Walking All Over Me
Literally and then figuratively.
Years ago, when I was a first-grade kid, I had an unforgettable experience. After hours of toiling through alphabets, numbers, and colorful pictures, the bell rang shrilly at the end of the last hour, and it was time to go home. The bell brought about a brimming enthusiasm and movement among my peers, which often seemed a little scary to me.
Why? I don’t know.
Perhaps I was scared because I thought I might lose my way when a swarm of first-grade kids exited the classrooms and the school after that at more or less the same time. And when I’m lost, I won’t be able to find my way back to the path that led me from my classroom to the school gate and then to my sweet home.
Though it was a short path, as a six-year-old, I always dreaded getting lost in the crowd of kids walking and talking exuberantly.
So when the bell rang on this fine day, my irrational fears not only came into action but also materialized in an unexpected and wicked way. There was a palpable energy emanating cumulatively from all the tiny beings around. I don’t even remember why my classmates were so excited that day. The instant the bell rang, everyone prepared to rush to the classroom door in a flurry, and there was much commotion everywhere.
And what happened then? Or what happened to me during this auspicious time of freedom and joy?
I wore my rectangular bag on my back and made my way towards the door. But before taking a few steps, I silently tripped and fell on the classroom floor, near a desk, and in my comfortable school shoes. I fell facedown with my bag over my back, and unfortunately, my dear classmates started rushing all over me before I could get up.
One after another, they walked over and past me, trudging excitedly over my bag, hands, and legs.
I used to be a skinny kid when I was six years old, the kind of skinny when your collar bones protrude dominantly from behind the uniform shirt. I tried getting up after being trampled on for a bit but was unable to do so. I don’t know if anyone noticed me lying on the floor. My bag was pretty big and horizontal, so it may have covered half my body.
But my legs, shoes, and head were all out in the open.
I lay on the floor silently with meek attempts to rise and ask for help. But all my efforts were in vain. After a few seconds of attempts, I gave up and waited for the avalanche of the little shoes to end. While on the floor and under the rain of tiny and perhaps innocent steps, I couldn’t help but keep feeling invisible.
Here I was, a solid and concrete human being, and I was still not visible to an array of other human beings. My being there in person or in emotions of panic and fear and a bit of pain didn’t ruffle any feathers among my classmates.
They just had one target: the door.
With fears mounting, I lay there thinking and thinking and wishing for the seconds to not appear like hours and days. I kept thinking being invisible was a superpower, but I realized it was not and certainly did not feel like it. I kept wishing for a slight notice, a chance glance, or a complete estimation of my presence and feelings.
Within a few seconds, the avalanche came to pass, and the rollercoaster of fears and thinking stopped.
Years later, I was in the middle of a giant hall amidst a lively and buzzing professional event. I was accompanied by a colleague I was getting to know through this event. Eminent professionals and novices were socializing in different circles, with drinks and snacks carefully being refilled in their hands. Some moving heads excitedly drove the conversations, while others quietly gained insights into projects and exchanged ideas.
Soon, my colleague and I came across another professional and started our own circle. I was in a laid-back mood, so I let my colleague drive the conversation. I had already introduced myself and my work to the “newcomer” before, so I felt there was no need to be super-active here. While my colleague and the other professional chatted, I gazed here and there at the food stalls, trying to analyze what to eat and what to let go.
A few seconds later, I refocused some of my energy on the ongoing conversation. I heard faint, familiar words from my colleague and doubled down on my focus. Within seconds, I realized the colleague was talking about my project, which they had no relation to, and a couple more seconds later, the colleague was apparently introducing me.
I froze and was transported back to the classroom floor, unable to move in the past and speak in the present. I didn’t realize at first what was bothering me. The unexpected superiority of my colleague or the snatching away of the chance to communicate my project?
The colleague politely directed the other professional towards me and prompted me to add more on the topic they were not supposed to or requested to speak about. They could freely talk about their project, for which I had kindly kept quiet.
I couldn’t comprehend what made the colleague consider that I might need help talking about my project or talking in general. This was a professional event, and whatever I wanted to do, I wanted to do it on my own. Whatever be the quality of my networking. However, maybe to the colleague, I appeared to be someone of low potential who needed assistance and thus deserved this slight insult.
The eminent professional seemed impressed by my colleague and their hold on the conversation.
I felt invisible being trodden on like that.
Here I was, a solid and concrete human being, and I was still not visible to my social circle at the event.
A few hours later, the colleague politely repeated the same insult with another professional.
I didn’t say anything to enlighten the colleague; I kept wishing for a slight notice or a chance glance and expected them not to act as if my feelings and aspirations were invisible.
A few months later, the colleague repeated the same thing but on a personal front. They politely offered to help with something I had never discussed with them, which triggered my memories of invisibility again.
The colleague kept walking all over me, entirely focused on the classroom door. They kept hoarding attention and perhaps feelings of supremacy in my matters and appearing oblivious to my meek attempts.
I like to think that I react to a particular situation in a suitable way. But more often than not, there have been events where I didn’t get the chance, time, or sense to react the way I wanted to.
So, when the avalanche of footsteps ended years ago in the classroom, I slowly got up, wiped the dust from my uniform, ensured I wasn’t deeply hurt and noticed, and quickly walked back home. When the colleague directed other people towards me, trying to “help” me, I smiled politely, refused the help, dumped the resentments on the way, and vowed never to accompany them again.
As an ardent overthinker, I often wonder and fantasize about ways I would’ve reacted differently. I wonder about probably pushing a little harder, screaming my lungs out on the floor instead of being trampled, or appearing more assertive in social circles.
I can never be sure if I’ll do that, but I’ll try.
