The Quiet Man

As I may have mentioned here before, one of my very favorite things to do is read. (My mom always used to make a big deal of the fact that as a little boy I always had more books than toys.) I go back and forth between fiction and nonfiction, the latter usually of a decidedly spiritual stripe.

My latest discovery is one by Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. The title alone was enough to pique my interest. I've known, or at least suspected, that I was an introvert for some time. Thing is, I'm still coming to grips that this realization does NOT mean that there is something wrong with me. It's been something of a struggle, like Jacob wrestling with the angel. "I will not release you until you tell me I'm okay!"

So far, I've read only the Introduction and first two chapters. But it already speaks to me. One of the most resonant passages for me was actually something that someone else shared on an e-mail list (Introvert Retreat):

All the comments from childhood still ring in my ears, that I was lazy, stupid, slow, boring. By the time I was old enough to figure out that I was simply introverted, it was a part of my being, the assumption that there is something inherently wrong with me. I wish I could find that little vestige of doubt and remove it.

Wow. It's one of those moments when another writer expresses the cry of your heart that you didn't fully know was there. I always felt that my introversion was a weakness. And one of the fundamental reasons is clearly stated in the name of Part One of the book: The Extrovert Ideal. It's as if those of us who tend to shy away from the spotlight rather than seek it out have a fatal flaw. I felt like that for most of my life. Thank God for people like Ms. Cain who remind us that not only is there a place for introverts, there's a need for us.

Apparently, Carl Jung was one of the first  in psychiatry to describe the introvert-extrovert traits. In the nineteenth century, the move away from inner strength and character toward personality and charisma was starting to really pick up steam. Advertising, that ever-present mirror and barometer of popular culture, was really trumpeting the value and importance of being attractive, likable, and influential. Nothing wrong with these things, but must everyone pursue them? At the expense of any other things like reflection, consideration, and contemplation? The author describes attending a Tony Robbins Unleashing the Power Within seminar. I'm sure these events have helped many, many people. (Otherwise Mr. Robbins wouldn't be so successful.) But the description made me physically anxious. What about those of us whose very nature is to observe quietly, to listen, to evaluate and ponder. Again, I know this kind of thing has its place. But please don't force it on those of us who'd rather not, thanks anyway.

Within the first few chapters of this book, I'm already feeling more that it's okay to like myself as I am. I've been starting to acknowledge this new idea in my head for a little while now (thanks in large part to my therapist and to my spiritual director), but I still have a hard time really believing it deep down. At least most of the time. Here's hoping that these barriers will continue to collapse.

The more I delve into knowing myself, and allowing myself to like—even love—what I find, the more I am convinced that we all need a good dose of that.

Memoirs

Here we go again...

Every so often in this space I like to talk about theater, whether it's something I've seen or had a part in. This time, it's something I'm in. On June 13, Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs opens at the Ephrata Performing Arts Center. I have the honor of portraying Jack Jerome, the patriarch of the family. I am confident that this will be another excellent production at what is (in my admittedly biased opinion!) the best community theater in the area. Our director, Michael Swanson of nearby Elizabethtown College, has assembled a cast that I am proud to be part of. And his vision and direction of the show are insightful.

Playing Jack has been quite the adventure for me. For one thing, it's the biggest role I've ever had; the number of lines is a bit daunting—although it's a smaller load than some others carry. So that in itself is both exciting and a bit scary. But beyond that, it's been so rewarding to really engage this character. Jack Jerome is a man who really loves his family. I believe the same can be said of every character in the play; it's just that some of them play that out in different ways. Eugene, for example, complains a lot about his family. But he's a 14-year old kid. So that's to be expected. Stanley, Eugene's older brother, makes some serious mistakes through the course of the play, but he always has his family's best interest at heart.

Anyway, Jack is such a rewarding character for me to play. In some ways, we couldn't be more different. Jack is a Jewish father living in 1930's New York, after all. But we are alike in other ways. He tends to have a sarcastic edge to his sense of humor, for example. Hm. Sounds familiar! He loves his family more than anything. Although I don't have any children of my own, I do feel that way about my wife (love you, Joan!). And about my extended family, both biological and "adopted" (you know who you are!).

In fact, perhaps the most compelling thing about Jack to me is how he relates to his loved ones—including his sister-in-law and nieces now living with him. There's such a deep sense of connection among all these characters. I'd like to think that I would be the kind of father that Jack is. The conversations that he has with Stanley and Nora (the sixteen-year-old niece) almost bring me to tears sometimes. And kudos to Quinn Corcoran and Morgan Konopelski, respectively, for embodying those two characters to such a tangible degree.

So, please, if you find yourself in Lancaster County this June, check out Brighton Beach Memoirs at EPAC. I really think it's Simon at his finest, running from side-splittingly funny to heart-breakingly poignant. If you do, say hello to the guy in the pajamas.