Seen

“All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.”  

- Arthur Schopenhauer 

Tennis has been a big part of my story.  I never formally competed, but my parents were avid tennis players and they were bound and determined that my brother and I learn.  Their idea of family bonding was a weekly game of doubles.  Sadly, I was the worst player in the family.  Our sessions seemed like a vehicle for the rest of my family to point out my inadequacies.  Despite all the lessons I took, I couldn’t catch on. 

My arms weren’t very strong and against my father’s wishes, I found myself using a two-handed backhand.  That is NOT what was being taught at the time.  The two-handed backhand in tennis, now a standard part of today’s game, was once considered radical—even improper.  The two-hander was rare and frowned upon, especially in coaching circles. It was seen as limiting movement and "inelegant"—a crutch for those without strength or skill.  It was literally drilled out of me. 

In the early 70’s Bjorn Borg and Jimmy Connors started winning big with the two-handed backhand.  Borg won 11 Grand Slam singles titles using this technique.  His physical strength, topspin-heavy baseline play, and calm demeanor helped shift public opinion.  Aggressive and fast, Connors dominated the game on hard courts and grass.  Later players like Chris Evert and Andre Agassi further solidified its credibility.  The 1980’s and 90’s saw it become mainstream, especially among juniors. Critics faded as players won titles. It is now the standard for most players, especially those trained from youth.

What does tennis, or my choice of backhand, have to do with being seen - the title of this blog post?  Or the quote at the top of this page?  Nothing really except as a reminder that change of any kind is hard.  We ignore, dismiss, and resist the need for change, yet eventually realize that change is necessary for growth.  When we decide to change, it draws attention to us.  Which invites scrutiny and comments, usually from people who should care less about what is happening in our lives and stick to what is happening in their own. 

If everything has a “good” and a “bad”, being “seen” is no exception.  There are times, when we are on our game.  We want people to notice.  We want them to look at the external expression of our greatness and say “wow”.  We have those moments - for me a perfect backhand - that we expect to be noticed and  we are, quite frankly, irked if those moments are NOT seen. 

Then there are the times, when being “seen” feels like the most painful thing that can happen.  When someone REALLY sees who we are.  They see through us. That INTERNAL seeing.  For years that  perceived nakedness felt like shame and judgment.  Looking back, I understand that those moments were the catalyst that preceded growth. 

My mother sat me down once to inform me that “I was a maudlin drunk.”  Mortifying.  Drinking in my family was confusing.  Everyone did it.  I witnessed many times when there was overconsumption and bad behavior, but it was never called out or discussed.  In a family of silence on the matter, she let me know that people were “seeing” me and they did not like what they saw. 

I went through the first stage of truth mentioned above.  I ridiculed HER.  Told her she was just being judgmental of me, a common occurrence in our relationship.  I dismissed her concerns, even though what she said resonated SO deeply with me.  But I was not going to openly agree with her.  That would have been admitting wrongdoing.  Admitting that what she “saw” was true.

Then I went about violently opposing the truth of her statement. Believing that if I could control my consumption and resulting actions, that her perception of me would be proven incorrect.  She had NOT actually “seen” me.  Observed the truth I was trying so fervently to hide.  I employed every form of moderation known to man.  I will only drink on certain days.  Drink wine and beer, not distilled spirits.  Only on certain occasions or with certain people.  I will not drink if I have to drive anywhere.  I was violently opposed to quitting altogether.  Even more opposed to finding out she might be right. 

But something happens when people call you out.  See that part of you that you believed so hidden no one would ever find it. I learned that I could no longer hide from her.  I could also no longer hide from myself.  The reality of my situation became self-evident. 

Ironically, as I claimed sobriety and started to change, people “saw” even more.  It was irritating at first and felt very invasive.  The truth was, they could see it all along, now they just felt a little more comfortable commenting.  While some commented because they were losing a part of me that they had always known.  A drinking buddy.  A silent partner in keeping their own unseen parts hidden.   My no longer drinking made them question themselves and what they “saw” was uncomfortable.  For both of us.   But the family and friends that had been most concerned, were happy to see that I was finally taking responsibility for me.  Happy they could breathe a little easier. 

The summer before I left for college, I decided that I had heard enough about my tennis game from my family.  I practiced SO hard that summer and in late August I challenged my father to a game of singles.  He was by far the best player in our family.  It was early evening when we started, the sun still fairly high in the sky.  It was dark with the court lights on when we finished.  While I did not win, I KNEW that my father had been challenged in a way he never expected.  And I played the whole game with a very well executed one-handed backhand.  His surprise was evident.  He told ME good game, but the only thing he said when we got home to my mother and brother was that he won. 

Which highlights another truth about change.  It doesn’t matter what other people think.  And while they may notice, they usually don’t say anything.  I know I did my best and I know how hard I had worked.  He didn’t see all the time I spent that summer on the court.  He didn’t care.  It wasn’t his story.  Change is hard for us.  It is generally threatening to others.  Just one of many silly, crazy, unnecessary feelings that go along with being human.  To acknowledge a positive change in someone else leads us to reflect on our own “stuckness.” 

I watched a lot of tennis when I was growing up and I remember Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg being continually criticized by the announcers for their use of the two-handed backhand.  But they stuck to what worked for them.  Not in an effort to change the sport, but to improve their own game in ways that felt true to them.  It took 30 years for the two-handed backhand to be accepted and it is now be taught as the standard. 

It took 30 years from the time my mother “saw” me for me to decide that alcohol no longer worked for me.    Despite the modeling I had seen growing up.  I will soon celebrate 5 years of sobriety.  And some of my friends, the ones that initially resisted my changing, are now asking how I stopped. 

Change is ridiculed.  Violently opposed.  And then, one day, you wake up, hangover free, and wonder why it was not ALWAYS self-evident.  This has been true of every major change I have ever made.  Marriage, Parenthood, Divorce. Moving. Job change.  We fret, we worry, we do our best to talk ourselves out of it and then….we wonder what took us so long. 

Yesterday on the tennis court, where everyone has a two-handed backhand, both the instructor and another classmate commented on how much they “love my one-handed backhand…so elegant.”  I simply smiled.