I should be clear about something I have not yet mentioned. Your humble captain does not currently live in San Francisco. Your lie-by-omission captain does not currently live anywhere. I lived in Cambridge, MA until today. I fly to Australia and land in SFO, my new home. Technically we will be crashing with my parents in Denair, CA (outside Modesto, 90 mins from SF) until we find a proper San Francisco apartment.
So, on the plane on my long journey to Australia (via Los Angeles), my second time to the Southern Hemisphere (capitalizations correct?) but my first time Down Under - feeling that it really will be
the other side of the world in that exciting five-year-old way (I used to believe Australians went about their business dangling upside-down, their feet sticking to the earth by that strange glue "gravity") - is when I've decided to begin a journey of quite another nature.
Part of this began a few days ago when I asked my husband (will I keep up the captain metaphor of this blog and call him my first mate? Or decide that it is both too cutesy and not cheesy enough to be ironically cool?) to please help me redirect conversations with our friends while on vacation away from the topic of my novel-in-progress. I had recently come to the conclusion that this novel (a sixth or seventh attempt at a successfully complete novel) which had been so much fun to write and shown not only growth in me as a writer but also showed itself to be a solid product of my M.F.A.; this novel, which had been so well-liked by classmates, teachers and one enthusiastic literary agent; this gem of a novel needed some serious work. I had slaved away diligently on it, written a couple drafts and then proclaimed it done. I'd thought, "there is no more to do with this;" I'd been ready to send it off to the above-mentioned agent after some polishing. And then I crumpled in tears kind of like when you drop soda on a scrunched-up straw wrapper when I realized something I'd deep down known for months: it wasn't my best and it didn't say what I'd wanted it to.
After composing myself I began on a rewrite and was happy about the direction it was going. But I was exhausted and happy for our impending Australian vacation. We are headed to a friend's wedding in Melbourne and stopping in Cairns for the Great Barrier Reef, then meeting up with friends in the bride's hometown of Adelaide for some outback camping and wineries. Then on to Melbourne. I'm hoping we get to see fairy penguins...
I know I'm digressing too much. Anyways, I asked my husband to please help me change the subject when the topic of my novel comes up. And then my husband stumped me with the following question: "Why?"
"Why don't you just tell them you decided to change some things and are still working on it?"
Why?Well, because I'd told them I'd completed it. Because I'd have to admit to running into problems. Because I didn't want to go into detail.
"But just say that. Say you don't want to talk specifics. Say it bothers you. They're our
friends."
I still wasn't getting it. Finally, my exasperated husband said something out loud that I'd known about myself nearly my entire life.
"You need to learn to open up more."
I know.
Then, a few nights later, the night of my last post about the Mexican food mishap, I watched our friend Leanne befriend our Haitian cab driver immediately, causing him at one point to jump out of the car at a red light to grab a cd from his trunk because he thought she'd like it. Our drive wasn't long - 10 minutes? But she'd discovered where he was from, his favorite sports team, how to dance to Haitian music and other pieces of information. And by the end Leanne and our driver shook hands and he gifted her with a cd: "no problem, I burn them all the time." Wow, I thought. Huh. Then, on the way home, she befriended our next cab driver, a no-bullshit Bostonian who ended up knowing people she went to high school with. Huh. Wow.
I need to learn to open up more.
I'm trying to figure out when I began closing up. I've always been a contradiction in this way - I can be very loud, opinionated, trying to convince people to stay up until dawn, insisting I pay the cashier at diners when I was six, bossing my two younger sisters and one brother around, hamming it up always for the camera, performing in ballets and plays and even today happy to be the center of attention when I have something to say or do. And yet. Yet I've always suffered bouts of crippling shyness. I often withhold vital pieces of information about myself from friends I've known for years. Sure, I can travel Europe by myself with a new friend every night ... but how many close friends do I have? I've moved from California's Central Valley to Los Angeles to New York to Boston to San Francisco (soon) and each time I can feel myself pull deeper inside, shutting my true self away. And it gets harder and harder to make friends. If I list the people I consider friends, a good 90% are through my husband.
I know I'm a good time at a party, out at dinner, at a bar. I'm usually fun when liquored up although I do have my limits ("No - you listen to
me now, you, what's your name"). And so in social situations I usually hit the bottle.
But I don't talk to anyone on the phone, like, for a
conversation. I know I don't call my family nearly enough. I've been in situations when I've really tried to open up and can't find anything to say beyond books and movies and food and music and travel. I mean, I have no idea how to talk about myself (unless, of course, I'm writing).
My husband's father - who is a psychiatrist - says it's really simple: ask the other person questions about
them. The logic follows that then they ask about you. Ok, good advice. But not so simple. I am very squeamish about other people's lives. I know it makes no sense as I'm a writer, but I am always squirming when people open up to me, thinking to myself TMI! TMI! I don't ask people what they do because frankly, I don't care. I
know this is incredibly selfish of me, but in my defense, I do not want to talk about what I do either. I connect with people when I find out they like the same movies as me, or books, or travel, and it is instant love when I meet a fellow foodie. I can sit and talk to a person about a meal I had in Mexico for hours and if they reciprocate by detailing a recent 8 course tasting menu I am convinced I have a best friend. But it usually fizzles. Because apparently not everyone can sustain a friendship over conversations solely about food.
I may blame this squeamishness in part on my family (but only in part) because with such a loud, busy, competitive bunch (we're close with aunts, uncles and cousins all who live within 20 miles of each other) you gotta be quick, succinct and preferably funny. It's all about the anecdotes. It wasn't until I brought my husband down that I realized we Jaureguys communicate in anecdotes and debate, rarely getting personal. We teased my sister Lisa mercilessly when she was 6-8 years old because of her meandering stories. I attribute my storytelling abilities to this, and my humor. I learned early on that you gotta hook 'em and reel 'em in.
Also, it could come from junior high - high school in which my wonderful poker face (used when panicked or confused but apparently does not work when a man I don't like tries to buy me a drink) somehow communicated to troubled and/or insecure 13-18 year old girls to confide things in me. These were usually girls I barely knew. And it was heavy stuff too. I was also too polite to stand up for myself in a few friendships in which I gave and gave and they took and took. Luckily, I had a handful of wonderful best friends I clung to for support. But still, when the third girl whispered to me in the back of a class she'd missed her period I started to wish I had a t-shirt that said "Not storage for baggage."
Another factor may be my damnable red-faced fluster when men flirt or tease me. I am learning to do better at this but it's a habit that is difficult to break. If I like the man and don't mind the attention, I act like a normal sophisticated woman. If I don't, especially if it's offensive, I become a blushing, giggling 15 year old girl. And so, of course, the man presses on. Which has caused me to adopt the preemptive guarded fuck-you: arms crossed, skeptical face, a kind of I'm-not-going-to-give-you-a-freakin'-chance-buddy-so-don't-even-try attitude. And this may have bled into the way I deal with people in general.
I have, for the most part, had very healthy happy and open relationships with my boyfriends and now with my husband. Go figure. Lucky in love, unlucky in friendship? How weird is it that I'm great at romantic relationships and lousy at all the others?
So here is my vow: Starting with Australia, I will learn to open up more.
I will ask people about themselves and learn to listen. I will answer questions about myself truthfully without changing the subject and if it is too personal I will say so. If I err on the side of Too Much Information, sobeit. I'll pick myself off the floor of humiliation (my biggest social fear is unloading too much info on someone). Oh well. I'll learn. And I will become a better friend, sister, daughter, writer, person and maybe even a better wife. Someday, perhaps my new social skills will help me become a better mother. Because God forbid I pass this social awkwardness on to my kids.
And so the challenge begins.
We just landed in LAX.
Our flight to Sydney went from 11:50pm to 6am and I must add a rider. I will still never be the sort of person who strikes up conversation in transit. 10 minute cab rides are one thing, but I dislike talking to anyone for over four hours, forced into polite small talk when I really just want to read and contemplate. Besides, I often look forward to finishing that book on the plane or train as much as I do my final destination. So there I draw the line.
Another thought: in my novel, my protagonist Gillian
Stone can't connect with people and has no friends. And the two previous attempts at novels had similar protagonists. Hmmm.
