Embracing Fear
As soon as the TV clock turned to 9:00, my mom would sigh, shift in her navy blue recliner, and look at either me or my dad.
“Frank, you’re up,” she’d decide, shaking her head in wonder about our little game. And without a word, my dad would roll off of the couch, smile at me slyly, and head through the kitchen, past the dining room hutch, and to the back of the house where our bedrooms were.
We took turns hiding from each other every night, sometimes my dad running to the back before my mom was even done speaking. It was our nightly tradition, just like brushing your teeth or saying your prayers before falling asleep. The goal was simple: find the other person. But there was only one rule -- you could not turn on any lights once you passed the kitchen stove.
I waited exactly three minutes before sneaking through the kitchen and back to the bedrooms where my dad was waiting. My heart began to tighten in my chest and beat steadily with each step on the cold laminate floor. I could feel my body cringe as the light became more faint and my senses began to adjust to the dark environment around me. No matter how many times I did this, I could never shake the eerie anticipation of eyes watching me, waiting to pop out and grab me in the dark. But in these moments I felt simultaneously frightened and fearless -- walking head-on into the unknown with my beating heart and determined legs.
Checking the usual spots, I began with the bathroom, running quickly past the long vanity mirror and throwing open the shower curtain with fear. Just for a second, I was relieved that no one reached out for my arm. But in these moments I paid attention to my composure, never getting too comfortable in a certain place. I never knew if my dad had snuck up behind me while I checked the shower, grabbing me and causing my heart to jump out of my mouth, along with a terrified scream.
Cautiously, I moved to the tall hamper -- my favorite hiding spot -- checking the inside even though I knew my dad could never fit inside of it. I tentatively swung the doors all the way closed, making sure nobody was waiting behind ready to jump out. And as systematically as possible, keeping my heartbeat in check, I moved from the bathroom, to my grandma’s room, to my parent’s room, to my own, checking all of the usual hiding spaces and being simultaneously relieved and disappointed with each empty spot.
It wasn’t until I was about to flip the light switch to my bedroom -- when I naively thought that my dad might have somehow snuck back out to the living room to play a prank on me -- that a hand shot out of the darkness from underneath my closet door and snatched my ankle with a firm grasp. My mom knew that the game was over whenever she heard my scream, piercing the house and probably the entire neighborhood. But strangely enough, what followed were giggles of excitement echoing off of the walls. Then she would head back to the rooms, still shaking her head at how I never got bored of the terror each night, look at my dad and I with an amused smirk, and tuck me into bed for the night. As the blankets hugged my body, still shaking from anticipation and excitement, I would smile sleepily, excited for the next night when it was my turn to give my dad that same exhilarating scare for myself.
*****
Since these nights of hide-and-seek, I’ve been obsessed with being frightened. Haunted houses, ghosts, spirits, vampires, zombies, mutant clowns -- I thrive on the panic you get when you feel like something is about to grab you in the dark.
Sitting criss-cross style in front of the old Sony television in the living room one afternoon when I was eight years old, I watched Hocus Pocus for the third weekend in a row. For those who don’t know, the movie focuses on a trio of witches resurrected on Halloween night, all thanks to an eager “virgin” named Max looking to impress some girl from his class. It’s only by the virgin’s action of lighting a magical candle that these witches come back from the dead and cause a whole bunch of problems for him and the rest of the town. But something kept me confused: What was a virgin?
At the next commercial I scrambled up from my spot on the carpet and found my mom sitting at the kitchen table reading a new copy of Good Housekeeping. Without hesitation, I blurted out, “Mom, what’s a virgin?”
Slowly looking away from her magazine, I could see her brain calculating what she was about to say. She paused longer than normal, looking at my innocent face as I leaned on the table waiting for a response.
Sighing, she looked down at the table and back up to me, dreading to have this talk at that very moment, and looking for any way out of it.
Hesitantly she forced herself to look me in the eyes. “A virgin is a person… who hasn’t been with someone,” she said with an intense tone.
Been with someone? What does that mean? Live together? I thought to myself.
I was confused. “Am I a virgin?” My eyes looked up at her with innocent curiosity, while her eyes widened with horror.
“Yes. You are.”
I smiled with pride. “Are you a virgin?” I asked, still not understanding the concept of being with someone.
My mom grabbed her magazine from the table, hopping up from the chair and moving towards the fridge, trying desperately to change the subject. “No, no I’m not. Are you hungry?”
*****
I was still very confused about the whole ordeal when I asked Keegan Kokesh about it in Ms. Gentile’s class on Monday. Keegan was the kind of kid that knew way more than the average eight-year old should. He had two much older brothers who were in high school and told him about anything he asked. After getting the details from them, Keegan would bring them back to school and tease us on the playground using terms that sounded like a foreign language to the innocent girls hanging off of the monkey bars. He was the first kid I had ever heard use the word “sex” at school -- and in front of the teacher! I still blush thinking about Ms. Gentile’s look of horror when he began talking about it in the middle of class one day. But you couldn’t expect any less from Keegan.
“Hey,” I said to him, pulling him to the back corner of the room by the red bookshelf. “What’s a virgin?”
He snickered, looking around the room before telling me all the details about what my mom had tried to keep as vague as possible. Suddenly both the movie and my mom’s reaction made more sense -- and I was instantly mortified.
So in a way, you can say that I had my first real sex talk with a fellow eight-year old. I was so embarrassed that I hadn’t realized from the movie what the word “virgin” meant, or why my mom was so awkward about my questions. This linguistic revelation frightened me in a different way than the usual hide-and-go-seek terror -- my heart wasn’t racing, but my mind was. In that moment I realized that I didn’t know a lot of things about the world. I realized that my parents knew so much more than me, and they were scared to talk to me about those things. I realized why my mom was so anxious to change the subject when her eight year old brought up virgins one afternoon. And most terrifyingly, I realized that I couldn’t stay innocent my entire life. People like Keegan Kokesh would always be out there to teach me otherwise.
*****
Throwing myself into a dark room and reaching out in fear, I immediately search for someone or something I can’t see. Reaching out, touching walls, listening for breathing. This is my way of exploring the world. It allows me to throw myself into a situation over which I have no control, and search for answers that shock and terrify me for a few seconds. Asking my mom about “virgins” was like searching for my dad in the dark -- blindly peeking around corners, hoping to find him and find the answers.
It’s a strange paradigm: being scared allows me to feel more fearless than ever. And as I look back on my embarrassing experience with my first “sex talk,” I realize that being frightened is a part of life -- you can’t escape it. However, you can use it to explore the world in a thrilling way, and harness those feelings to grow and learn from the nervous anticipation of the unknown.
Coming to a university where I knew nobody, my fear of rejection pushed me to jump out of my comfort zone and talk to as many people as possible. On a beautiful November day during my first semester at college, I was sitting in a three-day social justice retreat surrounded by twenty other unfamiliar faces -- and immediately began to have a panic attack. I don’t know these people! my mind began to yell. Get out while you still can! My palms begin to get clammy, and my heart raced as fast as it would during hide-and-seek all those years ago.
But then I remembered. I had signed up for this. Be proud, I thought. You didn’t have to do this, but you’re here. You ignored the fear. You pushed yourself. Don’t leave now.
I forced myself to begin to talk to others, to feed off of my fear and to use it as a place which catapulted myself into an almost fearless mode. While the beating heart and sweaty palms were still there, I found myself reaching out into the unknown of the retreat and strived to be vulnerable with myself and others. Spreading my arms to find someone or something, I found a welcoming place to learn and to grow. It was this fear that drove me, and allowed me to be comfortable with what wasn’t easy to see at first.
Just like the first “sex talk,” these efforts can be scary. I think that there’s not much of a difference between the fear of a hand reaching out and grabbing your ankle, and the fear of the unknown. Both have allowed me to embrace my vulnerability and to not be afraid of what obstacles may cross your paths. They can only hold you back.
