You have likely heard the term “steel magnolia.” It is a metaphor used to describe a certain type of woman, often from the Southern U.S., who appears delicate and fragile but is in fact tough as nails.
I’m the opposite, and I’m not sure what metaphor fits. I have a hard candy coating that surrounds an abundance of marshmallow. My natural outward appearance is one of toughness, self-sufficiency, and great self-confidence. A “take no shit” kind of broad. On the inside, I am a huge softie, very aware of the impact I have on others and the impact they have on me.
I was in a great course last week. We were each videotaped giving a five-minute talk follow by five more minutes of question and answer. Then, after two days of being instructed how to give powerful presentations, we got to watch our videos and self-critique along with the course leader. The course leader is a friend, a business-associate-to-be, who has amazing rapport with everyone he interacts with. I watch him in admiration—he can connect with the surliest person, softening them up and enrolling them into participation.
It came as quite a surprise, therefore, when he blasted me during my video critique.
To be fair, the video was ghastly. I walked around in the front of the room like an automaton spewing out a pre-programmed monolog. I had absolutely no connection with the audience. The questions I asked were rhetorical and I rushed on without giving them time to answer. The question and answer portion was even worse, I think. Pretending to understand what people were asking, blustering through my responses. It was terrible.
Still, I was stunned when the course leader kept pounding on me, and allowed one of the course participants to do likewise. He kept rewinding sections of the Q&A, three or four times in one instance, so that we could keep on watching and remarking on how badly I handled thing. Pointed out loudly how stupid I had made well-educated people feel.
Finally, he ended up telling me that I should just keep doing my talks on video rather than in person, the implication being that I was so disconnected to my audience that there is no hope for me.
I left the hot seat, and kept it together long enough to get out of the room. I was so hurt and angry I couldn’t think straight—the only clear idea was to get myself away from the group long enough to calm down and get control of my face and feelings.
As I stood outside in the cool air, several thoughts managed to surface through the chaos. First, I had to acknowledge that part of my feelings were my own, not caused by anyone else. I didn’t need someone to point out how distant I was from my audience—I could see it clearly, and it devastated me. Second, I knew for certain that the course leader had not intended to be so over the top; in fact, the more I thought about it, the more I suspected that he behaved the way he did because he thought I could take it and not have a problem. He thought he knew me and could count on me not to be fazed by such strong feedback.
The course leader talked to me after the session and apologized. It was obvious to him that I was very upset, and he was both surprised and chagrined. When we talked further, my suspicion was confirmed: He had assumed, from what he knew of me, that he didn’t have to wear kid gloves and could really dig into the video playback to underscore all the common mistakes presenters make.
I have received this kind of feedback in various forms all of my adult life. Described once by a person who worked under me by several tiers as an “ax lady” (when he was expressing his surprise that I’m not the way he thought I was at all). Told “Gee, and I thought that you always have it so together” by a friend to whom I had gone for some moral support.
Like a steel magnolia, my hard candy/marshmallow combination is not a put-on. I’m not projecting some false persona to the world at large. I am sincere in my interactions, authentic in my responses—but apparently I don’t show (or people don’t bother to look for) the marshmallow part of the picture.
Why do people make this mistake with me so often? I will think more about this over time and share any more insights that hit me. For now, I offer my story to think about for yourself.
If you are being authentic with the people you encounter every day, are they seeing all of you? If not, why not?
I would love to hear about any insights you have.
Trish, I have often received the same feedback. Abuse convinced me at an early age that I needed to "protect myself". Unfortunately, the solutions of the child became the problem of the adult...and I lost touch with myself in the process. In college, during a moment of frustration my volleyball coach told my mom that the reason she pushed me so hard was because "I could take it" and when (Patti) plays well, the team plays well." I eventually quit the team due to an ulcerated colon that developed within the volcanic emotions that hid beneath my stoic response. Over time I dd eventually met the lover of my soul and began to recover my sense of self and passion for life.
Posted by: Patti Waterbury | December 14, 2008 at 03:05 PM