A Snippet of Shame

In my experience, being alive is just creating a catalog of ill-timed, misconstrued incidents, one for you to look back on when your mind is feeling unoccupied, or you're just feeling a little too happy. I'd even go as far as to say they're one of the strongest enforcers of this existence of mine.

It started with the day of my birth -- there I was, in a women's military hospital in the dead of winter, a not imperfect combination of American and Russian heritage, lineage, culture, language, with a hint of baby, suddenly out in the world. My life went on, as anyone's might have, or might have not, with its now trivial, then not-so-much, events and "ups and downs" as we like to call them. My parents took me along their journeys (as they did not have a choice, since, as we earlier established, I was now existing in the world), moving from one country to the next. This gave me beauty in life, it gave me experience beyond my years, and instead of giving me just a lense or two to peer through, it gave me a kaleidoscope. Somewhere in its many swirls and folds is the tale of my family moving to Moscow, Russia, my mother's hometown, and what ensued for me.

On my first day of second grade in a new, Russian, public school, I was nervous. I was nervous, I won't lie! In my small experience with schools before that, we didn't have a bell to dismiss class -- I vaguely remember teachers (nuns, actually) just guiding us to and fro, with a bell to signify lunch, and a bell to signify the end of the day. As you may sense, there was more afoot in this new system than my little heart could have anticipated. I'm seated with a girl, about four rows back, with two boys in front of us. We get through the first class, and the bell rings. My seven-year-old self, distraught at the mere thought of appearing stupid or any more alien than I already did to these kids, grabbed my Hello Kitty backpack as soon as the bell rang, and motioned as though I was getting up. The boy sitting in front of me, named Boris (believe me, I'll remember that until I die), turned around and said, "and where are you going?".

A phrase so small, so innocent, so utterly...thoughtless, has stuck with me forever. I cannot describe the wave of shame and embarrassment that washed over me in that moment. My efforts, put into work long before the first day of school, to appear normal, to blend in, to maybe even come off as cool, were blown to pieces in the matter of one second. How foolish was I to think that this bell meant the day was over... We'd only been there an hour, of course it wasn't over. Of course, God, I'm so STUPID, and f**king Boris here saw right through me, he did. As quickly as I grabbed my bag to get up, I put it back down, scooted my butt right back onto the seat, and responded nonchalantly: "Nowhere".

This moment haunts me.

Fast forward fifteen years. I'd done it. I made it through an entire childhood in Moscow -- with friends, crushes, and the general mildly delinquent behavior that is appropriate with the everlasting coming of age. I transformed and morphed into another version of myself, someone better, stronger, almost fearless. My family moved back to the states. I finished high school, I finished a great college. I found the love of my life. My seven-year-old self could never imagine how cool I would be, how happy, how much I would go through. Sometimes, I think I did that little girl so proud. Sometimes, I cry over the ways I've let her down.

At my first full-time job out of school (completely unrelated to my major, naturally) I got my feet wet in managing a team in a hospitality-based industry. I was the youngest manager to work there, and many of my employees were older than me. The same part of myself from 15 years ago came to surface, but this time I nailed it. I blended in, I was respected, no one caught on to my nerves or slight lack of experience. I felt more in control than maybe ever before. One very busy day, I was told there was a dissatisfied group of guests that needed to be addressed. I understood the problem and was confident in my approach to it's solution. I go up to talk to them, with about five of my employees watching me, and proceed to execute my plan. A few minutes into me talking (and being painfully aware of not only employees watching me, but the entire group of people I was addressing, and surrounding guests) I realized something. Something so painful, so unfair I almost couldn't bear to face it. I had just walked up to, interrupted, and given an entire customer service spiel to the completely wrong group of guests. No wonder they were staring at me with such wide eyes...no wonder the group next to them was giving me the same surprised look with a twinge of distaste...no wonder all the employees I spent so much of my daily energy "impressing" were staring and laughing at me through the glass door...

Yes, the sharpness of hot blood rushing to your face and ass are still there, even after a lifetime of nothing but moments like this one. And yes, a small part of me still prays that the ground will open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole, dispensing me like a Pez candy out the other end, directly into my candle and incense-lit bedroom under the covers. That doesn't happen though. You face the moment, and then you face it again and again, while brushing your teeth or driving your cat to the vet. It makes blood rush again, but the secret to not caring about that is that you're the only one whose ass is still burning.