"臉皮厚," my dad would say of me, of my supposed thick-skinnedness, knowing no shame. It was a cutting remark - it was always a cutting remark. The subtext was why didn't I retreat, why wasn't I more obedient, folding into myself, shamed. Why did I have to follow my own impulses? It was never as if I was innocent, it was always as if I knew better.
Fast forward so many years, and I am taking the kind of ballet class I have never trained for. I am stretching myself beyond the little dance experience I've had in my adult life. Because the intro class is too easy. Because this is a challenge, and challenges are where the learning is.
This challenge comes with a particular price. Which is the humiliation of watching myself not performing as well. It is plain for everyone in the class to see, when we are going across the floor in groups of threes. Ballet is hierarchical, so I'm almost always last in the groups crossing.
There is no point in imagining what everyone else must be thinking - is there ever a point in that? I'm here to learn. The only relevant comparison is between me and myself.
My cheeks burn anyway, the shame of having considered this level appropriate. The humiliation is inherent in the discrepancy of skill, between me and everybody else.
I fight this feeling every time I come to this level. I think about how an even thicker skin would be helpful. It shouldn't bother anyone that I am here; I am not interfering with anybody's learning. The only real discrepancy of skill is between me and where I'd like to be.
So I will keep stretching, precisely because I don't know better. Because my impulse is, and always will be, to learn.