The "Treble" With People Pleasing...
Recently I attended two of my kids’ elementary school performances. You old folks like me remember this so well—the performance was usually titled something like “Falling into Fall”, “The TREBLE with Winter”, “The Spring Sing” or something similarly cheesy.
Anyway, I had a flashback to the third grade at one of my own performances, in Ms. Archuleta’s class at Springer Elementary School in Mountain View CA, on a sunny spring day in 1984.
We had all filed into the (very appropriately named, I might add) “Multi-Purpose” Room when it was our turn to sing our song, called “A Little White Duck”, by Burl Ives, to be followed by a rousing all-school rendition of “Free To Be You and Me” by Carole King. We filed onto the stage, the taller kids of course ascending the squeaky climb to the top riser- and every single year Brendan Cohen on the top row, in the middle, respectively, since he was easily the tallest one in the class. I stood next to Aaron Piker, in the front row, stage left, with the rest of the shorties. Er, uh, I mean “height-challenged” folks.
I carefully surveyed the crowd. It was a warm day, so there were mothers in sundresses or tennis attire, plus a smattering of grandparents dressed in their plaid golf shorts and Los Altos Country Club polo shirts, methodically fanning themselves with flimsy Xerox copies of the program order. (Dads were generally not in attendance at school events in those days, as it was still considered the father’s job to be the main breadwinner outside the home.) 35mm cameras were poised, ready to snap a few pictures- with extra flash cubes and rolls of film close at hand in case they were needed. Those who were into new technology of the times sported fancy new Polaroid cameras on neck straps. There was a roar of happy chatter amongst the audience members, a few even waved at each other across the crowd.
Our principal, Darla Barry, stepped up to the microphone and cleared her throat. She had the body type of Arnold Schwarzenegger and the voice of Sylvester Stallone. “Good Afternoon,” her man-voice voice boomed through the crackly speakers. Then performed the universal sign for “shut-the-hell-up”, which is to extend one’s arms out in front of them and quickly wave them up and down. A hush fell over the crowd, with the exception of one lone whiny baby in the back row, who was clearly not impressed with the quality of the program so far.
Ms. Barry introduced the songs we were about to perform and took her seat in the front row bleacher. Nonchalantly, she flipped her Dorothy Hammill haircut and slipped her reading glasses onto the bridge of her nose as she buried herself into the Xerox copied program.
So our pianist, Mrs. Bradley, struck the first few chords of “A Little White Duck”, and suddenly it happened. I heard it first. It was the most unique, most peculiar sound….Almost like a high-pitched air horn, but as if it was completely muted; almost like what I imagined a small mouse squealing with delight at the sight of a hunk of cheese would sound like. Indeed, it turned out that in a sense, it definitely involved cheese- as in, it was apparent that someone had cut the cheese…. With their buttcheeks.
Initially, the smell was faint. However, it quickly graduated into a rich, thick, matured, scent of aged bowel and fecal odor. I glanced to my left at Darcy Dickson, whose eyes met mine in a shared sideways glance. Her lip curled upwards and she turned slightly to look at me in an accusatory manner. Trying not to draw much attention to myself, (and completely incensed that she would assume that I had been the phantom farter) I simply made the most non-dramatic “ew” face I could muster, by bunching up my nose and rolling my eyes. Darcy smiled at me, satisfied that I had not violated the air with that smell, and I smiled back and shrugged. As the smell continued to gather velocity and sulfur-like qualities, I glanced to my right- and the second I began to turn my head, it was painfully obvious that I had discovered the perpetrator. What I thought was before a really bad fart smell turned out to be an odor phenomenon beyond all reason and comprehension. The force radiating off the epicenter of the originator of the smell completely enveloped me in its’ sheer magnificence- the strongest, most horrific, most wretched, most nose-hair singeing smell my poor senses had ever encountered thus far. My eyes began to water as I looked right at Aaron Piker’s face- which was as red as a Roma Tomato.
Just then, it was time for us to sing our first line. The rest of the class opened their mouths to sing “A little white duck, swimming in the water, a little white duck, doing what he oughter…” but I just stood there, as if paralyzed by the smell, and Aaron was now looking at his feet, shifting is weight from side to side which, of course, only began to move the smell in rapid waves through the atmosphere. Baffled and unable to breathe or do anything else, I suddenly began to giggle- just a little bit at first. But then I felt the laughter gaining waves of momentum, so I attempted to stifle the laughter—but against my will, I let out the biggest, loudest snort ever—as if it was “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World.” Because I was in the first row, the microphone Ms. Barry had used was quite near my standing place, and because it remained on after the introductions were completed, it was definitely capable of picking up and nearby voices or sounds- and it did. You could hear several audible gasps from the audience, as the microphone echoed the snort at full volume and the soundwaves ricocheted off the walls of the Multi-Purpose Room.
After that, our performance became your basic shitshow. Try as I might, I couldn’t hold my laughter in, and several of my classmates were laughing too. I looked at the audience and could see several adults upfront trying not to laugh. Shoulders were shaking, lips were pressed together to avoid releasing an audible sound, a couple of people had strategically placed a hand over their mouths in an attempt to look as if were in deep thought over the complex and highly intelligent song lyrics. The song continued, as I guess Mrs. Bradley had just made the executive decision that “the show must go on.”
“A little green frog, swimming in the water….” the majority of the class continued to try to sing as best they could through their laughter. My eyes scanned the crowd as I tried to distract myself by finding something else to think about, since the smell was still affecting my cognitive function. Unfortunately, my gaze locked up with Ms. Barry’s. She glared at me with a look I’ll never forget. She had this expression on her face that easily communicated that I was possibly the most lowly, inferior, disappointing student she had ever encountered—doomed to a future of redundant, menial tasks only, like I would clearly grow up to be Sisyphus from Greek Mythological fame: condemned to spend eternity rolling a giant boulder uphill.
Then I saw Ms. Archuleta, and her demeanor wasn’t much improved from Ms. Barry’s. It was like a cross between utter shock and “I might hang you by your toenails after this and rip your eyebrows out one by one.” Slowly, Ms. Archuleta rose from her seat on the bleachers as the laughter continued and made her way to the side of the room where she switched on a large box fan behind Mrs. Bradley’s piano. The fan began to whirl, which caused Mrs. Bradley’s hairpiece to take flight and it blew right off her head and sild across the floor like the tail-less rat scurrying to the other side of the room. The few students who had the ability to maintain their composure practically became unintentional soloists by this point: “A little black bug, floating on the water….”
Of course, the fan only spread the smell of Aaron’s bowel issues throughout the space. As I helplessly continued laughing, I wondered if I dared look at Mrs. Bradley, who was still diligently banging away on the piano, as if she couldn’t smell anything, and It was perfectly normal to be performing in ones’ “Candies” high heels, double-breasted teal silk jumpsuit and wig cap. She glanced up and looked at me and shook her head as if to confirm that she had never before encountered quite the level of a dilettante, unprofessional musician such as myself.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity had passed, the ending bars of the song were played, and the audience managed a weak round of pity-applause. Mrs. Bradley scrambled off her piano stool to retrieve her headwear, and the students from the other grades began to file into the room for the grand finale of “Free to Be You and Me”. In the blink of an eye, I felt a fierce tug on my shoulder, and found myself being briefly whisked off the platform and straight out the door, along with Aaron Piker who was quickly ushered behind me. Ms. Archuleta launched into a lecture which I don’t remember all too well, but by the end of it, I was fairly certain she was going to hog-tie us both, throw us in the back of a Los Altos School District Utility Van and drive us to Fresno only to dump us in a pile of tumbleweeds outside the prison and leave us for dead.
Coincidentally, this incident occurred several years prior to my mom’s campaign for a position on the Los Altos School District School Board…. And to my great relief, the fact that her daughter was the Ruiner of the 1984 “Spring Sing” appeared to hold no bearings on the outcome, since my mom won the election and gained a coveted seat on the school board. So all was well.
Like many other kids that age, I learned that I wasn’t a fan of not being in the good graces of my teacher and principal. I did not like how it felt- not one bit. I much preferred praise and positivity from them. Receiving that praise felt awesome. So I realized pretty young that certain behaviors produced certain results, and I started this lifelong crusade of trying to figure out what others wanted and what was going to make them happy. Because then if I made them happy, I felt good. Really good.
What really happened though was a seed was planted that day that basically taught me to live my life for others’ wishes and desires, because if I did, there would be a payoff for me: I received praise and not criticism, smiles instead of scowls. I quickly began to find this method of operation to be extremely preferable to pissing people off, intentionally or not.
There’s this buzz phrase that’s been circling around for years- a term that sounds totally innocent, but is disguised in a flowery little alliteration. It’s called “people pleasing.” I myself have used this term for years without really knowing what it meant. I thought it meant that if I referred to myself as a people pleaser, it meant that I was this sweet, passive person who was so generous as to want the desires of someone else ahead of my own. But as is the case with many things, if you get below the surface and really take an honest appraisal of what the deeper root is, there is often something hiding there that needs to be addressed. At least that’s what happened with me.
I find it amazing how powerful the mind is. It can convince itself that it’s being humble and well-intentioned, when in reality it’s absolutely full of itself and how it sees the world. Implanted in us is this crotchety old man or woman whose name is “Rationalization.” He or she is a reliable old friend who is very convincing and can make us believe our own BS is actually truth. Rationalization may never fully exit our brains, but at least if we have a simple awareness of its presence, we recognize what we’re doing, and after awhile, we grow sick of having fruitless discourse with them, and we tend to entertain them far less frequently. I was hanging out quite a bit with Rationalization before I was presented with the thought that perhaps “people pleasing” wasn’t as pretty as it sounded. That maybe, just maybe, it was like a dirty old couch of unknown origin with a cashmere slipcover carefully placed over it.
I was forced to look at the hard realization that “people pleasing” actually didn’t come from this place of passive, lovely kind of “you first, your way, I’ll take the backseat because I want your happiness over mine”, kind of saintly, Mother Theresa type mentality. When I really meditated on it I could plainly see that “people pleasing” was really, at least for me, “Ego Pleasing.” What’s the difference? Motives. When I really was honest with myself and quieted my mind around this whole topic, I could plainly see that the reality found beneath the blanket so innocently named “People Pleasing” was a desire to be liked. To be thought of at all times as a helpful, kind person. It may not appear on the surface to be so, but THAT is ego. Because whether or not I’m happy to go along with what someone else wants, at the end of the day, there still lies that concept of searching for a certain feeling. I’m not saying it’s evil or bad, I’m just saying that when I recognize my motives, sometimes I make different choices. Choices based entirely on self rarely feel good to me anymore.
Pushing an agenda, or giving a gift with strings attached, paying for something for someone else yet having expectations around it….. these are all forms of ego pleasing. I know because at one time in my life, if I’m honest with myself and vulnerable with you, I’ve done them. And it’s been done to me countless times, even (and especially) by certain repeat offenders. It’s like that one great aunt who knits you a hideous sweater to wear on Christmas Eve. When you show up for eggnog and her annual “Happy Birthday Jesus” cake in something other than that sweater, your great aunt is highly offended that you’ve dashed her hopes and expectations. She takes it personally and holds a grudge until Martin Luther King Day. Chances are, she will never have the self-awareness to see that your actions had nothing to do with her hurt feelings. It was the projections of her own ego, and you happened to be the target. But you clearly see the difference, right? It’s really her problem and not yours- because by expecting you to go along with her wardrobe demands on Christmas Eve, she disappointed her own self and it has nothing to do with you at all. You just happened to be the recipient of her misguided disappointment. You didn’t need her help playing stylist, nor did you ask for her to outfit you with a holiday ensemble. But she also gets an emotional payoff by being irritated with you: She now falsely thinks because of your actions, she gets to call you ungrateful, thoughtless, disrespectful…. Whatever. Spin the wheel and place whichever insulting character trait you’d like to in the blank space. By acting on her disguised (or unrecognized) motives, usually without even consciously realizing it, she’s made it about her ego. But now because you didn’t comply with her plan, she erroneously thinks it’s about you. (You ungrateful, spoiled imbecile.) ;)
On the flip side, maybe she truly loves and enjoys knitting. Maybe she’s expressing gratitude by using her talent and has made the time for crafting with her hands in an expression of love and art. Maybe all she wants to do is give back to the universe what she’s so freely received. That’s truly doing something “For Fun and for Free.” Repaying the universe feels amazing, and it’s a wonderfully authentic feeling because it comes from a place of genuine purity and not obligation. THOSE motives are pure, intangible, freeing. Even better? If she could give a shit what you do with the sweater after receiving it, that’s when it’s truly unconditional. If she never sees you in it ever…. If she happens to find it wadded up in the trash can or tossed in the Goodwill pile….. if she discovers you ran out of toilet paper and had to use it out of sheer desperation….. whatever happens to it, she doesn’t care and won’t hold it against you. Then she is truly detached from the outcome, and, THAT, my friends, is a truly AMAZING feeling!! It’s living life like a loose garment. It’s the non-interference of the unfolding, and living in acceptance. It’s the stirrings and awakenings of the selfless heart, and it’s beautiful- to be either the giver OR the receiver.
Years later I came to find out that poor Aaron Piker had been on a vacation to Mexico just prior to that fateful spring sing, where he picked up an illness which accounted for the horrific smell that day. When I discovered this, I was like, “well, dang.” I felt terrible for laughing. I’m not for one second excusing myself for having a laughing fit at a completely inappropriate time, but you know what? When I called myself the “Ruiner of the 1984 Spring Sing”? The truth is…. I’m just not that powerful. My ego would like to attribute myself with that privilege. But It’s not all about me, and my behavior, OR Aaron’s dysentery. Everyone’s ego including mine rose to the surface that day, revealing the insecurities lodged in each of us. We all wanted to look our best, do our best, and make our hard work look polished- there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that. We all fell apart when things didn’t go according to the perfect plan. But my takeaway today is, there have been many times in my life when I’ve had shady motives: ultimately planted by seeds of fear and ego. To let that crap go and come from a place of authenticity is living wholeheartedly. Trying to look and behave the way I think people want me to look and behave so I can cultivate some fast food-esque, wimpy, temporary, generic “good feeling” is when it becomes a performance…..all it really takes is for the truth to slip out of one’s sphincter and corrode the whole show with a bad smell. Drop mic.