What is polite...

What is polite?  What is rude?  In many ways, I do not believe that I know the answer to either question.

Yesterday, two Mormon men came to my door.  I did not open the door. I did not even go to the door. I sat on the couch in full view of both of them and waited for them to leave...and Amos to stop barking, of course.

I did not want to talk with them. I did not want to hear their pitch.  I did not want to interact with them in any fashion.  And yet I sit here still feeling horribly guilty and rude for ignoring their persistent knocking on my door.

I have also struggled with answering questions that I do not wish to answer, because to not do so seems rude to me.  Perhaps being asked the question was the actual act of rudeness, but to simply not answer never seems to be an option to me...as does any response that is essentially a decline to answer.

For example, a while ago, while sitting for the photographer in charge of a church directory, he asked me question after question about my life.  He tried many topics before alighting on football.  At that point, I found myself talking at length about my favorite sport, even though the man made me uncomfortable, because he kept asking me questions.  I did not want to have a lengthy conversation with him and every question made the process of taking my photo and choosing my shot longer and longer.  Then, before I understood what was happening, he was suggesting that we go to a game together.  In a way, it was as if we were each having a different conversation, his a pursuit of me and mine a failing struggle to flee his intrusiveness because talking to him was the polite thing to do.

Another example was when a technician was doing a carotid doppler test and a cranial ultrasound eighteen months ago.  At first, I assumed his chit chat was to put me at ease, but then his moving my hair around was less about positioning his instrument and more about his fingering the strands as he told me how pretty it was.  My skin was crawling the entire time, and I jerking away as he touched me.

When I am having testing done, I really do not wish to talk with the technicians, in large part because talking extends the process.  For something like an echo cardiogram, where my body is exposed, I do not want that process extended a single second.  But even for tests for which I can remain clothed, I do not care to answer questions about my health, about my life, about my family.  Yet I feel that remaining silent would be rude. So, I find myself giving away bits of myself, revealing things I would rather keep private.

I could imagine that running tests all day or taking photographs all day might be boring and one could be desirous of conversation, but what about my desires, my wishes?

Standing is very hard for me for any length of time.  So, when I walk into a bank or a post office, where sitting is not an option, I would like the transaction completed as quickly as possible.  I do not want to talk about why I moved to Fort Wayne or explain why I am not working or really anything about my life.  I do not want to talk about what is in the package--other then the obligatory dangerous items questions--or why I am sending it or the relationship I have with the recipient.  The weather, well, I suppose I wouldn't mind talking about that, but I would rather there be no talking and just work.

Another example is with wait staff at a restaurant. I do not wish to chit-chat with wait staff.  I wish to come, order food, enjoy the company with whom I chose to eat, have my empty drink glasses filled in a timely manner, pay, and leave.  I do not wish for a commentary on my food choices or the amount of left overs or my clothing or hair or any other topic that arises.  I suppose some talk is polite, but more often than not of late it seems that eating out is a constant interruption of a steady stream of people asking if I cared for my meal or how I was enjoying my stay and such, all the while discomfort and frustration growing within me.  

Is this because I am an introvert?  Is this because I am rude?  Is this because I have no sense of what being polite means?  Because, to me, being polite, or not being rude, is essentially about my having to do things and to say things that I would rather not do or say.

To shake hands with strangers.
To exchange hugs with strangers or acquaintances or even people I regularly meet.
To allow others to touch me, such as squeeze my shoulder, encircle my arm or body, to touch my arm or leg.
To answer personal and, to me, intrusive questions.
To hold eye contact when I would rather not.
To talk at all.

It is as if the needs and desires and demands of others is always more important than my own.  That being polite, or not being rude, means that my own thoughts and feels do not matter at all.

Yes, I was weeping at the time the Mormons came, so I did not wish to explain why my eyes were red and swollen, my cheeks wet, my nose stuffy.  But I also did not wish to give a defense of my own faith as I rejected theirs.  I did not want to talk about Mormonism. I did not want to talk. I wanted to be left alone.

Psychology says that I have the right to be in charge of my own body.  That I have the right to my own opinions, thoughts, and feelings.  That I have the right to set boundaries with others.  That I have the right to choose with whom I interact.  And that exercising these rights is not only not rude, but it is healthy.

In the work place, this primarily holds true, at least with physical boundaries.  However, I have not worked in nearly a year and a half.  Instead, I have been out in society, in medical situations, and at church.  In those places, it seems I have none of those rights.  If I exercise those rights, I am rude or uncooperative or even unhealthy.  In church, especially, it seems as if it is not only politeness but duty that calls for me to allow touches and conversations that are difficult, and even harmful to me, for the sake of community, for the sake of fellowship.

To me, it seems most often that the freedom of the Gospel does not really mean that I have freedom, but that I am free to do as you wish for me to do, physically, communicably, and spiritually.

So, I suppose I am back to my thoughts about those children all those years ago at camp whom we decided it was best for them to face their fear of heights and leaning backwards off a tower edge no matter what...it was best to force them.  Perhaps it is the ubiquity factor, but it seems to me that too much of our interactions with others is more about force, in some fashion, than anything else.

A long time ago, I was staying with my then pastor's family for just a few days.  On the second day, my pastor's wife told me that she was going to the gym.  I asked her not to, to visit with me instead.  Very bluntly, she asked me why I cared more about myself than her health?  I was stunned.  In the lull created by my gaping mouth, she gently pointed out that my wanting her to not go to the gym was all about my own needs and desires rather than hers.  Until recently, I had not remembered that moment.

At the time, I thought she was rude. I thought that she was neglecting her visitor. I thought that she should care about spending time with me...no matter that I would still have a chance to visit with her over the next few days.  I thought all these things because she had a household of children and thought it would be better if the two of us grabbed the chance to spend some time alone rather than the time we had together that included her children during the day and her husband in the evening.

But her life, then, was filled with children.  Being with her meant going along for the ride.  My wanting to change her life, change her schedule, change her own desires was all about me.  That was rude.  However, how is my wanting others to allow my life to be what it is, my schedule to be what it is, my desires to be what they are also being rude?

Recently, though I moved my arm out of reach and told an usher at church I did not want his help, twice, just a few minutes after the second time, he reached over and squeezed my shoulder as he told me it was good to have me in church.  I jerked my body away, poorly stifled a scream, burst into tears, and started trembling violently from head to toe.  Horrified at both the PTSD response I was having and that I was having it at church, I stumbled my way to the car where I huddled in misery for a long while before calming down enough to drive.

I have tried to address the matter of being touched by strangers at church, specifically male ushers, without being asked or granted permission.  My attempts to garner help in this area have failed.  When I express my growing frustration over the matter, what I primarily hear is a two-pronged admonishment of a) surely the usher's intentions were good and b) as a part of the community, I should just give it time (meaning get used to it).  While that sounds like taking the polite path, does it not also mean that I am forced to endure something that is hurtful and even harmful to me at this point in my life?  Why must the consideration of person, needs, and desires, always be the other person?  Why is wanting that for myself rude?  For it is noted that I give offense, because I do not want to hug my Christian brothers and sisters, because I do not want for them to touch me as they talk, because I...now...do not even want to shake their hand.  Noted in speech.  Noted in facial expressions.  Noted in isolation from community activities.

Were I in the work place, the continued unwanted touch could very well be an actionable sexual assault case.  I have stated and written to those in charge that I would like for it to stop.  But in this situation, because I am in church, I have no right over my own body. I have no right to have my thoughts and feelings respected and honored in this matter.

In the medical arena, this is also primarily true.  When I expressed my frustration over the neurological testing experience, I primarily heard, "Just ask for a female technician next time."  However, I have discovered that in the world of neurological testing and radiology, asking for a female technician means a choice between not having a test or having it done by a man.  It also means, since I am not a Muslim woman who would naturally need female staff, that there is something mentally wrong with me because I do not want to be tended to by male medical staff.

The technician who played with the locks of my hair, who tucked my hair behind my ears, who stroked the back of my neck as he moved my hair aside--all the while commenting on the comeliness of body and hair--was completely inappropriate and, in fact, abusive.  But he was the only one available.  I was trapped in a room alone with him.  And I did not have the courage to ask for help.

Mostly, because whenever I ask for female staff or object to how men touch me in their attempts to be friendly or comforting, I am merely either an uncooperative patient or an hysterical female.  Both of these make getting medical care difficult...even later on since your label is charted and passed on.

The latter was noted when I objected to how an anesthesiologist had slid in place his hand on the front curve of my shoulder and began tapping his rather long fingers repeatedly upon the top part of my breast as he explained the type of drugs he would be using.  Since my gown was untied in preparation for being removed, the result of his movement was that his touch was skin to skin. Of course, I was assured, he was only trying to make me feel more comfortable since it was obvious I was nervous about being put to sleep.  But he was not interested in asking me what would make me more comfortable (a warm blanket or two, my gown tied until I was unconscious, a discussion on how I do not wake easily from any anesthetic and need extra time without pressure to get up and get moving).  He had already decided for me what I needed.

Again, psychology would say that I have the right to set boundaries, and to control (outside of emergency situations) who touches my body...the right to choose with whom I want to interact...the right to choose what about my life I wish to reveal.

Truly, that does not seem to be the case.  Reality is that others get to decide for you.  Others get to decide what is comforting, helpful, supportive, friendly, and polite.

Was I rude to the two Mormons?  Was I rude to the usher?  Am I simply, wholly, and utterly rude for wanting to make my own choices over who and when and how anyone touches me, over who and when and how I talk with others?  And, more importantly, am I forcing others to do or say what they would rather not?

Given how I feel, I hope and pray the latter is not the case.  However, given how confusing being around others is these days, I fear all too often it is the case.  I simply do not know what is polite...what is rude.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!