Accepting Myself
Unable to speak, I believed I was nothing.
When I was a kid, I was painfully shy. Speaking to anyone that I didn’t know was nearly impossible for me. Words refused to form on my tongue and sound would not come forth from my lips.
As an adult, knowing what I now know, I suspect that I had selective mutism. But back in the 1970s, when I was growing up, I didn’t know this term, nor, I am sure, did anyone in my family.
To this day, I can remember what it felt like, the feeling of wanting to speak, but no matter how hard I tried, being unable to make sound come out of my mouth. It was if I became paralyzed. My eyes would look at those around me, my face would grow warm and then hot, my brain would be shouting to me, but my voice would refuse to step forward.
People would wait, thinking that I was getting ready to say something. And when I didn’t, they would say something for me or about me. I would continue to stand there, ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated, but still silent, unable to defend or stand up for myself.
I think my selective mutism lasted until college. As I grew older, I gained some confidence and with that confidence, I spoke more. But life, as life will do, would still put me in situations where my voice would go into hiding. If I felt uncomfortable or found myself in a group of people I didn’t know well, the feeling of being unable to speak would come back. And I would freeze again.
Overcoming Imposters
When I entered a Master’s program in English, my first course was a summer seminar to train students to teach English 101 and 102 in the fall semester. My feeling of being unable to free my voice returned and I did not speak for the two months that the class met.
At the conclusion of the class, each student was required to meet with the director of the Composition program to discuss our teaching pedagogy. The director had also been the professor of the summer course, so he was familiar with each student who had taken the class.
During my meeting with the professor, I sat across from him at the table in his large, cluttered office. We discussed the syllabus I had created for my first class and logistics of teaching. As our meeting was concluding, I began to gather the items I had brought with me, stacking my papers and sliding them into my bag.
The professor cleared his throat. I looked over at him, hearing in the guttural noise a question.
“Do you think you can do this?”
“What?” I asked. I did not understand what he was asking me.
“Do you think you will be able to do this? Do you think you’ll be able to stand in front of a class of 25 students and teach?”
His eyes looked into mine. I felt his doubt, and I understood completely why he didn’t believe in me.
I knew I wasn’t very believable. I knew what people thought of me.
I hadn’t spoken all summer. During the entire two months of the class, I had not said anything. The only time I spoke was when the professor made every student tell something interesting about herself on the first day of class.
I had shared that I could not say the letter r correctly until I was about twelve years old. My name was Rose Rene Perri. Every student in the class had tittered.
Other than that short utterance, I had not said another word.
So when he asked me if I would be able to stand in front of a class and teach, I knew why he was wondering.
I would have wondered the same thing..
I assured him I would. I assured him that when faced with a challenge I rise to it. I assured him that I was going to surprise him.
And I did. But at that time, I did not believe any of my assurances.
I too wondered how I was going to stand in front of 25 eighteen-year-old students and talk. If I couldn’t bring myself to talk in a class of fifteen graduate students, why did I think I could do it when I was the center of attention?
How was I going to convince anyone to believe in me when I didn’t believe in myself?
All I can tell you is that I did.
I did stand in front of a group of freshman year students and teach.
I did get physically ill before every single class, but still manage to teach each day.
I did stumble and stutter many days as I willed myself to say something, anything, to get through each class.
I did maniacally prepare for each class, prepping for every situation that could possibly happen so I would be ready to handle anything and have phrases and comebacks ready.
I learned that in order to avoid mutism, I had to be fifty times more prepared than any other teacher. It was when I felt a situation slipping from my grasp, getting out of my control, that my voice would go into hiding and I would not be able to speak. So, to keep that from happening to me, I prepared for everything.
I made it through that year, and many years to follow. I actually became a great teacher and had many students thank me for how much I had helped them.
But deep down, I still doubted and worried.
What if it happened again? Then everyone would know what a farce, an imposter, I am.
I am sure that it did happen. I am sure that people have seen me as an imposter. But the true struggle in my life has been, and I think always will be, how I see myself.
My self-doubt is what stilled my tongue. My disbelief in myself is what quieted my voice.
Once I stop seeing myself as an imposter, then I will stop being one. For if there is one thing I have learned in my life, how you see yourself if what you are. Although you may not truly be what you think you are, if in your mind you are, then you are.
The world’s opinion matters little. Your own opinion matters the most.
So stop being an imposter. Start playing your role that you want to play.
The world will believe it if you do.
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