Who'd You Come With? #TBTstories

Throwback Thursday Stories is a new link-up series being hosted on The Mom Creative. I've been itching to write—really write—since attending the Festival of Faith and Writing last week at Calvin College. And this story is the one itching to come out.

This week: Spring 1993. I was 11.

Middle school haunts many of us, I imagine. But there's a particular moment that haunts me more frequently than others, because the very emotion of that interaction washes over me every time I go to a conference for work, like last week's Calvin Festival. I've been traveling a lot since getting back into book acquisitions last fall, and these events where my goal is to mix and mingle and meet potential authors are an introvert's nightmare.

Beyond the feeling of "please get me away from all these people and back to the isolation of my hotel room!" is the feeling of social awkwardness that plagues me. And a single moment from a sixth grade skating party replays in my mind as I navigate those crowds of strangers.

"Who'd you come with?"

This question was posed to me by a cooler classmate as we hung around the perimeter of our local rollerskating rink, Champs Rollerdrome. The walls were lined with carpet to ease the pain of impact for less skilled skaters, and above the carpeted portion were oversized pennants featuring the names of many area middle schools. (Champs knew its role as a "safe" drop-off spot for preteens who longed to socialize away from parents' watchful eyes.) I don't remember if our school was featured on one of those neon pennants, but I know there was one with the name of the private school to which I would transfer a blessed sixteen months later—a smaller school, at which a quiet, dorky girl like me could still end up as class president and editor of the yearbook.

My 8th birthday party at Champs. Amazingly, my experiences there could get more awkward than that super-eighties crimped side ponytail.

It was a birthday party for two or three classmates, one of whom I'd been in Brownies with years before and saw fit to invite me even though my place on the social ladder of sixth grade society was a few rungs below her, and even further below her co-birthday-girls.

"Who'd you come with?" another girl asked me.

"Jenny invited me," I said.

"No, who'd you ride here with?"

"My parents brought me," I said, suddenly realizing that apparently it wasn't enough to be included on a guest list. If you really fit in, you would have met up with other friends beforehand and been dropped off together by one kid's parent.

Who makes these rules?

My sense of awkwardness and not-belonging reached a whole new level after that conversation. What a strange society that sees making out on a carpeted bench by a carpeted wall, surrounded by staring classmates (as one girl and boy did, later in the party) less a source of oddity than arriving alone to the party? (I can still picture that girl, with her permed, dirty-blond hair, opening her eyes to see the circle of gawkers while she sucked face with that boy.)

Silly as it is, that question, "Who'd you come with?" runs on repeat in my head whenever 32-year-old, professional me navigates the down time between plenaries and breakout sessions at any conference where pastors, Christian writers, angsty ex-fundamentalists—anyone who might make a good author for us—gather. People walk and chat in groups of two or three, and I wonder if I'm the only one who came to the conference alone. Probably not, but could be. Pastors have colleagues that benefit from the same continuing ed events they do. Maybe they caravan and carpool to the convention center or church hosting the conference. Last week's Festival of Faith and Writing draws many non-professional writers and avid readers, friends who make a getaway of coming to hear poetry readings and insights for getting that novel you've secretly been working on for twenty years out of the drawer and into the hands of an editor who doesn't care that you don't have a platform. (Platform doesn't matter as much in fiction, after all.)

Anne Lamott delivered one of the plenaries last week, and referred to a "toxic self-consciousness" from which many of us suffer, comparing our insides to everyone else's outsides. She called out the two uninvited voices in her head: one that says "You're so much better than everyone else," and the other that says "You are a total loser." (After all, self-consciousness is a double-edged sword. Insecurity and superiority are not mutually exclusive.) Her advice was to acknowledge those unwanted guests and move on with a simple, "Thank you for sharing." Those voices don't need to be considered the truth.

"You look so cute today in your new dress, Jessica. You're so much more put-together than that lady in her mom jeans and fanny pack."

"Thank you for sharing. The Gap outlet clearance rack has some good finds, and I'm sure that lady is comfortable and well-equipped."

"You look hopelessly awkward standing there, twiddling your thumbs, waiting to talk to that speaker. Everybody must be thinking what a dork you are."

"Thank you for sharing. I'm doing my job, and there's a long line. Everybody else is probably more worried about what people are thinking of them than about whether I have self-confidence and an active social life."


I fake confidence and even extroversion fairly well, people tell me. But inside, I'm not too much different than that awkward sixth-grade girl being informed of yet another thing to feel awkward about.

"Who'd you come with?"

Just the voices in my head. But don't worry. I'm learning how to shut them up.

Mr. Brightside

(or Ms. Brightside, but I've had that song by The Killers in my head all day)

As I was washing my hands in the ladies' room today, a coworker rushed in, clearly frustrated, and after making sure all stalls were empty, proceeded to vent about the meeting she'd just left. Some change to a product was making her have to redo at least several days' worth of work, and she was understandably miffed. What had really bothered her, though--even more than the extra work--was how the person breaking the news made light of the issue, saying it wasn't a big deal and wouldn't take much time at all. My coworker has a good work ethic, and despite the annoyance of it, would be able to redo the work just fine... but she wanted validation. She wanted understanding. She wanted some empathy.

I was happy to oblige, and told her "that really stinks." No one could accuse me of being a Pollyanna, but in a situation like this, I think that's okay.

Optimism is a good thing. Hope is a very good thing. But sometimes, looking on the bright side isn't helpful. When someone is on the dark side of a situation, sometimes they don't want to see the bright side. They just want to know that it's okay for them to be on the dark side right now.

I once asked a counselor how to respond to someone's constant self-deprication. I had tried repeatedly telling the person how wonderful/smart/attractive/worthy they were, refuting every bad thing they said about themselves, but it never seemed to help. The counselor told me to stop negating everything they said, and just say "I'm sorry you feel that way." In most cases, you're not going to change their mind, just make them dig in deeper. But empathy will go a long way to defusing their pain.

What do you think? When you are upset, do you feel better when someone points out the silver lining, or would you rather they acknowledge the cloud and help you hold your umbrella?

Lettin' It All Hang Out

It’s a generally accepted rule that we act the worst with the people closest to us, right? We say things to our spouses, parents, children, that we would never say to a boss, friend, or even total stranger (anonymous angry blog comments excluded), because we know our close family members will continue to love us and maybe even like us in spite of our bad behavior.

This would explain why I was a total brat to my parents between the ages of 12-14 (though my mom would probably expand that range by four years on either side), while being perceived as a perfect angel by teachers and neighbors. I know this is true of me now with Matt, as I nag and gripe while being (mostly) sweet to (almost) everyone else. I feel like a hypocrite, hiding my true colors, but I think most people can probably relate to this “rule” of life and relationships.

I am amazed at how early children learn that rule. I’ve read articles saying how kids that are perfect in school will suddenly morph into rabid iguanas on their way out to the car with Mom or Dad, and that that is totally normal because kids know Mom and Dad will still love them even when they act that way. They can let their guard down and express even the less-appealing sides of their personalities. It doesn’t mean they are “bad” kids at home, or that they are being fake at school, just that they’ve learned to control their lesser impulses when out in public.

Even toddlers seem to develop their “public personalities” as they amaze everyone with their sweetness at church or in a store, while throwing crazy tantrums at home. Sure, they occasionally still have the meltdowns in the produce aisle that we all wish we could have some days, but the major fuss-fests are usually reserved for parents’ eyes only.

This all came to mind around noon today, when I thought of Kate going down for her naptime at school. At home, if we put her in her crib when she’s not really tired, she will stand up, jump up and down, rattle her cage, and scream. At school, surely she is not always tired when the teacher declares it is naptime, but even without two-foot bars to hold her in, she always goes to sleep on her cot without much fuss. I picture her toddling over to her cot and laying down quietly while the teacher sits and has her lunch in peace.

“If only she knew!” I think. But I’m sure her kids are the same way, and the truth of the matter is I’m glad Kate feels confident enough in our unconditional love to let it all hang out when she’s upset.

Now if I can just remember that when she’s thirteen.

Be Kind to Yourself

Not to sound all Stewart Smalley here (the “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough” guy), but I’ve recently discovered the power of positive self-talk. Or rather, the power of controlling my negative self-talk.

Like many people, I am quick to criticize myself.

After having a less-than-productive day: “I’m so lazy. What a loser.”
After a business meeting: “Ugh! I am just the most socially-awkward person on earth!”
After reflecting on a memory from my adolescence: “What a clueless freak! How did my parents tolerate me?”

I don’t know how I suddenly developed this skill, but lately I’ve been able to quickly counter those thoughts with things like:
“You are not a loser. Don’t say such cruel things to yourself.”
“You are definitely not the most awkward person on earth. In fact, for an extreme introvert, you do pretty well.”
“Adolescence is a difficult time for most people. No need to wallow in it 10+ years after the fact.”

I feel like a therapist or a school counselor when I say this (and frankly, this is somewhat out of character for me), but… be kind to yourself.

Sometimes people criticize themselves out loud, fishing for a compliment. Sometimes people act shy and humble when others praise them. Sometimes people feel more righteous if they self-flagellate and dwell on their sins and shortcomings.

I’m not really talking about any of those things. This is between you and you. Or perhaps between you and God. Can you imagine what God would reply to the bad things you say to yourself?

“Don’t talk about my child that way.”
“You are precious to me and have many special gifts.”
“I love you for exactly who you are.”

I wish I could remember who said this, but I read it just recently… Why do we accept criticism as truth and dismiss praise as empty words? What if we reversed that?

Be kind to yourself and open your ears to the kinder voices. Do you hear them?