Talk To Me Out Loud

Be what you would seem to be -- or, if you'd like it
put more simply - Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise then
what it might appear to others that what you were or might
have been was not otherwise then what you had been would
have appeared to them to be otherwise.
.............Lewis Carroll: Alice in Wonderland

When I was growing up, the people in my home whispered a lot. In foreign languages. For instance: I’m four years old; I walk into the kitchen. My mother and grandmother look at me; then they begin to whisper to each other glancing back at me occasionally. I’m four years old – I don’t know how to say, “Is something the matter?” or “What the hell?” or “Just speak to me -- to me.” This did NOT instill confidence.

I’m seven years old. I walk into the kitchen where my mother, grandmother, and my grandmother’s sister-in-law, Sarah Prizant, are talking. (Aunt Sarah is married to Uncle Hymie – grandma’s brother who is an actor in Yiddish theatre) It’s late at night and I’ve woken from a bad dream. The women whisper to each other about me. In foreign languages. I begin to cry. They whisper more; now they’re very annoyed. So I tell them, “I dreamed that Uncle Hymie died.” My grandmother hauls off and slaps me across the face. Now they're talking all at once and I’m crying harder (no kidding!) and the phone rings. It’s another of grandma’s brothers calling from California to tell them that Uncle Hymie just died of a heart attack. No one ever mentioned that dream to me again.

I’m eight years old. It’s dinner time, and I come into the house from play. My mom and dad are whispering to each other. I have a little more courage than in earlier years and I ask, “What did I do?” (because that’s the usual scenario). My mother says that my teacher phoned from P.S.99 to tell her that I plagiarized a poem. I ask her what that means; I don’t know that word. So she tells me. She shows me the poem; I realize that she was called into school. It’s my poem called, “An Old Fashioned Girl.” It’s my poem. I tell them that. They apparently don’t believe me and they whisper to each other again. They do not talk to me. I take the poem and go quickly to my room so they won’t see me cry because they’ll call me Sarah Bernhardt and tell me I’m being melodramatic. I do not again tell them or my teachers that I write poetry; not for a very long time. In eighth grade I have a teacher, Miss McDonald, who recognizes me and encourages me to write. That year I win the National High School Poetry Association contest with a poem I wrote about the death of my Bubbe, my father’s mother. I bring them the book and hand it to them and I say, “There. See? I do write poetry, and it’s good enough to win contests.” They do not say anything to me. They whisper in foreign languages.

Do they not know that they can just talk to me? Could we not solve any problem through conversation? Whom do they see when they look at me that warns them off? Is this a universal experience? Because it’s plagued me all of my life. Friends who just vaporize without saying goodbye, and I’m left wondering what happened. What did I do? (well, that’s the fallout from my childhood.) People close to me who’d rather believe something about me told to them by someone else without asking me about it. Yakkity-yak. Even my really fine children will side-step a conversation with me if they deem it offensive or controversial. It is horribly frustrating. Especially when I know that I am wholly accessible. And I won’t run to my room crying. Sometimes in order for folks to say something to me that they believe will offend, they get angry. Well, that’s an interesting approach. Easier to fight than to talk? I don’t fight anymore. I wonder how much is never resolved. If they know me, they know I won't break, because I was broken a long time ago and am held together now with impenetrable stuff. It is a benefit of growing older.

Does this read like a pretty dumb subject? It’s just that I’ve been thinking about it lately. True, there are individuals who back-off if you try to discuss something personal or perhaps offensive. I don’t mean politics or religion. But it seems to me that a chat over a cup of coffee
(or something stronger?) is usually a reasonable solution to differences or the need to let someone know what’s on your mind. With trust and respect you can say almost anything. I’ve worked with many actors in the classroom and on the stage. Unless you’re a murderer, you don’t tell an actor that he/she sucked. You speak the truth, separating the work from the artist. Without tap dancing; without lying; without speaking in tongues. Without judgment. Who’s that guy on the television – Simon? – He’s a killer. He chooses to cause pain and humiliation (in the name of entertainment). Often saying nothing comes close to the same result. We think that silence is inaction but it is action.
Silence is a thing; it is not no thing. It can hurt.

Yes, it’s true – I have friends and relatives with whom I would not share my feelings about adverse incidents in our relationship or similar stuff. They would feel attacked and run for the hills – even if I applied all of my communication skills to the situation. Sometimes I risk it because our relationship is in jeopardy. Some things can be dealt with through humor- the great panacea - or do not have to be discussed at all. But I like to believe that I see the
people in my life; that I know to whom I can speak freely. And maybe it’s because I’m a writer, a communicator with words that I believe silence shuts us out. Or shuts us in. There’s gotta be someone who’ll tell you that your breath is bad or you sat on wet paint. Hell, I’d sure want to know that.

Talk to me. I'll listen.