Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

Georgetown University’s Newspaper of Record since 1920

The Hoya

The View From the Stage

A3
MICHELLE XU/THE HOYA

 

I remember my kindergarten production of “The Little Mermaid” very clearly. In the second that I wobbled dangerously from side to side, I saw several things at once. The crowd of small children, my classmates with eyes widening in terror to the side of me, the pitcher of water I had just spilled beneath my feet and the row of chairs filled with parents I was about to crash into.

I hid myself under a patchwork blanket in a corner of the room for the remainder of our show. Even with this disguise completely veiling my presence, I could feel my cheeks heating as they turned a cherry red and tears poured down my face.

Same goes for summer camp, years ago. In retrospect, it is extremely easy to see how that situation had spiraled so completely out of control. My friends, in a bout of the classic game of truth or dare, had concoced a hideous blend of juices, crackers, vegetables, spices, sauces and the grilled cheese served for lunch that day for me to drink. Hesitantly, I brought it to my lips and immediately a wave of nausea rolled over me. I sprung from the table and, cup in hand, bounded toward a trashcan; before I could make it, another camper, innocently, naively and unfortunately, wandered in my path.

I could hardly hold back a scream as the concoction slid down the back of his neck and darkened his white T-shirt. When he turned around to face me, an entirely new feeling of nausea hit and then his feet too were dampened as I bent over to throw up.

Following this experience, as in the last, I was incapable of speaking to anyone for days — and these two anecdotes of extreme discomfort and distress that plague my 18 years of existence are not the only ones.

Now, the casual observer could describe a number of lessons from these experiences. Perhaps carrying water through a kindergarten show is not the best of ideas. Maybe balance is something to be worked for instead of hoped for. Avoiding truth and dare at all costs, especially in situations involving food, would most likely be a good strategy.

Indeed, such caveats did cross my mind, but something much more important occurred as a result of the aggregation of all these ordeals.

When I was younger, I was much shier. I jumbled words, botched simple interactions and trembled, all out of nerves. This disposition itself was enough for hours of anxiety, but combined with my lack of balance and control, it resulted in countless humiliations.

Embarrassment was a constant fixture of my life. It was a defining portion of my being. However, instead of drowning in it, I learned to accommodate my inability to function normally. It is not that I somehow evolved to avoid such situations, but I gradually grew less bothered by them — I learned that, regardless of the severity of my embarrassment, I would survive and that this feeling would eventually fade.

In consequence, my cheeks flamed up less and less and the amount of time I spent replaying cringe-worthy scenes in the night decreased dramatically. Today, I have arrived at the point where I rarely feel myself twitching out of mortification, to the point where I simply do not get embarrassed. From opening my computer in class and finding it blasting “Baby Got Back,” to tripping over my own feet and falling to the ground in front of a tour group, to unwittingly having sung songs from “Annie” at the top of my lungs while unaware that others were in the room — all of this I am able to brush off and unabashedly continue about my day.

I think that my past as a timid, accident-prone person has been extremely important in shaping my character, outlook and attitude in life. It has given me a sort of energy and excitement to pursue all aspects of life, because embarrassment, I have learned, is merely an intrinsic portion of being alive. Fearing such a sentiment, dreading mistakes and attempting to avoid mortification all mean hiding from reality and not fully living.

Now, I welcome and embrace the outrageous, humiliating and mortifying as a sign of complete engagement in my surroundings — and plus, they make great stories.

 

Julia Weil is a freshman in the School of Foreign Service.

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