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Go Ahead, Make It Awkward

 

When I was a kid, Nana and Grandpa came down from New York City to stay in our little hippie house on Quiet Lane. It was hard to believe our wild-haired Dad belonged to those fancy people. They had visited us in Albuquerque only once before when we lived out in the sticks. We’d since moved to “the city” but to them it probably still seemed like the middle of nowhere.

We kids were excited. Out of town relatives meant only one thing: gifts. My Dad, on the other hand, acted like it was a visit from the firing squad.

Soon after their arrival, we understood Dad’s dark mood.

“So much smaller than the old place,” Grandpa said of the white stucco box the six of us lived in. The last house, an unfinished adobe out in Corrales, had no interior walls and a roof so leaky it required pots and pans to be set out all over the furniture when it rained.

“What’s doing with these weeds?” Grandpa asked Dad as he gazed out at the backyard. At each shot fired, Dad remained silent, his face a stony mask of misery.

 

With no desire to be the target of Grandpa’s next blast, we kids made ourselves scarce.

Mom tried everything, even inviting him and Nana out to the one fancy restaurant for prime rib. On the long drive home, my sisters and brother slumped against each other, asleep. All except me. My parents whispered up front as we sped down the highway toward the South Valley. Grandpa grumbled in the middle seat.

“We didn’t come all this way to be ignored,” he bellowed. I popped my head up from the back. Mom spun around in the dark to face Grandpa, the street lights outlining the riot of curls.

“You have no right to speak to us like that, Arthur. From the moment you got here, you have ripped your son apart. It. Is. Enough,” she said in a gravely voice I had never heard.

The next morning as I read on the couch, a taxi cab pulled up to the curb. Suitcase in hand, Grandpa slammed the rickety red door behind him.

 

Nana stayed. For an entire week, she smiled at us and acted as if mom didn’t exist. Mom tried her best to smooth things over, but Nana appeared intent on making her suffer.

Nana and Grandpa never came back. They both died having had no real relationship with any of us.

These are the roots of my fear around speaking up. I often allow the moment when someone steps over the line to pass. If they do it once too many times, poof we are no longer friends.

In my writer community, we often discuss the need to claim our voices. Some of my favorite artists have shared their experiences of speaking up in the moment and stepping bravely into awkwardness. On her series, Ask Julie, Author and Activist Julie Lythcott-Haims described how, with clarity and kindness, she chose to confront problematic behavior in her home over the holidays. Unlike years past, she didn’t place other people’s comfort ahead of her own needs. Afterwards, she felt like she’d made real progress.

Writer and Creator Alyson Shelton shared on our Instagram Live this week about losing friends around issues of social justice. She has resisted the conditioning to make it okay for people around her to espouse harmful views. Despite the cost, she is at peace about it.

 

Unlearning the habit of silencing ourselves is the work of a lifetime, especially for many of us women and likely more so for women and non-binary folks in marginalized communities. We have all been habituated to tamp down our own discomfort in favor of someone else’s comfort. Instead of speaking our minds, some of us choose to gossip instead. The less I speak my mind, the pettier and more gossipy I become. Not a good look.

When I have allowed the moment to speak up to pass, the hurtful comments linger inside me until I snap. One such incident happened at the beginning of the pandemic. A friend and colleague was in the habit of delivering casual insults disguised as “helpful hints.” I said nothing, rationalizing that I had no wish to be on bad terms. Plus, confronting her would be awkward. When the world shuttered, I had a break from her. When she showed up again with a signature barb, I blocked her on everything. She had no warning whatsoever and I imagine she probably wonders what happened.

I’d like to say this is a one off, but it isn’t. A grad school friend, a writer pal, and the latest friend invited to my block party, a person I had considered a friend but took way too long to notice that it was entirely one sided. And that’s the collateral damage of silencing yourself. Our intuition is dulled. Our instincts for people go wonky. When you don’t listen to yourself about who deserves your attention and continue to gulp down whatever awfulness they dish out, your body stops signaling friend or foe. Then when they do something really horrible, it comes as a genuine shock.

So, this is my intention for the New Year. I will step into awkwardness with a brave heart and address the problematic sh!t when it happens. I will take care of myself.

When you own your voice and step into the discomfort of expressing your truth, you get the sense that it’s all going to be okay.

Love,

Elizabeth

PS. WRITING PROMPT:  Do you speak up in the moment or do you stew? Do you have a limit on how much garbage you will take from people? What is it? 

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