Lessons from an Extrovert

Are you an introvert or extrovert? Author Susan Cain explores how introverts can be powerful in a world where being an extrovert is highly valued. Join From Left to Write on January 19 as we share our stories inspired by Quiet: The Power of Introverts by Susan Cain. We'll also be chatting live with Susan Cain at 9PM Eastern on January 26. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.

I am an introvert raising an extrovert.

As soon as Sophia could make eye contact with people, she did. With anyone and everyone--neighbors I had never spoken to, people on the street I hurried by--her primary impulse, it seemed, was to reach out to others.

This impulse jarred me. I had spent the previous 38 years trying to be, if not invisible, unobtrusive. I’m not sure if it’s shyness, or a preference to keep to myself that was miscast as shyness, but I have to force myself to talk to people outside my small sphere. I become painfully self-conscious, hearing myself speak as I talk, wondering how much eye contact I should be making, hoping I am passing for sociable and engaging.

My introversion is hard for many to reconcile, considering that I used to stand up and speak before hundreds of people. Or that I’m a psychologist, helping others to build their social skills. If anything, because I have had to push past my introversion, had to learn skill by skill what is unconscious and easy for some, I have a great deal of empathy for others like me. I know what they need to know.

I would have known how to raise an introvert. I could have taught her how to cope.

Sophia doesn’t need to be taught how to cope. She instinctively knew how to relate to others from day one. We’d be on the elevator in our high rise, headed out for some fresh air, Sophia snugly tucked into my Ergo, facing my chest. As the elevator doors slid open, she would twist her neck uncomfortably to orient towards and beam at each person who stepped on. They rewarded her with exuberant attention.

“She’s so alert!”

“She’s so friendly!”

“Look at those big, blue eyes!”

Suddenly, I was forced to communicate.

“Yes, she’s always observing, taking it all in.”

“She loves people!”

“Thank you so much!”

Frankly, there was something lovely about this experience. After years of puzzling over how to connect with others, I had found the thing that transcended every kind of barrier--race, age, sex, class, introversion: Babies. Sophie, completely unaware of the things that divide us, made connections effortlessly.

She drew me out of my shell. She was my social lubricant. She helped me bridge the gap that lay between myself and others.

I absolutely hated the prospect of Mother and Me activities, sitting around with a bunch of people I did not know, our lowest common denominator the fact that we could give birth to live young. But I went for Sophia’s sake, because the only thing she loved more than gurgling at complete strangers was being amongst her kind. When she saw another baby, she’d go nuts with joy, even, on occasion, mounting the child because she just couldn’t get close enough. And, in these situations, I didn’t have to speak, I could just smile and let Sophie do the work.

And then, I did start having some nice conversations with people.

Out of these conversations, I made some nice friends.

Looks like the extrovert might be raising me.

Three Little Words

In every professional setting I have ever worked, it has been essential to remember the names of others, and not just a few names, but scores of names. This is particularly challenging for me, because I don’t consider myself to be a social animal. I’d much rather keep to my small circle of cherished friends (or simply be alone) than be surrounded by large groups of people. Nevertheless, when I was a teacher, I prided myself on not only knowing the names of my students, but of all the students I came in contact with, whether it was in the halls or on the playground or in the cafeteria. Doing so, personalized each interaction; it made the kids feel known in a way that I never did; it shrunk the school. Later it was essential for me, as a professional developer, to know the names of my trainees and to use them during the training, whether acknowledging a participant’s or thanking someone for their input. Again, it made the room feel like an intimate community.

But the fact is that I had to work at it. Hard. In addition to being an introvert, I am simply not good at remembering names. When we first moved into our home, the former owner gave us a “cheat sheet,” naming all the adults and kids on the block that they knew. Two years later, I still refer to it. And I’m perpetually embarrassed when someone will walk up to me, start chatting, use my name…and I can’t remember theirs. But because I cannot tolerate the anxiety of not knowing, I never play it off. I always ask.

The way I’ve learned to compensate for this weakness is to use someone’s name three times upon a first (or second or third) meeting to commit it to memory and sounding robotic. “That’s really interesting, Amy.” “Where did you say you were from, Amy?” “I’m really pleased to meet you, Amy.” But, I suppose sounding robotic is better than getting caught not knowing.

My skill deficit is Sophia’s forte. We are driving to ShopRite to pick up a few things and I’m chatting away about plans for the week.

“Oh,” I say, “why don’t I give Daddy’s friend a call…the one we met at The Little Treehouse …who had a son your age. What was his name? Not Elmo…not Aldo….”

“ARLO! Yes! You’re right!” Sophia interrupts me, recalling his name and reversing her pronouns in the process.

“That IS his name. Sophia. Good remembering. Yes, let’s see if Arlo and his mommy are free next Tuesday.”

This was not a fluke. As soon as Sophia could name objects, she was interested in knowing the names of people. MORE interested in knowing the names of people than objects. We would pass random individuals on the street, and as young as a year she would demand, “NAME!” It was impossible to explain that though everyone HAS a name, I don’t necessarily know it. To Sophia I must appear to be omniscient as I point out the names of all the things that surround us.

Now older, Sophia El Curioso, is no longer satisfied with my not knowing, she simply approaches each person she meets and, before she even says hello, asks “What’s your name?” with a little upturned twist of her hand that I used to couple with my verbal prompts to ask a “what” question. Then, later, out of the clear blue, she’ll talk about this person we met at the park, or the Shop Rite, or in the doctor’s office. “Talk about Hudson!” she’ll demand as I struggle to remember exactly who of the 150 people we met that day was Hudson.

She says it louder, “TALK ABOUT HUDSON,” as if I’m deaf, not stupid.

Oh yeah. He was the kid on the scooter at the ice cream shop.

This one, simple question, “What’s your name?” says more about who Sophia is than anything I could convey in a paragraph, an article, or a book. She is sociophilic. She has an unspoken mission to meet every person on the planet. She has an innate understanding that everyone deserves to be acknowledged. That everyone wants to be known.

And the impact on me is immeasurable. Sophia forces me out of my shell. I wind up talking to others who, without her, I never would have made contact. We talk to boys, girls, men and women. We talk to kids, teenagers, and the elderly. We talk to people of every color and every ethnicity. We talk to people who never would have talked to ME if Sophia wasn’t around. And, almost without exception, everyone leaves these interactions with a smile on his/her face.

Sophia has shrunk my world.