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The Golden Aura Of Silence
by Deanna Risucci "Silence is Golden." —author unknown to me. I've spoken about silence here before, in the sense that people are so uncomfortable with it that we'll say anything to fill the gaps. But recently I was again reminded of how powerful silence can be. My friend Sheila and I were having drinks at a bar the other night when she was about to be asked out by a good-looking man. He had just told her that he thought she was cute. Unsure of the proper response, she sat nervously thinking up potential witty things to say. In the wake of her silence, the guy faltered. "You think I'm a dork now, don't you?" Caught off guard, Sheila, again, didn't know what the heck to say. "I just figured we could go out some time, but if I'm too forward, that's okay, I'll back off." Dumbstruck, Sheila had no idea how to save this poor man. Before she could, he launched the final bomb. "My fake-hair-for men club warned me that I'm often too impulsive." Amazing. Her silence brought this man on a fascinating downward spiral right in front of us! An extraordinary occurrence, yes, but it reminded me of a time I discovered how truly golden silence can be... One day whilst I was still of the working class, I asked my boss for the EVENING off. We were on deadline that week which meant that me and my cellmates, I mean colleagues, were expected to work from 8 am to whenever in the late evening. The fact that if the big cheese wasn't so obsessive-compulsive and in turn more open to new ideas on how to manage the current system so that we would see the light of day, our families, and actually be aware of current events, this around-the-clock UNproductivity (as I like to call it), wouldn't be necessary, is beside the point. This one particular evening I had needed to leave for a couple of hours to get a small medical exam. You know, spot on the x-ray...check up now, health more important, etc. But noooooo, try explaining that to bosses of America who have no life and instead of trying to figure out why they don't have one, they use work as a shield to ward off having to look in the mirror and ask self-revealing questions! Oh the horror, the horror! So in their high-backed swivel chairs they sit and dispense their madness to the rest of the office expecting them to be as equally serious about the bottom line as they. A thick, black vapor of dysfunction emits from their pores and permeates the air, seeping into every underling's skin, making them feel guilty for wanting such frivolous things as a haircut, a date during the week, or even so much as to go grocery shopping! Silly little fools, all. And I was one of them. I needed a doctor to take pictures of me from the inside. If I could do it myself, I assured my boss, I'd stick a Polaroid camera in my mouth and snap away like a photographer from the National Enquirer. BUT I CAN'T, YOU IGNORANT...(I frequently screamed such profane phrases in my head while standing in front of my boss with a big grin on my face.) Couldn't I postpone the appointment was the response. It was then I began to silently question myself. I was hired to do a job, no matter how ridiculous, and it's my responsibility...not like I have a disease...I probably should postpone the stupid exam. But what if I do and it turns out that I could have detected the early warning signs of something horrible? Good, I'd die and then my inadequate, selfish boss would really be sorry! As my better sense of judgment started to wake up the rest of my brain, I realized that this whole discussion was crazy and that I needed, just this once, to go to the damn doctor. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my inner discussion took just enough time to intimidate my higher up. I had been staring at her the whole time without saying a word, provoking her to utter explanations about her questionable response. "Well, I can understand if it's something you have to do...Okay, I know it's something you have to do, your health is important..." Still I had said nothing at this point and as she continued to bumble out loud, the insanity of it all was brought to her attention. It was like beautiful music to my ears. "Okay, go, but promise to call when you're done to see if we still need you." Triumph. It was also one of the moments that helped me make the decision to leave the work force. I felt like I was singing, not for my supper, but for my own well-being. Sadly, that was mostly the case no matter where I worked. No, I'd rather swim in shark-infested waters— they'd probably let me come up for air before tearing me into tiny little pieces. UB |
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Deanna Risucci is a nationally published journalist who has written for Soap Opera Digest and Woman's Own. Her favorite philosopher is Woody Allen, for whom she feels has validated her ongoing neurosis. |
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