Dearest Rachel –
I do so hope that, when my time comes and I show up at the Pearly Gates, you’re aware enough of my arrival to come and greet me there and walk me around, because I am not going to feel comfortable, walking around among that huge crowd. I know it sounds sacrilegious, maybe even blasphemous, to say that I would be uncomfortable in heaven – and maybe there’s some mitigating factor about the place that I don’t know about on this side that would prevent that from being the case – but I think that, at first, I’m going to feel horribly out of place there.
It’s got nothing to do with heaven, per se, and everything to do with me, as you must remember, honey. Whenever we were at an event with a sea of unfamiliar (and even some familiar) faces, I let you take the lead, and clung to you like a life preserver through the waves of faces and conversations, and let you do much of the talking. If you ever noticed that I let you be the public face of the family, you never let on, but assumed the mantle willingly, almost eagerly. I’ll never fathom that ability.
Which is a shame, because now I have to be the public face of the family. Moreover, I have to model sociability for Daniel, when I’m barely on speaking terms with the concept myself. I don’t know what to say to other people to get a conversation started, and if I manage to inveigle my way into one that’s already ongoing, I don’t know how to hold up my own end of it. Oh, I have topics I’m conversant with – the fact that I can spill my guts to you like this should be more than evidence enough of that – but I’m usually quite conscious of the fact that others would find the topic (or at least, the way I present it) to be boring and dull, and have the good sense (or manners) not to say anything. I don’t want to subject anyone to anything they aren’t interested in, and I can’t think of a reason they would be interested in anything I have to say.
This may be due, all the more unfortunately, with a certain inability on my part to show the proper interest in other people’s conversations, more often than not. There’s only so far I can follow a topic I’m not versed in, or don’t know enough about, before my mind starts to wander. Naturally, I have to assume that this goes both ways; if I’m talking about something that the other person isn’t well-versed in (which is all too often the case, as I have cultivated – somewhat deliberately – esoteric tastes, which may also explain why I can’t relate to other people’s topics of discussion), I assume that, if I go on for too long, their eyes will glaze over in turn. Really, I’ve concluded that it’s the policy not to speak in the first place; it’s easier and more considerate (although I will go on and on when I write to you like this, but in this situation, you don’t have to continue reading, and I’ll neither know nor be offended).
Of course, this naturally results in no conversation at all, or my merely hanging around at the very fringe of the conversation, looking very much out of place in the whole scene. If I’m not contributing to the back-and-forth, I might as well not be there, right?
Now, with you at my side, it didn’t matter. You could hold everything up under your own strength, and with my being associated with you, I wasn’t out of place, even if I had nothing to offer to the moment. I was there because I was yours, and that’s all that needed to be said to justify my presence. But with you gone, so too is the reason for me to be here. It’s uncomfortable for the both of us (I assume – I can’t know the other person’s mind, but it’s natural for one to expect other to see any situation the same way one does), and I find myself feeling like I really shouldn’t be there. Most conversations in a crowd involve multiple people; any such grouping would be no worse off for one less person, right?
It’s tempting, too, to bring out my phone and disassociate myself from the proceedings entirely. But I know that I shouldn’t; this is a social gathering, and I need to be social. I need to talk to other people, give them my attention – and show Daniel how it’s done (especially considering that he needs to be weaned from his device in a setting like this). But it’s harder to do than it ought to be, even when it comes to a simple question about the time; nobody wears wristwatches these days, so the go-to response for such an inquiry is to take out one’s phone – at which point, one’s attention is lost to the internet, and that’s not where it’s supposed to be, I know.
At least there’s eventually a point where we get to the meat and potatoes of the gathering, both literally (meaning I have an excuse for not talking, as it’s rude to do so with food in one’s mouth) and figuratively (as the reason for the gathering is explained to us by one speaker or another, thereby relieving me of the responsibility of maintaining a conversation myself. Of course, I can’t tell you about any of that, but at least this is where everything gets much easier, and I finally feel, if not at home, a little more comfortable.
I’m not sure how that will work on your side, and I don’t suppose you’ll be able to fill me in before I can get there. Still, in the meantime, if you could keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck, I’d appreciate it, as I’m sure I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 