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Morning Soliloquy

by
Tracy Collins

I am always performing a soliloquy in my head. I love to lie in bed, in the morning, looking at the way the light plays on the lace curtains. I bury my head deeper into my three, white fluffy pillows, pull my forest green comforter up to my nose and snuggle in. My cherry wood dresser catches my gaze. It is cluttered with things from my past, present and future: the dolls that used to be my grandmother’s, the pearl earrings my husband gave me and a pair of my baby’s snuggly PJs carelessly tossed over the mirror.

My eyes wander. They drift to a tiny perfume bottle, the color of bubble gum, with a silver rosebud for a top. When I was little, I used to sneak into my mother’s room and play on her bed with this perfume bottle. I pretended it was a genie lamp with a giant, magical genie that granted me many wishes. When I was very little, my thoughts and imagination always ran free and unhindered. Now, as I lie here in bed gazing around my room, I am free to think and say what I want.

In my mind I say the most brilliant things about important issues to important people. I share my feelings and insights in the most eloquent manner, rambling on to myself for a good hour in the warmth of my bed. When I get up and try to write it down ... It's gone! What happened between my brain and my pen?

The same thing happens to me verbally. If I know I’ll be having an important conversation with someone, I mentally prepare what I might say. In my head I talk circles around everyone, but what comes out is, "Oh. O.K." or, "Uh, I’m not sure." What causes these blocks? I have so much more to say than what comes out. I want to share the things I think but, sometimes, I just can’t.

I suppose I could do the popular thing and blame my parents. I was raised in a "children are to be seen not heard" household in which my father was the supreme ruler. He loved me and was very proud of me, but if I questioned his ideas or beliefs or, God forbid, disagreed with him, I would catch a glimpse of the fiery pit of his temper. This small glimpse was enough to prevent me from testing him any further. It was much safer to keep my thoughts to myself.

I recall one time I nearly fell into the pit. It was in the safety of my aunt’s house and my relatives were making a fuss over me. I was the only child there. All the praise made me feel quite bold because I told my father several times that he was wrong about something. And in front of the whole family. Although he said nothing until we got into the car, I discovered just how deep that fiery pit can go. The little editor in my brain, who checks me before I speak, has never had a day off since.

In my father’s home, self-expression was only encouraged in the form of a well-rehearsed piano concert or a "good" painting. If the sky was purple and the grass was blue, that painting would not receive refrigerator status. I was in effect being conditioned not to express myself freely. Why this happened, I don’t know. I’m sure that was not his intent because he loved me very much, but I don’t believe he thought of the effects of his actions. And he’s not the only one.

I have always been under the assumption that school teaches kids how to think, to express themselves and their individuality. But after recalling some memories from my childhood, I realize this is not always the case. When I was little, I wanted to be a pilot. I had a poster of the Blue Angels on my wall; a model airplane hung from my ceiling. My best friend’s father, a kind, quiet man whom I admired very much, was a pilot. One day in school, (I believe it was third or fourth grade), the teacher went around the room asking everybody what they wanted to be when they grew up. Most of the girls said a nurse or a teacher. My turn came: I proudly stated that I was going to be a pilot; I was going to fly a plane with the Blue Angels.

I expected her to be quite impressed. To my utter despair she chuckled and laughed. Some of the kids snickered as well.

That afternoon I went home and took down my Blue Angels poster and my model airplane. I never spoke about it again.

It’s all about fear. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of rejection. Fear of being different. And to a child, those fears are very real and very important. We all need our family and we all need our friends. We need to feel secure in those relationships, which are the basis of our existence. So, if there is a choice between speaking and being ridiculed, or being silent and being accepted, most will choose silence. I did.

The way high school literature is taught does not encourage free expression of thought either. It encourages Cliff and his notes to do the thinking for you. An event remains in my memory: I raised my hand to answer the teacher’s question about what a certain character may have been thinking at a certain time. I was positive my comment was insightful and clever and that it made perfect sense. The teacher answered with an abrupt "No" and moved on. I thought, "Well, the hell with her. I just won’t raise my hand anymore if she’s going to be like that." And I didn’t. Nor did I open my book as much as I should have. As a result, I got my first C-. Needless to say Dad was not very happy.

Maybe I was overly sensitive. But honestly I think the majority of kids, teens and yes, even adults are sensitive whether they admit it or not. It takes guts to share your thoughts and yourself with others. If those thoughts and feelings get shot down before they have a chance to take flight, we are not teaching our children and ourselves to think.

I’m not saying that criticism isn’t good, far from it. It’s one of the few ways in which we can improve ourselves. Criticism can give us insight into who we are. When I receive constructive criticism from someone, I actually appreciate it. I feel they are really trying to help me. Constructive is the key word. It is very easy to criticize people in a negative way, especially when their ideas are different. I am guilty of this myself. If someone’s ideas make me uncomfortable, I can be quick to knock them down or tune them out. Neither of which is right, or fair.

This behavior makes it even harder for me to let the thoughts from my morning soliloquy come out. A part of me still wants to stay in bed and dream my life away. But not this morning. Today is a new day. I will cast my fears to the bedside. Time to rise and shine!

Today I have to go to the frame shop. I am picking up a picture my little girl painted. It is a portrait of me. I just love my purple hair!

 

I am a wife, a mother and a perpetual student. I wrote this essay with two goals in mind. My first goal is to understand and uncover things that make it difficult for me to express myself. My second goal is to remind myself and others what a huge impact our words and comments have on everyone around us.

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