around, and she had simply never been in that type of setting with me. I wasn't acting any differently at all.) But, when school rolled around a month later and I thought things would be different, like always, they weren't. Like always. I was the same petrified girl I always was in the classroom, inwardly churning with frustration and wondering why I couldn't just change. Why was it so hard for me to open my mouth and not care that people were looking at me or listening to me or simply acknowledging my presence? Over and over again, I decided that there was something wrong with me. I, a flawed, lame, scaredy cat, would never change and therefore, in my eyes, never be a "better person." The person I wanted to be. Perhaps in college I'll change, though, I said. I won't know the people in my classes, there will be thousands of people instead of the same kids I grew up with for years, and I can completely reinvent myself and no one will know I used to be so quiet.
But, there I was in college with the same thing happening all over again. What I turned into my fear years ago haunted me all through my schooling, and bothered me right up until the last day of college. I'm not kidding. A couple of years ago, I got a paper back from a teacher I admired with a comment on the back where she wrote about how surprised she was that this came out of me, "the girl who barely makes a peep in class," and that she wished I would say more since I had such good ideas and wrote so well. And on the first day of a memoir writing class I took, when instructed to sum ourselves up by writing a six word memoir, I wrote "Trapped inside; I hold the key." This clearly was a big issue to me. I mean, "trapped?" That's quite the word to use when you only have six words to define yourself. This short memoir, in six words, accurately summarizes what I thought was wrong with myself, and my belief that I was the only one who could fix it—and that it apparently needed to be fixed. Looking back, how sad is it that I chose to define myself so negatively? So harshly? I had made this negative emotion such a part of myself that I couldn't see myself without it.
Right before my final year of college began, I did the same thing I always did, again. I would be different this last year. In my last year I would be the most confident and okay-with-myself I had ever been. I was married, I was happy, I was surrounded by wonderful people I loved, I would be so sure of myself and not care what people thought! But there I was, turning into the same shy turtle tucking into my shell and beating myself up harder than ever. Because I was a college senior, dangit, and I should be better than this. I particularly dreaded going to the class of a certain professor who liked to call on me and ask if I had anything to add near the end of class. Obviously, I didn't, because I didn't raise my hand, thank you very much. I hated that I was being treated like a nervous five-year-old who needed to be poked and prodded to "come out of her shell." Who needed to participate in class more. Contribute. But I also hated that it just wasn't easy for me to do so. And the worst part was that I loved this professor, I loved the class, and I wanted to live up to the greatness she obviously saw in me. There was just that disconnect between writing down insights and observations and voicing them aloud. In my final year of college, I still felt like there was something wrong with me, and that I was a failure because of this. I got so embarrassed. And if I ever dared to make a comment, I hated how surprised everyone looked that I just stopped doing it altogether.
Near the end of my last semester, one of my professors chose to shake up the traditional style of class discussion one day by putting the class roll in the middle of four desks he moved in front of the room and telling us that if we wanted to get our points for being there that day, we had to go up to the front at some point, sit in one of the discussion chairs, and say something about the text. I wasn't just nervous, I was ticked. How dare he make us play a game like puppets, jumping through this arbitrary hoop to get four points for showing up and doing the reading that day. How dare he try to push us, twenty-something adults, into speaking by treating us like children. And how dare he do that on the day we were discussing an incredibly boring Dickens novel. Sure, I could have stepped up there, taken my turn, and awkwardly said something about the actions of a character or parroted some aspect of the novel's theme we had already talked about. But such an action felt so hollow, so forced, and so absolutely unnecessary that instead of being a good girl and walking up there to help diversify the amount of people making comments in class, I put my notebook into my backpack, stood up, and forfeited my points for the day (after an inner struggle and worrying about what everyone would think for about thirty minutes, of course). But then I laughed at myself on the way to the bus, because for once, I realized that I didn't really care. He could try to force me into it, but going so far out of my comfort zone just wasn't worth those four points to me. (This attitude was probably influenced by my senioritis as well, but still.)
And now, after reading Quiet, I realize that there was never anything wrong with me this entire time. Never. I simply was living in a world and a classroom environment that was geared toward the extroverted. And because of that, I made myself feel like there was something wrong with me, instead of realizing that some people are naturally more extroverted than others, that that is okay, and that our culture puts extroversion on a golden pedestal as the ideal we should all aspire to. But, though that really isn't fair, I don't have to let myself be terrorized by that reality. I don't have to want to be someone that I'm not. I don't have to feel bad when I decide to simply listen instead of making a comment, or choose a career path that isn't as "out there" as others might aim for. We all function differently, and we all have different levels of stimulation where we feel comfortable at. But that doesn't mean I should stay trapped inside myself, either.
In her book, Susan Cain talks about how and when introverts can act beyond their usual limits and do things like speak in front of people without wanting to die or run meetings and committees while feeling at ease. And the key is if they feel and care deeply about the things they're speaking about or working for. When I read this section a lightbulb went off in my head and I remembered all of the times growing up where I did things completely out of character and didn't feel scared. There was the time in 5th grade when I decided to do a project about Monet and I made this awesome poster with all of his paintings that I liked on it and I stood up in front of the class and actually enjoyed myself. There was that time in 7th grade Biology when we had to do a project about any species that we wanted to study, I chose salamanders, and for my poster I cut salamander shapes out of all sorts of colorful, glittery fabric and put them all around the background I had sponged with different shades of green, gray, and brown to look like a swampy environment and my heart didn't leap out of my chest when I presented my project to the class. And, in high school, there was that time I used a charting system of paper on the board to talk about the plot of The Great Gatsby, complete with red Xs I'd put on top of the characters when they died, my presentation on witchcraft in England and Salem in the 1600s and all of the various means used to torture accused witches when I felt like the class was putty in my hands, and finally, the time I somehow got second place in a regional SPEECH competition that our teacher made mandatory and I felt completely at ease while standing in front of my peers delivering it—both times. It used to bother me that sometimes it wasn't so hard, while other times it was, but now I realize that it was because I was fully prepared for all of these particular moments in the spotlight, I spent a lot of time making them the best I could, and I genuinely was excited or interested about the things I was talking about. That was the key to comfortably stepping into more extroverted shoes.
This makes sense of something that happened to me a few months ago, too. Our English department has an annual symposium that students are encouraged to submit research papers to that they would then present in different panels to whoever showed up--which could be fellow students, family, faculty, and anyone mildly interested in the panel theme. Instead of doing this, because it would mean having to present in front of what could be dozens of people, I decided instead—at the gentle prodding of one of my favorite professors—to publish a paper I wrote for his class in a student journal. Not long afterwards, I was notified that it was chosen for publication, and I felt awesome knowing that not only would I be published, but I had successfully done something exciting that didn't involve speaking in front of people. I could now graduate without feeling like a complete loser. Perfect. But, the editor of the journal eventually emailed me and asked for me to present my paper being published on the journal's symposium panel featuring some of the best work in the next edition. At first, I wanted to say no, but I decided to do it anyways, and although I was way out of my comfort zone, I was passionate about what I had written, and because of that the experience wasn't so bad. I, an introvert, finally said all of the words I hadn't been saying in my classes in those twenty minutes of presentation, and I felt amazing afterwards. Awkward, but amazing.
So, though it will probably take quite a while for me to stop thinking about certain aspects of my temperament so negatively—as those feelings are so ingrained within me—I'm glad that I finally realize that I am fine. I am okay. There is nothing wrong with the fact that I don't light up at any opportunity to address a crowd. I wish I had realized this sooner. I have other strengths, and Quiet has reminded me of what they are and shown me how to best use them. I am really good at listening. I am conscientious, observant, and notice things that others pass by. I feel deeply, and often care about the feelings of others more than my own. Because I work well independently, I am more prone to excelling creatively and crafting something in that solitude that will be worthwhile to others. I can be that person someone has a long, intimate conversation with when they need it most. And I can more closely touch the lives of those around me because of, not in spite of the fact that I prefer to work behind the scenes, outside the rays of the spotlight. The world couldn't function if we were all the same, if we were all Steve Jobses and Aarons and Martin Luther King Jr.s. Yes, they are important, but so are the Steve Wozniaks and the Moseses and the Rosa Parkses who aren't so comfortable standing on a stage in Silicon Valley, speaking before all of the Israelites, or at the podium of a civil rights rally.
And though these introverted types of people are quiet, there's no reason why anyone should ever forget them in the midst of the extroverts among us, or for them to think less of themselves. We all have a part to play, and isn't that wonderful?
I'm starting to see that it is.
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For those who would like to know more about
Quiet, Susan Cain gave a
Ted Talk that sums up the majority of her research and ideas and should give you a good idea of why you really need to drop what you're doing and read her book, now. Whether you're an introvert yourself, or if you know one—and you definitely do.
Also, for those interested in the Myers-Briggs Personality Test, I'm an INFJ.
