An incident that happened last weekend stirred up childhood memories that help me understand why a particular behavior evokes a shutdown/meltdown reaction.
When I was a child, my being right about even fairly arcane things was the norm, and so when I was wrong or ignorant about something, that was a source of mockery. I remember, for instance, when I was about ten, my father asked me how to spell hors d’oeuvres for a menu he was writing up. I didn’t know; I didn’t even come close. Instead of doing what a typical parent would do with a typical child (“That’s okay, that’s a hard word, I’ll try looking it up again”), I got teased. By an adult who, himself, didn’t know how to spell it.
(I know how to spell it now, although I did double-check after I’d typed it out in the preceding paragraph.)
As a teacher, I actively encourage students to call out any errors I might make. But, for the most part, they’re polite enough about it when it happens.
Other adults, no so much. And even worse is when I’m correct about something they absolutely believe I’m wrong about. Do I relent? Do I prove them wrong?
It’s exhausting.
It tends to set me into a fight-or-flight panic mode. Especially when the teasing starts. “I thought you knew everything!” “Oh my God, I know something you don’t know?”
There’s lots of stuff I don’t know. There’s lots of stuff I think I know that I’m wrong about. There’s lots of stuff you think you know that I know you’re wrong about. Can’t we just correct each other with kindness? Do people really have to gloat and then, when it turns out I really am right, pout?
At least this weekend, I handled it fairly well. I expressed my hurt feelings to my brother (who wasn’t the one who’d hurt them), and he acknowledged me. That’s something that was usually sorely missing from my childhood: Simple acknowledgement.
I intimidated my parents, both because I really did know an absurd amount of things (although hardly everything) and because of my often violent meltdowns. So their all-too-frequent reactions to the things I did, both good and bad, were mired in mockery and dismissiveness.
Even as an adult: My father told me once that Korean writing is just a form of Chinese. He followed that up with, “And don’t try to correct me, because I was told that by a Korean person.” He was expecting me to “Well, actually….”
And well, actually, but that’s not for here.
So now that I’ve started writing this, I’ve got a bunch more things bouncing around in my head. Little hornets buzzing around their nest, stirred up by a baseball bat swung in their general vicinity.
But it’s late, so I’m going to try to sleep now.