As a child, I was constantly told by family and my parents’ friends that I was shy. Children live up to the names they’re called and I did just that. I would hide behind my mother’s leg, too “shy” to interact with anyone I didn’t know. There are many pictures of me tucked under her, my face buried behind her back. Every time I was characterized as shy, I took hold of the label as my shield, which protected me from the harsh world I didn’t understand. I didn’t develop outwardly. I turned completely inward, unable to make friends, which isolated me even more in my timidity. In the wake of extremely outgoing parents, I was allowed to drown in my shyness and stay hidden from the world. In retrospect, the label kept me safe for a time. I never had to discuss the turmoil in my life. I learned to dissect and process my pain alone through storytelling in my mind.
The brutality of middle school commenced when I was too young to understand how puberty can render adolescents cruel. I was barely 10 years old. I skipped a grade, started school early, and was far from the changes of physical maturity. I struggled to stay out of the line of fire, but my peers were relentless in their pursuit to destroy each other, and I was a walking target. I was small for my age, played the flute in band, played tennis, and took all advanced classes. I was the quintessential “nerd.” Kids would ask, “Why don’t you talk?” and follow up with, “She’s so weird.” I retreated into my music, my shyness, practicing hours a day to avoid contact with others. It was a place I could express myself, something I longed to do, but with it, came more name-calling. Kids screamed “music geek” while pushing me into lockers.
I could not hide in music the entire day. I still had to walk the middle school hallways to class, and the kids appeared to have a mission—to prove they could get to me. “Wolfgang” came next. My leg and arm hair was jet black and super thick against my tiny frame and olive skin. A girl in my class made the comparison to Teen Wolf and was determined to spread the word. I wished I were anyone but myself, that I could look like anyone but me. I’d search my body, my face, for a redeeming quality with no success. I despised my hair. Now, my jet-black mane that reaches my waist is a defining characteristic—but back then, it was the bane of my existence. Her words tore my self-esteem to shreds.
When “Wolfgang” lost its effect on me, they added “flat-chested” to further the insult. Everyone was developing, but I was two years younger than most people in my grade. The kids didn’t care about biology. One time, a girl in my class picked up a book from a wet, muddy bench and wiped the soiled cover down the front of my new shirt as I walked by. She said coolly, “I needed somewhere flat to wipe my book.” As everyone in the lunch area laughed and pointed, I ran to the bathroom crying and attempted to clean myself, furiously wiping at the mud—but no amount of water, pink hand soap, or stiff paper towels could wash away the anguish I wore every day. I looked in the mirror and labeled myself: “small, meek, and ugly.” My own body furthered my ridicule and made me hate that girl in the mirror for the tears she cried. Most days I found places to hide from the cruelty and name-calling that never ended. My armor, my well-chronicled “shyness,” permitted me to withdraw from everyone, even family. I felt degraded and worthless from the names I was called for a long time.
Life changed the summer I turned 15. I visited family out of town and returned a full seven inches taller than when summer began. I walked into my junior year and wasn’t so small anymore. I quit the band and orchestra. Boys started to notice me. I wore make-up, my hair was styled. I wore different clothes, but I wasn’t different. I still looked in the mirror and heard the names:
“Ugly.”
“Weird.”
“Lanky.”
“Flat-chested Wolfgang.”
“Shy.”
These names invaded my mind and left little bits of debris in my psyche.
Many years passed before I could fully process that part of my youth, and I still struggle with body dysmorphia when I’m stressed.
When I had three daughters, my anxiety swelled. Would they endure the same treatment in school? It led me to prepare them, maybe too much. I recounted the many ways I was bullied. I warned them about the consequences of bullying. I avoided labeling them, especially as “shy.” I felt it was the gateway word to allowing name-calling. I never called my daughters descriptive names other than positive ones: “smart,” “kind,” “generous,” “caring,” or “wonderful.” I replaced “shy” with “you just haven’t learned how to talk with new friends yet, but I know you will get there.” I didn’t want their personalities to be forgone conclusions because of traits they may have exhibited as little ones. My girls were the impetus for healing my wounded heart and freeing myself from awful labels.
I looked in the mirror, while holding my three daughters, and called myself “Mom.” I told myself I was “strong.” I didn’t need to hold onto those labels from my middle-school peers as a life sentence. I am able to live outside the box I was put in, to live in my own world. Am I shy?
No, I am not shy at all. No, I am not the name you called me. I am the name I call myself.