Here was exactly the kind of torture I never subjected myself to the
whole time I was learning Spanish: a circle of silent faces waiting for me
to talk about myself. I glanced up at the glowing stained glass windows
lining the walls of the Mt Tabor Presbyterian Church community hall,
closed my eyes and said a little prayer.
One of the toddlers in the mother child play group shrieked in the
corner. Three people playing a board game laughed, the knitters at the
long table called out to a latecomer and the guy who always sits at the
table next to us, started whistling, again.
When I opened my eyes the doctor, Nike product manager, CFO, graphic
designer, therapist, nurse, computer programmer and marketing manager were
staring at me. I know what they all do for a living because every Saturday
morning we start our German conversation group by reeling off our marital
status, number of children, years in Portland, number of siblings and
profession.
One-on-one these people, ranging in age from their twenties to their
sixties, are funny, friendly and forgiving of my worst syntatic blunders.
But when I’m the only one talking my face turns red, my stomach knots and
my voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a can. I never joined one of
these groups when I was learning Spanish because talking about myself
makes me feel naked.
I wanted to learn German because my husband was born in Heidelberg
to a GI and his German war bride and because the moms at my kids’ Saturday
German School wore asymetrical haircuts and red lipstick and cried when
the Berlin Wall came down. I wanted to be like them and believe that it’s
possible for a divided nation to be made whole.
Heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears, I unclenched my jaw, said
my name and launched into a story about the rabbits in my backyard. My
husband leaves apples slices for the rabbits but if they don’t eat them a
rat shows up to carry them off.
A few people smiled and my stomach started to relax when our group
leader said, “Why are you telling us this story? You’re supposed to say a
little bit about yourself to practice some basic vocabulary.” I tried to
swallow but my mouth was so dry all I could do was press my tongue to the
roof of my mouth.
Our leader, a Bosnian war refugee who grew up in Germany, could get
off a train in a strange city and within a day master the metro system,
make five new friends and find a free outdoor concert. Beautiful, with
long dark hair, one minute she rescues you with the exact word you’re
searching for and the next she looks at you like the sounds coming out of
your mouth are odd birdcalls.
I looked down, clutched one hand in the other and said, in English,
something I’d never said out loud. “I have social anxiety. I don’t like to
talk about myself.” My head felt full, my pulse beat in my neck and my
shoulders lifted towards my ears.
The woman on my left made a low sound like she just saw a little kid
fall down, the bearded guy to my right started scrolling through his phone
and a guy across the circle, a serious look in his brown eyes, leaned
forward and said, “Have you thought about seeing a therapist?”
I sat back and let my hands fall in my lap. I’d always thought there
was something wrong with me but coming from him it sounded absurd. Fix
myself? I’m not broken. I stopped biting my lower lip.
“No,” I said.
I haven’t smoked in over thirty years but a rush of relief like the
first drag of a morning cigarette washed over me. Why had I held on to
this for so long? I looked around the silent circle. If I didn’t want
advice or pity what was there left to say? The doctor pushed her glasses
onto the top of her head and said, “I liked the rabbit story”.
Victoria Lewis grew up on the Oregon coast, taught school in Portland and worked as a computer programmer. Her writing has appeared in SweetLit, VoiceCatcher, Street Roots and other publications.
