I’d been looking forward to supper. N.’s passion and calling is culinary art; when she feeds a crowd it’s a gustatory event not to be missed.
Her menu was sweet simplicity in the time-honored traditon of BBQ — grilled chicken, potato salad, coleslaw and vanilla ice cream. Her execution, as usual, was exceptional. Bits of crunchy, diced color adorned the red potatoes (skins on), the slaw’s dressing was from scratch, the jerk chicken had soaked two days in its homemade marinade and a syrup teeming with hand-picked blueberries waited to crown the meal’s frozen finale.
Anticipating the evening’s feast, I’d eaten little all day and deliberately absented myself from the post-lunch gelato expedition. When. at last, the virtual dinner bell rang, I helped set the utensils and platters on the board and took my seat, smiling.
A few meaty haunches, a few tong-loads of slaw had already made it onto a few plates before those of us seated at the south end of the table quite realized R. in the north wanted us to pause before chowing down. Pause, and hold hands.
A moment to reflect on and wonder at the heaped blessings before us, a unison breath of gratitude for the good food, good company, good cook and good fortune that had brought us together to share this feast… fine with me. Grace before meals is a lovely observance, if not one I daily practice. I dutifully relayed the “hang on” request, linked hands left and right and opened my heart to the incipient words of thanks R. evidently felt inspired to pronounce.
Only the words that spilled off her tongue weren’t thankful. Not yet. First came covert criticism, then an edict. Our habit of sitting down at mealtimes and digging in without preamble had been rubbing her the wrong way for days, apparently. Tonight (and to make amends?) she’d like us to join in her standard pre-meal rite; we’d go ‘round the table, each proclaiming aloud what, in the moment, was making us joyful. She ended her announcement with, “Is that ok?” The others immediately assured her it was, and R. was off and running.
It wasn’t ok. Not with me. But to decline or even voice my reticence to participate in the communal soul-baring session was never a real option. I was loath to tell them what they wanted to hear; telling them what they didn’t want to hear was no solution to my problem. I hadn’t time to frame a polite refusal, anyway. If I’d had, tact would hardly have helped. The minute I piped up, I’d be the bad guy. I’d be creating a scene, casting a pall over the festivities, making everybody uncomfortable, ruining the party. Pipe up, and I’m an unsupportive, unenlightened, anti-social bitch who would’ve done better to embrace this golden opportunity to face my social failings and rise to the general and superior level of spiritual consciousness.
Hell with that. I used to buy into the idea that my profound unease with engaging in touchie-feelie, lovey-dovey rituals meant there was something wrong with me. I don’t shop there, anymore. I’ll cop to being overly sensitive and an unevolved soul. That doesn’t mean I’m not a good person, a loving person, a caring person. Doesn’t mean I don’t have a generous heart. I’m more than willing to lend an ear to those who feel compelled to declaim their inner joy to their tablemates. But being a painfully shy and private person, I feel compelled to keep my feelings to myself and prefer to demonstrate my joy in and gratitude for a great meal by being first to my feet to clear the dishes, put away the leftovers and clean the kitchen.
I’d been happy — I’d been joyful about dinner, until I was blindsided by the group-hug mandate, backed into a corner and coerced into verbalizing a context for feelings that were no longer mine. I wasn’t feeling joy. I was feeling trapped, mortified, desperate, angry and miserable; yet, the assumption that we were experiencing a common emotional state was so pervasive, each passing moment and new disclosure of shared happiness tangibly widened the rift I’d create if I dared abstain from the ritual.
I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hide, I couldn’t pretend I had to pee. I was fucking fourth in line, it was my turn already. I hated the eyes on me, I hated the ears tuned to my voice, I hated the stink of expectation that had obliterated dinner’s tantalizing aromas.
I’m shy. I’m not a coward. My brief speech was clear and plenty loud, something about appreciating the company of good folks — hypocritical words and a double-betrayal that belied both the ritual’s true intent and my own true feelings.
There was a brief hiccough of silence as it registered with the crowd that I wasn’t going to elaborate. Swiftest on the uptake, J., bless him, brought welcome closure to the hideous moment (hideous for me) with an exuberant “All right!” More eloquent, intimate and lengthy orations followed. M. got all teary when her turn came, much to her family’s and friends’ sympathetic delight. I sat with eyes fixed on the joint cooling on my plate, trying to release the knot in my belly where my hunger had been. I’d lost my appetite entirely.
Figure it out, people. Chocolate may be heaven on earth to you. To others, it’s poison. What makes you laugh might put my teeth on edge. Just because Bikram Yoga works for you doesn’t mean I have to try it. There are no tenets, no rites, no cure-alls that are equally and unequivocally beneficial to everyone. There is no universal truth, no absolute right and wrong. The true path is a different road for all of us, not a narrow track we tread single-file.
So, if you ever find yourself thinking that what you believe and the way you practice it is so goddam wonderful that you’ll be doing us a favor to show us how it’s done -– think again. Please, yes, do whatever you need to do to stay whole and in balance. Absolutely, by all means, invite us to join in your observances. But keep your invite casual, give us shy folks an easy out. Make participation voluntary, for chrissakes. It takes only a pinch of “holier than thou” to make a meal unpalatable.