Those Girls

“Take Sissy. She was bad. But she was good. She was bad where the men were concerned. But she was good because wherever she was, there was life, good, tender, overwhelming, fun-loving and strong-scented life. He hoped that his newly born daughter would be a little like Sissy.”

-from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

I am socially awkward. That is an abrupt way to begin a blog post, but to begin with such a blunt, uncomfortable statement seems appropriate, given the topic. The fact is, I have a very hard time keeping up a conversation with strangers, and sometimes even with people I know well. I enjoy being around people, but I am usually quite satisfied to sit and listen. Coming up with interesting things to say can often feel like a lot of work to me.

This has always been true for me, as far back as I can remember. I remember feeling an odd mix of excitement and fear each time I started at a new school or went to a new camp. There would be others who didn’t know each other, I thought, and maybe this time someone would pick me out of the crowd to be her friend. But it always ended the same. The camp would start, groups would form, and while most anyone would allow me to hang around, I was never really in the inner circle. I was just watching from the fringes. It was not that I was bullied or shunned. I was simply ignored.

For years, I struggled to understand why I couldn’t be one of those girls. You know the type, right? They are the girls who are instantly comfortable in any situation in which they find themselves. They bubble over with fun stories, infectious laughter, and interesting ideas. Every other girl instantly wants to be friends with these girls. They are like magnets. I guess the simplest way to put it is that they are popular.

I really tried to emulate the popular girls, particularly when I was in elementary school. (You know, before “popular girl” became synonymous with “bad girl.”) I did the very best I could to be outgoing and talkative. But I just never held anyone’s interest for long. Deep down, I felt so full of life and wanted to share that. I wanted to laugh and tell stories and entertain people. I wanted to be one of those girls. But I just couldn’t do it. I always ran out of things to say too soon. I came to think of myself as dull.

I don’t mean to imply that I never had any friends. That is not true at all. But I was certainly never popular. I always found my niches, but my feelings of social dullness and mediocrity became so ingrained that I felt like I blended into the background no matter what I did. To some degree, that was the truth. I was the lead in the school play; I was the drum major of the marching band; I was valedictorian of my class. Still, at least 75% of my high school graduating class had no idea who I was. I just wasn’t memorable.

By the time I left for college, I had given up on the idea of ever being one of those girls, but I did still entertain thoughts of being friends with them. I lived in the dorms when I was a freshman, and each floor tended to function as a sort of unit, similar to a school class or a group of campers. Those girls identified themselves quickly, and I tried, equally quickly, to introduce myself to them and become a part of their circle. I failed miserably at it. At the end of the first week, one of those girls came around and asked the entire floor whether they would like to go in on a pizza order. The entire floor, except for me. I don’t think she left me out intentionally. She just forgot. But at the time, that did not really make it any better.

I found my niches, again, eventually. I started going to church. I joined the marching band. I made friends with whom I am still close, to this day. As my world got bigger, the group of people I interacted with got correspondingly bigger, and there was no longer a popular group. I forgot all about those girls.

Still, sometimes I remember those feelings of dullness and invisibility. In certain situations, it all comes back in a rush. I remember a class discussion in graduate school that really got me thinking about it again. We read a section of The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell that contained a small test. There was a long list of surnames, and the idea was to read through it and count the number of names that belonged to someone you know. It didn’t have to be a close friend, but you had to have actually met the person. If your count was high enough, you were considered a “Connector,” and therefore someone who could take a small idea and help it catch on.

I scored quite well on the test. I went to a large high school, then a reasonably large undergraduate university where I was involved in several organizations. Then, I spent a year working for a large corporation. I had met a large number of people, and I usually remember a lot of names. According to the test, I was a Connector. However, I told my class that I really believed I was an exception to the rule. I know a lot of people, I said, but they don’t know me.

I have no idea how my professor or the rest of my class responded, but I do remember one of my classmates telling me later that she was surprised I felt that way. She apparently spoke of me often to her boyfriend, because when he came to visit, the first question he asked when they came to a program barbeque was, “Which one is Katie?”

I’m not sure how to end this post. I would love to say that the story above changed my mind, and that it taught me that I’m not dull and socially inept after all. But, that’s not true. I still struggle with this, and still wonder why I still get left on the fringes when groups form. I guess the important question to ask is not why it happens, but why it matters so much to me. I have a lot of good friends and it’s not that I feel completely isolated. And sometimes, I do seem to manage to make myself appealing and memorable. Why do I care that when I’m on a trip with a big group, I end up spending most of my free time by myself?

I suppose it’s because I spend a lot of time alone, anyway, since I live by myself. And I really do like to spend time around people, so I wish I know how to take better advantage of my opportunities in that sense.

All I can do is try again tomorrow.