Commentary: Sharing someone's youth other than John Downs'

Well, OK, if John Downs insists on sharing his youth in the Journal over and over, I insist it's OK if I share my youth, too. At least once in a while. Not to say that my youth resembled John's in any fashion. I didn't live in the boonies like he did. Not by a long shot. I have never lived in a place where I didn't have neighbors close by. I was born in Lexington, Kentucky. Then, when I was 2 months old, my parents moved to San Francisco. I had no knowledge of that city as a child. Instead, my earliest memories were when we lived in South San Francisco. These two cities devastated my father – he got royally sick of the weather: fog, fog and more fog. So when I was 6 (with two younger brothers and a younger sister) (also a boxer), we moved to the peninsula, to a now-luxurious place where today all the CEOs live: Portola Valley. Then, it was sort of the boonies. No sidewalks. Lots of trees. Also horses. So some people had money and property. As I remember, I've mentioned this before in this space: I had a problem that changed my life. For a while, I was apparently allergic to house dust. The result: I was half deaf for six years. Six years, from 7 to 13, not the best time in the world to be an oddball, and there were things I missed, things I never understood, ways of being with people I never learned. I was an outcast. At least, that's how I felt. Always on the outside looking in. Solitude: That's why I read so much. That's why I wrote so much. That's why I gravitated to the library. Solitude – I know that's one thing John Downs and I have in common. I was alone a lot. This unnerved my mother, because she made friends at the drop of a hat. She never really understood why I couldn't. "They tease you because they like you," she insisted. What? They call me "Sowbug" because they like me? Parents, don't tell your children this. I've shared some of this before. I've also shared that several years later, I talked to a friend from that time, grumbling that I was the one with all the cooties. "Oh, no," she insisted. "I was the one with all the cooties." I was stunned. The message I got: Maybe we all felt this way. I was convinced I was the only one because that's how it felt. For years, I just couldn't figure out what to say to people. People of any age. Good grief. And the idea of going to parties, of meandering through crowds, approaching people, it all felt impossible. I remember aching to be by myself. But if I was going to be by myself, I couldn't be visible. Solitude was OK – no, perfect – except I couldn't be alone where people could see me. Eek! I got better. It just took a while. Two jobs helped me get better. I taught college-level English – writing, grammar and literature. Oh boy – imagine me rubbing my hands together. This was in San Luis Obispo. Teaching stuff I loved and was good at? That worked. I knew what I was doing. Then, five years after we married, Don and I moved to Auburn. I stumbled into the Journal offices and, proving over and over I could write a complete sentence that made sense, and then write another and another, I had a job. Writing for a newspaper involved something I didn't expect, although I don't know why. After all, I'd been reading newspapers for years. My job, I discovered almost immediately, required me to talk to people. I was supposed to (gulp!) call people, ask them questions and ask more questions. Even more unnerving, I was supposed to go outside and (gulp!) APPROACH people – strangers! – go up to them, bother them, ask them questions. Talk to them. Keep them talking. Ask another question. And another. Clarify what they meant. Well, I needed the money. So I did what I was supposed to. I took a deep breath and talked to people. And I discovered something I never expected: Everyone has a story. Everyone has something to say, if only someone else will approach them and just – you know – ask. Now: Unlike John, who is so sure of himself he hardly needs to listen to you, I am still often hesitant, often not positive of what to say, often willing to shut up. Almost like I used to be. Except now, even though I might feel uncertain, I'm pretty comfortable in my skin, and I've lived long enough to know I know I'm not the only one who feels the way I do. And I thank the Journal for helping me become the person I am. I can talk to people. I can have a comfortable conversation. Because I know how to ask questions. Ahhh. Susan Rushton's opinion column appears regularly in the Auburn Journal. Her email address is goldcountrydenizens@gmail.com.