Dear Roxanne;
Since moving to the Midwest I have found that people here don't reach out much. I have been in classes, taught classes, all kinds of classes and very few people reach out.
Do I put out that I am not kind, at first I thought. But no I found out sometimes other women weren't kind. I asked for prayer at a church I go to and I was told off. I slowly went back, but now that they discuss laughter they never let me share what I know about laughter.
I feel I entered into a generation that has lost how to ask questions, reach out to one another and being satisfied with a thank-you on the email is enough.
Well,it isn't for me. I find I miss talks with girlfriends nurturing one another, I miss laughter with people. Luckily, I am teaching the subject now.
And slowly I am forming a couple movement classes. But I have found very few peers in dance, writing, and acting and I was in a play for twenty seven shows.
So luckily I am putting this frustration in my own work, and feel lucky I have a couple of friends who share walks, talks and activities. I have a loving husband and kids who like me . But I find that if we don't ask questions how do we meet people, have friends, have jobs and have connection. Those questions will improve our world, but by having all our new toys, it takes away active participation and that is what the word still needs is being engaged not letting Wi do our Yoga. But using your head to remember what yoga you know. Blessings and Happy New Year!
Sandi
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| Now let me consult with my crystal water... |
Hi Sandi! Thanks for your question. Only as I reread it here, I realize it is not so much a question, is it? In fact, it is more of an exploratory/personal essay. If you were one of my Loft students and turned this in, I'd be writing all sorts of things and exclamation points all over the page, feverishly agreeing with you: "I know! When I first moved here I thought I was crazy!" I thought everyone was messing with me! "Let's get together," everyone said, but it just never happened. I felt like I was doing something wrong by following up. This proved most crazy making upon moving to Minneapolis in 2001 and meeting my email "buddy," a second year grad student with whom I had immediate rapport. We had so may things in common it was eerie. We emailed back and forth for five months, almost daily and we couldn't wait to meet each other. When the day finally came and we were introduced, I went running into her arms.
"Finally!" I said, taking in a good look at my new friend. "We even look alike!" I gushed, which is untrue except we are both tall. "I can't believe we are actually meeting in person!"
"You too! Wow! This is awesome. Hey! Welcome to Minneapolis! Let me show you around! You must be feeling sort of overwhelmed right now. Come on! Come with me. Let's have lunch!"
This was exactly the response I expected, only... she didn't really say it. I heard it. I felt it. It was after all, what my body was used to: reciprocity of emotion. It was so expected, so MY normal that I must have heard it coming from somewhere, perhaps survival mode, but sister, it wasn't coming from her. In fact, it was if she hadn't a clue who I was.
"Hey," she said. And after significant pause, "nice purse."
I pulled my aqua Pan Am Airlines bike bag away from my torso, looking at it as for the first time. "Oh... thanks," I said.
"See ya later," she said and headed down the hall with her other tall friend.
Okay, what just happened? Did I, like, forget to wear a bra? Is there, like, semen on my face? Did I somehow just sprout a cuckoo clock out of my third eye that instead of cuckooing gives everyone the finger?
After I checked myself in the mirror, I wondered if maybe I'd somehow offended her. But it couldn't have been "something I said," because I didn't get a chance to say anything. At my new apartment, I went online and reviewed our email stream to see if anything happened that I missed, like a break-up letter. All clear.
This was the first among several similar encounters. SEV-E-RAL. And though I eventually became fairly fluent in the midwestern rhythm of Minnesota Nice, it took about eight years for me to stop taking it personally (most of the time, since there are enough non-natives in my life to throw me for a loop with their emotional reciprocity). Still, eight years to realize that I could have saved myself a load of suffering by simply saying something like, "hey email buddy! Wait up! I want to have lunch with you! This place is really big...I'm lost!" I wish someone would have told me before I moved here that the Midwest is a little different. Not to take it personally if someone doesn't get excited with you about, say, your birthday. But still go and have your birthday. Still invite people and get a cake. Go to Nye's even. They'll come. And it's not reluctance or indifference you sense; it's just that things are less of a big deal to some people. What is a big deal? Weather's a big deal. Weather and getting a new store. Especially a new big chain store. That's exciting.
It still baffles me, but at least now I know it has nothing to do with me. I have no idea why no matter how long I've known someone from here, they wish me "good luck," upon departure. I have no idea why hello and goodbye always feels so formal, why no matter how personal, or wild, or unusual, or deep we've gotten, the next time we get together is as though it was the first... or the last. I don't know why I don't get invited to more things. Or asked more frequently how I am. Who knows why the Caribou dude always says, "can I help you?" as though the "you" that is me is not the same "you" to whom he yesterday disclosed much of his personal life. I don't get it! And, sure, I don't understand why people appear to be interested in me or the same things I am, but I never end up seeing them again or hearing back from them when I send an email or call. Nor do I have any idea why plans for "getting together" is a euphemism for "I gotta get goin'." More baffling still is that I have no sense of how my native peeps really feel about me. Do they love me? Like me a little? A lot? Feel sorry for me? Wish I'd go away? I've never experienced so many effusively challenged folk in my life! Have you? Living here starves my inherent need for constant external validation.
And while yes, that is an exaggeration, and of course is in no way representative of EVERY SINGLE native I know, the truth, the red hot irony, is that I've really had to learn how to be my own cheerleader since no one here is lining up to do the job. They cheer-led in LA and even though it was fleeting and inauthentic, it was the noise and rhythm to which I acclimated and everything else feels a little... quiet. So what's a transplant to do? Stay true. Keep doing what you love, no matter how quiet the following, how small the social circles. No matter what, you just do and be your truth in the world, be and do what you love because just because you aren't as popular as you once were or would like to be, you just might realize that those cool accepting yummy people that you want to laugh with and be understood by, etc, are actually right here in front of you but you haven't really seen them because you haven't given them a chance. It is you, after all, who has been withholding. Minnesota Nice is no excuse for not being yourself.
So don't do like I did and go thinking the reason they are being Minnesota Nice is because they have found you out; they can really see those deep unseen horrible flaws, those core personal mythologies that you picked up somewhere that must be true, especially if all these Nice Minnesota people want nothing to do with you! Don't let mythology take your truth. They DO want something to do with you, even if it it's not EVERYTHING to do with you and with as much as enthusiasm. Minnesotans, Canadians, Los Angelenos...whoever! No one has the ability (and rarely the intent) to stop you from being who you are. Meditate on that. But perhaps you have and perhaps this is more or less what you meant in your letter; is it? I don't know if I actually answered your answer, but in any case, I hope it helps. Big So Cali Hug to you, Rox
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