Wednesday, 30 July 2003 | Rag doll

We used to play a game in kindergarten in which we listened to a particular song and pretended that we were rag dolls. This meant, we were told, that we were supposed to start from a sprawled position on the floor and slowly lift ourselves up, as if by strings, and then limply fall back down, over and over again until the song ended.

I didn't like the game. If I were a rag doll, I reasoned, I wouldn't move at all. So I stayed on the floor, my legs and arms splattered around me, eyes closed, unmoving, while listening to the other five-year-olds drop to the floor, splat, splat, like bugs on a windshield.

When I was six, I remember listening to a storyteller in the children's section of the town library, a section which was located in the basement of an old white building that had ornate trimming like a wedding cake. I was normally fond of storytellers, but this one required crowd participation, which I hated. I hated to move and clap and march; I hated pretending that I was having fun. And so I didn't. I just stood there, expressionless, arms at my side, blond ponytails sticking out of my head, watching the other kids' arms fly around, their mouths open with giggles spewing out.

Apparently this storyteller was big news, because both the local newspaper and TV station did a piece on the event. The cameraman must've thought I was amusing, standing there like a frowning pole among a pack of hyper hyenas, because he kept bringing the camera back around to me. I remember thinking about the ridiculous situation I was in: a lose-lose.

Later, when I watched the spot on the local news channel with my parents, I cried from embarrassment, worried that I stood out, that I looked like a moron. I immediately wished that I had forced participation, that the stupid cameraman would've left me alone, that I hadn't been in the library to begin with.

Early signs.