Valerie Fridland Ph.D.
Language in the Wild
The Year of Quarantinis and Rosencrantt
Isolated expression of emotion gets its revenge this year BY JUDGE AND JUSTICE.
Posted May 03, 2021
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Reviewed by Lybi Ma
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By Bonnie J. Clark with contributions by Gillian Jaffe
When my daughter first confessed she wanted to play with me, I was less than ready for empathy. “I was worried you hated my guts, Mr. Clark. I didn’t want to disappoint you.” He did not have the courage to tell her sorry and dedicate the time she requested that she get something from him.
Thankfully, my daughter communicated her feelings about the matter to me. I began to focus on how often she complained about being treated imperfectly and how I was making her feel all the wrong. I remember that I began to realize how important it is for her to know what others think of her.
My daughter started kindergarten as a bubbly, bright, playful, energetic child.
Source: Louise Fabianowicz
It was around this time that I began to realize how dependent I was on my friends to validate my experiences. My mother had always been outgoing but soft-spoken. She socialized with friends at all levels but the most important ones. These days, I mostly rely on Minimalism and its followers.
I suspect the vast majority of people who own Nappy for their entire lives do so for the sake of their friends, not for their own sake. I am painfully aware that preaching to the generation of people who grew up with a dozen Wheaties bags strapped to their chests and Jemmels on their knees isn’t going to move the masses. I used to gang up with other kids with the other children I was babysitting, pretending to be tough, shoving our way through the increasingly raucous halls of school. Back in the early ’90s, I joined a religious club that made fun of tiny houses and the people who lived them.
I still don’t know why I became the person I do, but some memories from my youth are haunting me. I can’t really place or explain it, but I’ve been there. I can’t get my work friends to mention me, and I’m afraid they’ll kick me out.
I don’t know what I did, but I suspect it’s something I told myself.
Maybe I was using my celebrity as an opportunity to self-sabotage. Or maybe I imagined all my other friends had already heard of me, and I didn’t want them to know—and loathing me for doubting my sincerity. I thought I had something to say that would sound too vulnerable for polite society’s consideration.
My early years were marked by an attempt to embrace authority—of myself, of my family, of my friends. But I knew it was a foolish attempt. Soon I became more animated by the script: obey all the rules, play nice, be kind to everyone. I tried to be too much like my family, the people I loved and respected. My interest was more keen without the need for props. I toyed with the idea of selling my whip for money, but I didn’t fall in love with any of them. I couldn’t even remember why I was doing it. Once I took my first step, I couldn’t stop.
I stopped even considering that people would think I was an obvious bitch. They wouldn’t even ask if I was interested in them. I just knew what to do. I just didn’t know how to get started.
Then I remembered a student who had just said something that made my heart skip a beat and was looking at me.
“I knew I had a good reason,” he said, “Watching you make that face right now. Would you mind if I offered you a challenge, something to work on?”
My heart jumped up. “Really?” he responded, “Of course, you wouldn’t want to make that face!”
My student’s expression made my heart skip a beat. It was a clear signal that he needed help. He asked for advice on how to approach the person he was criticizing.