by Jane Knox
Have you ever had to go to a town meeting to ask permission for something? It can be intimidating to face a room full of people who are going to vote on your request. What will happen? Will I get what I need? What if they say no?
Recently, I attended one of those meetings. Well, this is the story of what happened, and how I felt about it afterward, when old feelings of childhood shame reared up.
My house is asking me to make it bigger. It wants a new room. But, in my town, there are rules for new rooms for houses. I must submit plans and go before the planning and zoning commission. It sounds a little scary. Fortunately, my brother is a builder. He arranges for a surveyor, researches the regulations and designs the addition. We arrive early for the hearing. The tone of the case ahead of us is somber and negative. The woman is whining, “It’s not fair. Ours is the only house in town without a swimming pool.” Tension builds as the woman’s unhappiness grows with the board’s arguments. She needs to do some extreme changes to the property at an exorbitant expense. And, the chairperson makes it clear the committee does not consider cost as a factor in extending a variance. My heart sinks. Cost is a possible argument we could use against an alternative plan. Oh, dear.
It’s my turn to face the inquisitors. I hear my name called. I feel instinctively the mood of this room must lighten up if I am to get the variance. So, I greet the committee with a big smile, a giddy hello, and enthusiastically introduce my brother as if he’s a shining star in the universe. My brother explains the plan succinctly and argues there has been a change in the zoning laws since my house was built. He’s factual and professional, but the mood of the room is still unsmiling and somber. This unfriendly mood is making me anxious. I’m a natural storyteller, so the best thing I know to do is tell a story.
Everyone loves a Christmas story, and this one is true: I tell the story of how I fell in love with the property, entered a bidding competition, paid over the asking price, and closed on December 22nd. It was the best Christmas present I ever gave myself! Everyone laughs. I’m delighted.
The chairperson asks my brother a technical question. He answers. Then the chairperson jokingly asks me if I have any more stories to tell. Well, my storytelling self has just been encouraged, and my child self comes out to play. I sit up, lean both arms on the table and tell a story about the neighborhood. I describe how the addition of my room will enhance the value of all my neighbor’s homes and beautify the street.
Now comes the moment of truth: The chairperson asks those present if there is anyone who would like to speak either for or against my proposal. I blurt out that my neighbors planned to come but I don’t see them. Someone says, “Jane, Cathy and Tom are here, in the back corner near the door!” I throw up my arms as exuberantly as Maria singing in “The Sound of Music.” I call out with great effusion, “You’re both here! It’s a miracle!” There’s more laughter in the room. Cathy then speaks beautifully about me as a neighbor, and how she supports the plan for the room my house desperately wants.
Before the committee members vote on my variance, the chairperson refers to my brother’s statements as “eloquent.” Then, all five of the members vote to grant me the variance. I’m elated. I float home on a cloud of success to bring my house the good news.
But, the next day all good feelings evaporate. I spend the day regretting my behavior, overcome by a feeling of shame. My behavior during the meeting certainly did not coincide with the expectations I thought of as the formal tone of town meetings. I wasn’t supposed to entertain. I could hear my mother say, “JANE, STOP BEING SO DRAMATIC!” Did I embarrass my brother? He is so logical, so appropriate. Certainly, my behavior contrasted with his dignified presentation.
As my painful, self-castigating feelings diminish, I wonder about the roots of my shame. I think of childhood role models, like Cinderella, who was meek and mild and never complained. She faded into the corner by the cinders not to be noticed.
When I relate the tale of my exuberance at the meeting to a woman I admire, she suggests that my dramatic energy livened up the meeting and made things more enjoyable for the committee. She reminds me that it’s my vision and passion in life to shift the culture in areas that I care about. How destructive it is for little girls to be taught to be ashamed of their exuberance. Whenever I feel shame again for being me, I will remember what Erica Layne said “Do you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be? She’s still here. Go after her.”