Whenever Mother started to talk with a stranger on the street, I -- at my kindergarten age -- would pull her kimono sleeve to signal her to quit, until she’d turn to me and say, “Don’t do that.” Afterwards, she would admonish me: “Don’t pull my sleeve when I’m talking with someone,” and I’d retort, “You don’t know her, do you?”
I was particularly irritated in embarrassment if I heard or sensed that the conversation had to do with me, like “such a shy child,” “very good in arithmetic,” or even something innocuous as “just turned seven last month.” Any little attention directed to me made me uncomfortable; that is what being shy means, certainly. Through my school years I remained shy and did not make friends easily. Everyone is a stranger before one becomes acquainted. A stranger becomes an acquaintance once we strike a conversation; but that first step of being talked to, not to speak of talking to, was almost a torture for me. No less easy was taking the steps from acquaintance to friendship, which happened invariably being coaxed into it rather than initiating it myself. Conversely, in consequence, I would not let go anyone, once she or he is a friend and hang doggedly on the old familiarity like holding on Mother’s protective sleeve or skirt.
Reflecting on the last decades of my life, I realize that I have not changed appreciatively. I am more subtle in my shy behavior, or, perhaps, more tactful in social situations. I can smile and look friendly. But I am still less than comfortable at parties when most people are strangers; I then search out a friend or acquaintance and cling to her or him to avoid circulating, aware though I am that parties are for getting people to mix and mingle and make new acquaintances and that is what sociable people love about parties. I am more comfortable socializing with friends one on one. In fact, it also occurs to me that of my friends I can say that I did not initiate their friendship; thankfully they did.
