I have spent a lot of time and effort over the last ten years or more trying to be true to myself as much as I can in as many situations as I can. If you had asked me a week ago how much I worry about what other people think of me, I would have told you I hardly ever think about it. “I am who I am,” I would have said, “and I hope they like me, but if they don’t, then they don’t.”
I found out last week how much of a bubble I’ve been living in.
Last Friday, I had to give a deposition for the first time in my life. I thought it would be fairly simple, since I’m not personally at risk of anything (a client of the company I work for is being sued), and I didn’t feel like I had anything to hide. So, it was a shock to me how unpleasant and difficult it was.
First of all, I spend almost all of my time around people who acknowledge my authenticity. As it turns out, it means a lot to me that people perceive me as authentic. I was surprised at how upsetting it was to sit in a room for three hours with a person who, through tone and body language, constantly implied that he thought I was lying to him.
Second, I’m not a big fan of confrontation. But this guy got angry with me when he didn’t like my answers. I don’t know whether that was because he thought I was trying to put something over on him, or he was just trying to throw me off, or my answers simply didn’t fit into a narrative that would help his client. But I found myself shrinking away and re-erecting a protective shell around myself. A shell which I had taken a decade to tear down suddenly wanted to spring back up in a matter of minutes. And, to a frightening extent, it did.
That afternoon I told myself I would be going to Shabbat services that night just for me. “I will sit in the back by myself,” I told myself, “and I will just take care of myself and nobody else.”
So I showed up at the synagogue, and a regular member introduced me to his son who was visiting from out of town. Then the rabbi pulled me aside to give me a head’s up about a woman who had been yelling at him about her ex-husband earlier that day, and who had threatened to disrupt services that night by yelling at her ex-husband directly.
Then, I saw a couple approaching the building, and remembered that a close family member of the husband had died in the previous week. When I approached them to give him my condolences he took my hand, and we walked hand in hand to the synagogue door, with his wife holding his other hand while she shot grateful looks in my direction.
That is how it became clear to me that the whole idea of me being there that evening only for myself was futile. Because that’s not how a community works. You show up, and you’re there for others, and at the same time, just by needing you in some small way, they are there for you too. Without even trying, they tell you they trust you, and they want you there, and your presence matters to them.
And that’s the best way to recover from a deposition that I can imagine.
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