don't knock it till you try it: confidence

"I feel that Shannon is very confident but sometimes chooses not to show her confidence." --anonymous "360 degree feedback" from a coworker

I was recently sent off to take part in a "leadership development" program, paid for by my corporate employer. Part of the program involved soliciting "360 degree feedback" from a selection of my coworkers and then obsessing over the negative comments (while ignoring the positive ones) in a small-group setting.

"What should Shannon do differently?" asked one of the anonymous, open-response questions.

• "Shannon should consider working more on speaking up in meetings."
  
  


• "Speak up more and offer her opinion. She has really good things to say but sometimes keeps her thoughts to herself."
  
  


• "Shannon tends to be very quiet in meetings. I would encourage her to dramatically increase the amount she speaks up."

These comments came from three different people, but they basically summarize the feedback from all seven of my coworkers who were surveyed about my weaknesses. There was a consensus. I am way too quiet--so quiet it's troubling, a professional liability.

I was completely irritated by the comments--so clearly did they seem to be a critique of my essential personality. "Become an extrovert RIGHT NOW!" seemed to be the directive. And indeed, outspoken people are clearly respected and rewarded in my workplace. (Whether or not what they say has any value is secondary at best.)

But I don't like to "play the game." In fact, I have a juvenile drive to openly defy people and principles I don't agree with, and am mystified by people who don't react the same way. For example, one time a coworker complimented my new short haircut. "I wish I could cut my hair like that," she lamented.

"Why can't you?" I asked. "You'd look great with short hair!"

She sighed. "My husband would kill me," she said. "He just loves my long hair!"

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, feeling excited in a confrontational sort of way. "In that case, you should shave your entire head. Do it tonight!"

I guess what I'm saying is, I realize that blowhards are rewarded at my company, and I think that's stupid. But if I could just get over it and learn to spout off more inane comments in meetings, people would probably leave me alone. I'd earn some respect, and maybe people would stop questioning how much I "want it" (answer: not much).

"The only limits she will experience in her career are limits she puts on herself," wrote one coworker. Indeed, in true American fashion I am the only thing getting in the way of fantastic success (or my "infinite potential", as they put it). Never mind the rampant institutionalized sexism at my company, as illustrated by a quick scan of the board of directors and the "senior leadership team."

(Hmm. I'm thinking sexism--and the way I should totally not talk about it if I want to be cool--should probably be the focus of another post.)

So in summary, the comments about my problematic introversion seriously bothered me. But after giving it some time to sink in, I realized that they might have a point--that I might be doth protesting too much or whatever. It's true that I don't blather on and on in meetings, and I really believe that it's because I don't say stuff unless I have something meaningful to contribute. But is that maybe only part of the whole story?

I read through the comments again and noticed another theme that I wasn't as eagar to acknowledge, one having to do with things like "confidence" and "courage."

I have a complicated relationship with the idea of confidence. That is, I think somewhere along the line I replaced my idea of "confidence" with what is actually "arrogance." When I hear the word "confident" I picture a strutting, bragging, self-satisfied asshole. Or maybe a hip-swaying, judgemental, "won't-take-no-for-an-answer" bitch.

"Gross, I don't want to be like that!" I often think to myself when I debate whether or not I should display my confidence by, oh I don't know, standing up for myself in the face of a bitchy comment from some judgemental, hip-swaying female. "I'm just not stooping to her level," I tell myself I as I in fact stoop, prostrate myself and offer up my spine to her tasteless but effective spike heels.

It's kind of a harsh thing to realize that what you thought of as a harmlessly modest and self-effacing style is probably just a nicer way of describing what is essentially the quality of being spineless, self-hating and weak.

I mean, it's almost enough to get me to start sharing my real opinions and speaking to the injustices I see and stuff! Then again, I hate people who think their opinions are more important than anyone else's, and really, who I am to say what's right or wrong? Plus, I haven't thought things through and my judgement might be clouded by unattractive, irrational, stereotypically female emotion. Yeah, fuck it, never mind.

don't knock it till you try it: nonconsensual friendship

One day during my freshman year of college, some random dude approached me in the cafeteria.

"Hey, you're Shannon, right?"

I confirmed that I was.

"Yeah, Jason's told me all about you." He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me, letting me imagine, I suppose, just what that might mean.

I gazed longingly at my preferred solo spot in Kagin (behind the pillar next to the dessert table) but I knew, with a sinking feeling in my heart, that today I would not have the luxury of dining alone.

My initial impressions of "Gordon" were mixed. When he first approached I assumed he was harmless--so closely did he resemble a 12-year-old boy. But then he launched into it, and he immediately established himself as one of my most despised collegiate types--the big talker. He wasted little time letting me know all about his love of Foucault and "Brit pop" (surprise, surprise, what with his soon-to-be-revealed habit of ending every conversation with a studiously offhanded "cheers").

As is often the case with these types, I noticed that he didn't bother to ask me anything about myself. Another thing I noticed was the notable discrepancy between how cool he thought he was and how cool he actually was. I mean, seriously. Those glasses! That sweatshirt! But the aura of condescension was undeniable. "Oh right," I realized. "Another dude who feels smugly superior to me."

So it can only be explained as one of life's mysteries how I ended up being friends with this guy. Unlike a traditional friendship, with a slow-ish courtship phase where you get to know each other and figure out if you're really "meant to be", Gordon was just suddenly there, like a mango fly. One minute I was minding my own business, smoking cigarettes alone on the quad, and the next, Gordon was inviting himself over to my parents' house for dinner.

"So, do you ever go visit your parents on the weekend?" (I was a townie, he was from some other state.)

"Well, yeah, um, sometimes..." I mumbled, trying to sound noncommittal.

"How about this weekend? Ask your parents if I can come over for dinner this weekend."

I did not ask my parents if Gordon could come over for dinner that weekend, but when they invited me over a few weeks later, I halfheartedly mentioned that a "friend" of mine was really eager to invite himself over. My parents were always interested in meeting my friends, so they thought this was a fine idea. A sense of creeping dread set in.

I remember nothing of the dinner, but I do remember how, shortly after we arrived at my parents' house, Gordon asked them if they had any records. (Of course he was a DJ.) They indicated that yes, they did have some records. Gordon asked where they were; my parents replied that they were in the basement. Gordon then descended straightaway into the lower level, where he remained for about 45 minutes.

He eventually re-emerged with a stack of LPs. "I'm going to borrow these," he announced.

"Um," I said, my way of protesting righteously.

"Okay, sure, you can borrow those..." said my mom, trying to be nice.

I was mortified; he took the records.

Sometime in the weeks that followed I had a falling out with Gordon that involved junior-high-girl social scheming and double crossing. I was livid. I hadn't even consented to the frienship, and now he was sabotaging it? I went over to his apartment to retrieve my parents' possessions.

After accounting for the records, I made an attempt to confront him about his actions. The exchange went something like this:

Me: "I can't believe the way you lied."

Gordon: "What are you talking about? I didn't lie about anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

Me: "You know, there's just no denying that you lied. Can't you just say you're sorry?"

Gordon: "I didn't lie about anything, you're delusional, your anger is just a 're-action' to you're white American middle-class positionality, etc. etc."

Me: "God, you're pretentious! I will never speak to you again."

And in the year that followed, I was true to my word, despite sharing at least two classes with Gordon and numerous mutual acquaintances. At the time, I was aware that my resolve was juvenile, and maybe (extremely) petty.

You would think that, with the passage of time, my take on the matter might have changed--that perhaps I would look back wistfully, wishing that my younger, less generous self had embraced the spirit of forgiveness and consented to at least make eye contact.

But plenty of time has passed, and looking back, I'm even more sure that I did the right thing. With people like that, zero tolerance is the only policy. Here's to choosing your own friends!

don't knock it till you try it: ironic fashion

"Irony is an attitude that is best expressed orally, not sartorially." --Hadley Freeman, The Meaning of Sunglasses

I'm not sure that I agree with Hadley, because I have long been a dedicated advocate of ironic style. (Can you spot the cutesy Kinks reference I so painstakingly tried to obscure?) I got started in high school, trying all the usual things, like tacky vintage dresses, polyester man pants and "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant" maternity t-shirts from the 80s. Hilarious!

Ironic fashion was pretty much a given at arts high school, so when a fellow classmate admired my "I'm Proud to be a Christian!" t-shirt I didn't think for a second that she'd taken the message seriously. "I know," I said, "isn't it great?!?" She agreed that it was, and then asked me if was interested in joining her bible study group. I declined her invitation, feeling both guilty (I tricked an earnest Christian with my shirt! I'm going to hell...) and indignant (Jesus, it's obviously a joke!).

I really hit my stride in college, where I was surrounded by peers who were also interested in making cultural statements through their wardrobes. At this point I dismissed much of my clothing from high school as "too obvious" and began to search the DAV thrift store for more subtle fare.

For example, I recall with some embarrassment my dubious obsession with the little boys' clothing department--an untapped resource, as far as I was concerned. This exploration started innocently enough (the shrunken striped polo shirts were reasonably "indie rock" and that hockey sweatshirt from Inver Grove Heights was almost acceptable) but it quickly spiraled into absurdity.

For example, I remember purchasing not one but three tiny mesh basketball jerseys during a burst of thrift-store induced mania. I was convinced that I was going to start a hilarious new trend. I remember wearing one of the jerseys to a party, believing my style to be very advanced and expecting appreciative comments. But no one said anything about it, and I started to question my motives. What was I trying to prove with my witty little outfits? Was my silly clothing an attempt to distract people from the fact that I had an underdeveloped personality? Did this have something to do with my failure to convince [_____] to date me?

Then I got another five drinks and put those questions out of my mind. I spent the greater part of my 20s wandering around thrift stores and estate sales, obsessively adding to my collection of 70s sunglasses from France, West Germany and Austria.

But at some point in the past couple years, I had to take a hard look at things. Much in the way that drunken displays that can be written off as "cute" in one's early 20s (they can, right?) turn into "sad and pathetic" as one gets a little older, it seems there comes a time when ironic fashion stops being amusing and starts heading into train-wreck territory. Personal style needs to evolve over time, I think. (And it's obvious when it doesn't. I wrote and then deleted a couple things about "aging scenesters" and "cool moms" because they seemed too mean...but you can probably imagine what I'm talking about.)

Not that I think one needs to give in and start wearing pantsuits from Ann Taylor every day (although that could be very funny!!), but merely that one needs to foster enough self-awareness to notice if one is becoming a caricature of oneself.

judge not, lest ye be judged

When I was 16, I worked at bagel shop in south Minneapolis. And despite my chronic unpopularity with boys and the indisputable fact that I was in an ugly phase that year, it someone came to my attention that "Eric," one of my teenaged colleagues, was interested in going out on a date with me.

I wasn't even the slightest bit attracted to Eric, but given my circumstances, I figured I should take what I could get. I accepted his vague invitation to "hang out" and asked what he had in mind.

"Well, I was thinking we could go the Mall of America. I mean, the mall has everything, right?"

I don't know if I sneered openly or if I merely muttered something noncommittal, but either way, the outing to the Great Mall never happened (and neither did the love match). The mall has everything? What kind of person could even say that, much less believe it? What kind of teenager thinks the mall is cool? (Now, thinking rationally, probably a pretty typical one, I suppose.) This was a turning point in the development of my personality: my desperation for male attention had given way to my burgeoning snobbery.

Okay, so it's wrong to judge people, right? I mean, I know it's a really shitty thing to do.

Like last week, when I was locking up my bike downtown and I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a passing group of 20-something ladies: "So, you know Parasole, the company that owns Chino Latino and El Gatto? Well, they have this incredible deal where when you go to one of their restaurants you just get a stamp on this punch card and when you've got six stamps you get a free drink!"

People actually talk like this? They think these things and then say them out loud to other people? God, how boring!

Okay, so I realize these thoughts call attention to my shameful and previously unrevealed feelings of superiority. After writing so much recently about the hell that is other people, it's only fair that I finally unveil the truth--I am actually just as bad.

Take, for example, the coworker who entered the break room the other day, loudly talking to someone via an earpiece, his cell phone clipped to his pleated pants in a white-collar holster. He was wearing a tucked-in polo shirt advertising one of my company's products, and was talking about the details of his son's football practice. He set about the business of filling his water bottle with hard-nosed efficiency. In other words, he was the portrait of corporate American masculinity.

I slouched in my chair in the corner of the room, studying an eight-month-old copy of More magazine so as not to make accidental eye contact. "I am definitely a lesbian," I thought to myself.

Like my friend Mark once said, "There are good people everywhere...but they're a different kind of good people." We were on the subject of "work friends", and how when you're being held captive at a place of employment, you're not always in a position to be choosy. Whereas in college I could snob out to my heart's content ("Ugh, did you see Michael reading On the Road in the cafeteria? Plus, he wouldn't stop playing Tom Waits when he invited me back to his room..."), this position is simply not sustainable in the modern suburban workplace.

And this is how I find myself nodding in agreement as that girl from the tax department tells me about how she lost "five inches" after she started eating microwaved veggie burgers for breakfast, and listening intently as my coworker describes how much money he saves using "coupon theory", which he actually learned about in his MBA program--"You know those chocolate-flavored Teddy Grahams? Five boxes for $2.99 at Cub this week."

So you know, you get older and you start to realize that life is probably going to involve making some compromises, and that you'll probably be happier if you can convince yourself that your boss is "just fiscally conservative"...not the other kind that would require you to quit on principle.

All this makes me look at my various relationships and wonder who might be "settling" for me. "Shannon?" they might respond, when a real friend asks about their association with me. "I don't know...yeah. Work is pretty boring, and she's always up for making the drive to Pineda Tacos...so."

don't knock it till you try it: "treats" at work

I used to work as the assistant editor of a window treatment trade magazine. One day "Lisa," one of the advertising sales girls, barged into my cubicle.

"Hey Shannon, I made cookies. Do you want one?"

I didn't want one. "Okay," I said.

"They're pretty stale," she said, once I had one in hand. "They've been in my refrigerator for about a week, but I figured I'd just bring them in to work!"

This seemed wrong to me, but she probably had a point. I am frequently overcome with a sense of awe when I look at the quality and condition of the "treats" people bring in to my job, and am blown away by the speed at which they disappear. Congealed doughnuts from the Cub Foods bakery? Why not! Three-day-old banana bread from the United Way potluck? Don't mind if I do!

On the first day at my current job, my manager marked the festive occasion with a box of pastries. Since it was day one, I felt obligated to choke one down. However, just a couple days later, I was summoned to a conference room to celebrate a coworker's birthday. I declined the slice of cake. "Kathy," my manager, looked me up and down. "God, Shannon, trying to make the rest of us look bad? A little sugar wouldn't kill you!" I held my ground (but I think I've paid the price by becoming the object of her fashion scorn).

I guess what I'm saying is, you usually have to give in, or risk getting unwanted attention for being a "vegan" or "anorexic."

But in the case of Lisa's stale cookies, I thought it was safe to secretly decline. I waited until she was back at her desk, and then silently opened a desk drawer and placed the cookie inside. I knew I couldn't just throw the cookie in the basket under my desk--Lisa was the type who might actually check your garbage when you were out at lunch.

(I mean, this was the girl who, when her boyfriend--a fellow coworker at the magazine--refused to buy her a Christmas present [not forgot, refused], marched around the office, telling everyone about how she had been done wrong and encouraging all of us to hassle him about it. If my boyfriend refused to buy me a Christmas present, I'd be mortified--or more likely, would probably just reason that I didn't really deserve a present.)

So I was taking precautions. I figured that when she left for lunch I could sneak the cookie back to the break room and bury it in the communal trash can.

Then I overheard Lisa loudly explaining to a coworker how our desk drawers are actually removable. This coworker was switching desks, and Lisa was insisting that she didn't need to empty her desk drawers--she could simply pull them out and walk them over to the new desk!

A struggle ensued on the other side of the fabric walls as Lisa tried to demonstrate. "I don't think the drawers are meant to come out," said the coworker.

"No, they do!" said Lisa. "I know they do at Shannon's desk."

Before I could act, Lisa was back at my desk, frantically yanking away at my desk drawer--the one hiding her cookie--the cookie I refused to eat. She suddenly stopped yanking when she saw the cookie. She looked at me, first with confusion, then with something more like annoyance or low-grade hate. She shut the drawer and walked away.

Did I do wrong? Should I have choked the cookie down, knowing that somehow--Lisa being who she was--she would find out if I didn't consume it?

I don't think so. She wasn't my manager, so I wasn't obligated to appease her, and we were never going to be friends.

don't knock it till you try it: change your hair, change your life?

My friend Peter took issue with something I wrote in my recent post about self-loathing. (While cataloguing my various defects I made my reference to my "fatally flawed hair--neither curly nor straight".) "You can't say that," he said. "You've got great hair."

Thanks, Peter! The compliment I was fishing for has finally arrived.

But really, I was being sincere when I wrote that. Despite the fact that I have an excellent stylist (hats off to Thea) who thoroughly understands and appreciates the nature of my hair, I have to admit that I spend way too much time obsessing about the topic.

For example, the question of whether or not to cut bangs was one I debated for months. ("What would bangs 'say' about me? Will I morph into a 'Bettie Page girl'? Will I look like a Marianne Faithfull wannabe? Will they make my face look fat?")

Hair length is another subject of endless internal debate. ("Am I not truly a 'short hair' girl? Way cooler guys used to hit on me when I had short hair. What am I trying to prove by growing my hair long? Have I 'gone normal'?")

If I devoted as much time to, say, researching graduate school programs as I do to obsessing about my hair, I'd probably have an advanced degree by now (instead of plans to dye my hair back to its natural dark color, or maybe blue-black...god, I don't know!).

I think part of the deal with the hair is that some of us, no matter how rational we are in other parts of our life, have internalized the belief that changing our hair is a good way to signify some greater, more important life change. Show me a girl with a drastic new haircut and I'll show you a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend.

Likewise, whenever I start thinking about potentially uncomfortable topics ("Is a corporate writing job basically prostitution? How come I barely remember anything I learned in college? Have I squandered my youth?" etc. etc.) I often have the understandably human impulse to squash the feelings of anxiety that rise to the surface. Sometimes I opt for an ocean of wine or a night of panic-stricken insomnia. And sometimes all it takes is a google image search (Milla Jovovich, hair, layers) to keep those troubling thoughts at bay.

don't knock it till you try it: growing up Catholic

It's a funny thing, being raised Catholic. For many years, I didn't know anything different. I can't say that I "believed" in anything in particular, but the state of being Catholic (going to church every Sunday and zoning out, shuffling off to Catholic school, feeling guilty about everything) seemed somehow inevitable.

When I went to college, there were people there who grew up blissfully agnostic but mysteriously were interested in learning about all things religious. My friend "Joanna," for example, once asked me about the significance of the Virgin Mary in my upbringing as a Catholic. It was like she'd asked some gum-snapping, remedial-English sixth grader how to diagram a sentence. "Huh?" I think I responded, as my eyes glazed over. I couldn't imagine how she could be interested in something so incredibly tedious.

Because although I was raised Catholic through and through--I was baptized, delivered to church every Sunday, received my "first Communion" and was even "confirmed" into the church while in the second grade (confirmation is when you make the well-reasoned, grown-up decision to commit yourself to the Catholic church for life)--it's not like I ever really "believed" in it. When times got tough, for example, you wouldn't find me "praying to God" or anything. The fact of being a Catholic seemed like so much pomp and circumstance. I mean, my parents were probably going through the motions in order to "bring me up right" or something. And meanwhile, I was raising my eyebrows at the whole display. So what was the point?

After about 20 years of critical thought, I've determined that the point was guilt and sex--more or less in equal measures, and ideally mixed together uncomfortably. Like John Waters said, "Thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty." I think this is a generous and positive way at looking at the after-effects of Catholicism. In other words, there are some benefits, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

I remember being in junior high, and overhearing "Mary McDonald," one of the popular girls, earnestly explaining to someone or other how she would NEVER drink or smoke and certainly wouldn't "fool around" with any boys to prove any sort of point. Naturally, I didn't want to be anything like her. I made the mental note to define myself in opposition: "Drink, smoke and slut around."

Which is all well and good, but not necessarily when you're an awkward, unattractive and severely introverted young teenager. It was during these supremely uncomfortable years that I often reflected painfully upon the only "sex ed" conversation I ever had with my mother.

One day when I was nine years old, my mom pulled me aside for a brief sexual education discussion. "Shannon, men will say anything to get you into bed," said my mom, as my personality split into two. Her method for easing into this revelation is lost to me now, so traumatic was it to hear this at the age of nine. But she made her point--"Boys are out to get you! And it's up to you to protect your honor."

Seriously, nothing could have been further from the truth once I got "out there." I can't say that there was a steady stream of young men murmuring over-the-top compliments to lure me into the back of their Chevettes. They will say "anything"? How about finding one in the first place?

Even when I did manage to trick some young man into accompanying me into the woods next to the Minnehaha Creek, nothing was ever free and easy about it. Take my first boyfriend, for example. To my utter confusion, one romantic evening he suggested that he turn himself in for an an attempted (consensually attempted, I had assumed) sexual assault (??).

The wisdom of time has informed me that he was probably just trying to break up with me. But what if I'd agreed? Would he still be in jail, instead of designing video games in Seattle?

It's stuff like this that makes me doubtful about having kids of my own. Seriously, what ridiculous advice would I provide to my unborn daughter? "When he declares himself a rapist--call his bluff"?

To be safe, I'll probably need to send her to Catholic school, so she has something to rebel against. And I guess there you find the point of Catholicism--to have something to live in opposition to.