Circle Games

I recently attended my daughter’s parent-teacher evening at school. I hadn’t felt too bothered about it. I had pictured myself sitting there with her teacher for a short time, then leaving, satisfied that all was well. I didn’t have any major concerns about my daughter’s progress. It was more a case of fulfilling my duty as a parent by showing up. Meetings of any kind tend to make me nervous, but I assumed that I would be able to handle this one on one scenario okay.

I arrived at the library doors right on time that evening only to find I had got it wrong. This wasn’t a one on one evening. It was a group session. My worst nightmare. The circle of chairs set up on the carpeted open space confirmed it. ‘Oh god. It’s one of those’, I thought to myself. I considered quietly backing away from the doors, but it was too late. I had been seen. Filled with apprehension, I pushed the glass doors open and entered the library.

I must have misread the email. This was a parent information evening rather than a parent teacher interview evening. I had attended one of these years ago and the anxiety I had experienced had overwhelmed me. My anxiety had caused such distraction that I left there having not absorbed any useful new information anyway. Convinced that I had not benefited from attending, I had avoided them since. I had made alternate arrangements with the teacher to maintain communication, one on one.

These intimate gatherings are designed to facilitate the sharing of ideas and information amongst parents and teachers. They (apparently) serve as an ideal setting for encouraging parent participation and involvement. Evidently, this is the case — for some. As a spectator, I have seen how successful these group gatherings are — for some. I have observed the open dialogue in action. I have witnessed interesting conversational exchange, real successful communication. So, I get that this arrangement has its merits. But this approach is based on the assumption that we are all wired the same way. That we all have no problem opening up, sharing, talking in groups. In reality, for some of us, this is impossible.

But here I was, accidentally in attendance at this open forum. So I approached the circle, acknowledging the teacher with a smile and quiet ‘hi’. I felt the eyes of seated parents on me but was not ready to make eye contact yet. I needed a seat! But not just any seat. I needed ‘the right seat’. I hesitated for a moment. ‘How does this work again?’ I asked myself, trying to calculate the optimal position to minimize eye contact. ‘Do I sit next to the teacher?’ ‘hmm, if the teacher is at 12 O’clock then….’ ‘No, that’s centre stage, all eyes are on 12 O’clock!’ I need to be further along’. Where did I sit last time? Then, aware of eyes on me, and feeling I was taking too long to decide, I panicked and sat myself down at 9 O’clock. I greeted some parents with a smile and a quiet, ‘hi’ as I placed my bag and water bottle next to my feet and realized I had not got it right. At 9 O’clock, I was still very much in the line of vision. ‘God! I’m meant to be at 6! That’s it! Six O’clock!’ I thought, kicking myself. ‘Of course!’ I considered moving but changed my mind. That would just draw more attention to me. ‘Don’t be silly’. I told myself. ‘stay put’. I made a mental note. ‘If the focal point is at 12 O’clock, then directly opposite is 6 O’clock and 6 O’clock is the furthest point from peoples’ line of vision. Like being at the back of the classroom almost.’ I located the clock and prepared to endure an hour of discomfort.

The first half an hour was bearable. The teacher did most of the talking, filling us in on what’s been happening generally. For that time, I felt like everyone else. I was listening and not talking. It’s interesting that at fifty, I feel exactly the same in these situations as I did as a child at school, particularly in a school setting.

As the teacher finished up with her talk and the time to open the floor to the group approached, I felt all the familiar physical sensations of anxiety increasing. My heart rate increased, my breathing changed, I was aware of a cold sick feeling in my stomach. I was fidgety, glancing at the clock a lot. I was so distracted, by my internal chatter that I couldn’t focus. I was absorbing nothing.

The time arrived and parents started sharing, asking questions, contributing. Meanwhile I sat there gradually shutting down, feeling obligated to join in but as usual not knowing how, or if I even could. I spent the whole time trying to think of what to say. Timing was another challenge. ‘I could interject here’, I would think, ‘yes, now, go’. Then the opportunity would pass because I had hesitated. The volume wasn’t low enough for me to speak or someone else was saying what I was going to say. I had feared my comment would be lost, trampled over and gone unheard anyway. Now I had to listen, endeavour to catch up to what they had moved on to, make sense of what they were saying and try again to interject something at the right moment. I prepared (and missed the boat) several times. It was typical. By the time I had sorted out what I would say and was about to commit, take the plunge, the horror of realizing as the words had left my mouth and were travelling through the air, the others had abruptly hung a left and the conversation was off in a new direction. My words would land there on the road, splat. The car that was the conversation speeding off into the sunset blowing smoke in my pathetic face. Those with the gift of the gab dismissing me, ‘yeah, old news, not relevant’. All the while I continued to engage in the usual way, facial expressions that said, ‘oh yes’. Lots of nodding, laughing at the right time, in attempts to acknowledge other people’s input, whilst struggling to get my own out there. It was exhausting!

I am always hyper aware that I am the only one left having not imputed to the discussion. There was one parent, at six O’clock as it happened, who I noticed hadn’t contributed. I wondered if she had chosen the six O’clock seat deliberately. I doubted it. I doubted there were others as neurotic as me about these things. I gave up hoping there were others like me long ago, back at school. Most people, it seems, are not terrified to speak. Regardless, it made me feel a little better, knowing I wasn’t the only one remaining silent. Then, she spoke, and I was the only one left mute. Story of my life. I wanted to believe that she had, like me, been struggling to speak, and had found it a huge challenge. Even if this wasn’t the case, it helped because I did it too. I spoke. At about ten minutes to close of the meeting. I took a leap. I asked a question. I made sure that the volume was high enough for my words to be heard at least, then it was over to the universe to see how it landed. Out it went into the circle, my voice. As luck would have it, my question landed at the perfect time. There was a lull, there was eye contact with the teacher. It was a success. I can’t recall what I asked, and I have no idea what the teacher’s response was but to my delight, my question prompted discussion amongst the other parents. I sat back, words flying around and basked in the moment. It didn’t matter what was being said now. I had taken a leap of faith and spoken. Job done.

With a sense of relief and accomplishment I watched the big hand of the clock make its way up to the twelve and then, the meeting was at an end. Feeling more relaxed, I began helping stack the chairs with one of the (very forward and chatty) mothers. And, in spite of myself, I found myself engaging in a conversation with her. I asked how her daughter was going and we got talking about music and art. For a few minutes, the conversation flowed. I felt normal. It was surreal. I actually enjoyed it. That’s the thing. When I push myself, I find I do, in fact, usually enjoy conversation. When its spontaneous, and in random, short, unplanned interactions I can cope. But when I feel pressure (usually self-prescribed) it’s a whole other story.

In many ways I am still very much that ten year old who shuts down in select situations. But I am also a grown woman, with choices. Fortunately I have the choice to leave the situation if I become too overwhelmed. I also have the choice to stay, challenge myself. And I find, when I do, it usually pays off.