The Mask

When you grow up in a powerful political family, you have to put on an approachable persona.

“Smile, Isabelle!” Mother would gripe. “Stand up straight - and welcome our lovely guests.”

She’d dress me up like a Christmas tree when we had our famous luncheons. Bows, glitter, tinsel, and all. My “star-studded smile” must have been the lighting to round it all out. 

Mother was known for her cooking - especially her famous quiche Lorraine. But a secret that she’d take to her grave was that her famous quiche wasn’t actually hers at all. She’d paid a bakery under the table for decades - sneaking the evidence in through the back door of our Savannah estate. Everyone, even Papa, was none the wiser. I caught her once. “Oh, Isabella! You startled me!” I witnessed her pull the saran-wrapped quiches out of a brown paper bag labeled, “La Baguette” with a receipt stapled in the corner. She made no mention about being caught red-handed. I knew better than to bring it up. Mama created an image for herself and her family. Appearances were far more important than authenticity.

From as far back as I can remember, Papa’s constituents and colleagues would admire me in passing. Kind people would kneel down and meet me at eye-level, others just towered over me as if I were a prize-winning hog.

“How adorable she is! She looks just like Caroline, doesn’t she?” My former beauty-queen mother would gush at the compliment - really meant for me, but she was a Venus Fly Trap for any praise that could include her. She’d straighten out my hair and put a hand on my doll-sized shoulder, pulling me closer so as to be absorbed into her likeness.

“What do you do for fun, my dear?” A blur of a person asked.

I wasn’t granted a moment to contemplate an educated response.

Mama interjected, “Why she loves tea parties with her little friends. You do know Patrice and Mary Ann Coleman, yes? Well they are just taken with her, as you can imagine.”

In truth, Patrice and Mary Ann were often quite unpleasant. They called me a freak for talking to my stuffed animals. They played with me when our parents forced us together but pretended they didn’t know me at school. I knew they started my unshakable nickname, “Dumbo”, for the ears I’d yet to grow into. But I’d smile and nod to my parent’s guests, feeling pressure to reflect the image they had conjured up for me.

I became a chameleon, morphing into the accommodating, gracious, and charming Southern belle they’d expected of me. At school, I carried on the front, using the persona as a shield against mean girls like Patrice and Mary Ann. When you wear a mask long enough, it forms to you. My best friend Andrea said she didn’t recognize me anymore. I scoffed in response. In truth, I didn’t recognize myself, either. But I didn’t want to give up the facade. So I surrounded myself with people who admired the new version of me. Andrea and I drifted apart.

It was an easy enough formula to follow. Talk about high-end fashion - even better, wear said fashion. Envy was a cheap way to gain attention. Embellish stories about the lavish political parties and social engagements for which I was a fly on the wall. Flaunt an early-developing body in front of boys whose attention was a sure thing. When topics dwindled and boy’s attention got old, gossip was a great fallback. Once everyone wants a piece of what you’re selling, you get involved in the things that are expected of a popular girl. 

I joined the cheer squad my freshman year. I couldn’t dance to save my life. There were girls that were much more talented than me. Molly Durkin had been dancing since she was a toddler - she didn’t miss a beat. But when we grabbed our gym bags at the end of tryouts, the previous captain, Colleen Garrity, threw a wink my way. Later she’d tell me, “You can teach a girl to dance. You can’t teach charm or looks.”

Molly didn’t make the squad. After one year of learning how to dance, I made it to the front row. They put the prettiest and most popular girls in the front row because “that’s who everyone wants to look at”. I made captain my junior year, followed by Homecoming Queen. As if it couldn’t get any more cliche, I started dating the captain of the football team.

I should have been happy. I had the friends, the boyfriend, and the entire school wrapped around my well-manicured finger. Even the teachers gave me grades I didn’t deserve, wanting to curry favor with my father or with me. Mama would shriek with glee at my awards and achievements - adding them to her artillery against competing women in her social sphere.

“You are more and more like me with each day, darling!” She’d say as she’d fix my hair or perk up her boobs in her dress to suggest I do the same.

Papa would give me a hug, kiss my forehead, and say “I’m happy if you’re happy, chipmunk.” 

I’d wake up two hours early each morning to do my hair and makeup, put on my designer clothes, and don my “star-studded smile”. I would come home every evening completely drained - unsure how I’d do it all over again the next day. Some nights I’d pass out without dinner - my exhaustion and my figure outweighing my hunger. Other nights I’d cry myself to sleep, feeling empty and twisted inside. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know the last time I’d read a book, painted, or even sat alone with my thoughts. All I knew was this person I’d become wasn’t me.

I’d feel a pang of loss for the hobbies that used to light me up. Not light me up from the outside like my permanent forced smile, but light me up from the inside out. When I felt an inner voice creep up countering my choices, I’d call my girls to reinforce my decisions. 

It wasn’t until my senior year, when I had my school successes to look back on with supposed pride, that I started to turn inward. Was this it? Where was the prize I’d been searching for in my endless race for popularity and approval? If so, I didn’t want it like I’d thought I did. 

I’d never felt more hollow. I had turned myself into a vapid shell. The person that I’d once been was locked out of my body and my life. She’d tried to get back in - rang the bell, knocked on the windows - she even tried to break in a couple of times. But I’d pointed a loaded shotgun at her and she retreated to the furthest recesses of my being. So I went searching for her, welcoming her back to her former home with an embrace and overdue amends. 

Instead of saying yes to every social event that came my way, I started to say, “No”. At first, the word felt foreign in response to any opportunity to connect, but I’d known well enough how to say “No” to the long line of boys that had asked me out over the years. Instead of practicing my smile in the mirror, I chipped away at my caked-on mask until true emotions shined through the cracks - more bright than the inauthentic tinsel I’d been wearing for so many years. 

I stopped buying clothes and instead I bought a journal. Encouraged the old me - the real me - out from the shadows. I learned about myself. I learned to love myself. I chose to spend my weekends and evenings buried in a book or traversing through my head - machete in hand to cut through the falsities. My newfound introversion took me through a whole range of emotions. But it wasn’t just me who was affected by this change. 

My friends went through their own emotions as well - from confusion, to concern, to disinterest. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” Vicky or Beth or Cait called to check on me daily. “No, I just want to be alone.” They couldn’t compute. Felt lost without me, at least at first. But then they found their way to another Queen Bee. Soon enough I was the one people were talking about, but I had ceased caring what other people thought. I tuned out their opinions and tuned into myself. I’d never felt better.

One night, Papa was alone in his office. I tapped on the thick mahogany door. He welcomed me into his cigar-scented fortress with a genuine, inviting smile. I sat in the leather chair across from him. As he always did with me and everyone else that sat across from him over the years, he dropped everything important and gave me his undivided attention.

“Papa, have you ever heard of an introvert?” I asked.

“Why yes, of course, hon.” He threw me an easy wink that suggested he knew why I asked. “And you know who else was an introvert?” He swiveled in his upholstered leather office chair and pointed to the portrait of his favorite president above his desk. 

Abraham Lincoln, one of the most influential U.S. presidents in history, had been an introvert. I smiled from the inside out. Warmth radiated from me in the room he always kept at a chilling 65 degrees. Papa handed me a book entitled Honest Abe. Heavy in my hands and worn with age, it greeted me as an old friend would. Gold lettering on its tired spine still glistened with pride. 

A jolt brought me back into my body. I felt alive. I retreated to my room and into myself. I found power in honoring my truth. I tuned out the external noise and I listened to my intuition. I found the quiet places where my true self felt most at home. I haven’t left myself behind since.