I’m a question magnet.
When I was five and had an unfortunate pixie haircut, it was, “Are you a little boy or a little girl?”
In elementary school, when I squinted in the sunshine before close-fitting sunglasses were a thing, it was, “Why can’t you open your eyes outside?”
As I scooted closer to see the chalkboard, it was, “Don’t you need to get stronger glasses?”
In middle school: “Why don’t you tan?”
“Do you have a black daddy and a white mama?”
“Why do your eyes jiggle?”
In high school: “Are you sure you can’t tan?”
“Why don’t you dye your hair?”
In adulthood: “Can I give you a makeover?” Umm, no. . . . Can I give you some manners?
In the great ranking of questions, there has always been one more dreaded than all the others. Until twenty-five years ago, identifying it was a no-brainer. Asked usually by strangers or new acquaintances, “Are you an albino?” was the query that cowed me most. It crouched within every outing and social situation, threatening to leap forth to shut down my confidence. I still don’t like it (for less emotional reasons now), but it no longer unravels me.
Evolving Questions?
One of the biggest surprises in life has been the realization that this question has changed its position, bumped from the top of the “most dreaded” list. I didn’t see it coming, but the shift makes sense. When I stopped camouflaging my albinism and started living in wide-open celebration of it–white eyelashes and all–people stopped asking because the answer was suddenly obvious to everyone. I’ve written elsewhere about what I’ve learned throughout my albinism journey and how I’ve overcome that whole bundle of self-consciousness with divine help.
Are you a question magnet, too? An evolving series of dreaded questions is probably something we all understand. We’ve probably all known annoying or deeply personal intrusions that, one by one, have moved to the front of the don’t-go-there line in our interactions with others over the years. Circumstances change. We change. We gain perspective over time. We grow out of old discomforts, only to discover that new ones have been waiting in the wings.
My New Worst Question
These days, it’s a new question that plagues me. It doesn’t prompt the same utter lockdown that the old one did, but it rattles me nevertheless. Just as before, it lurks in new social and professional situations. It lurks in the hidden shadows of insecurity, plotting to undo me.
That question? Deep breath. It’s this:
“So what do you do?”
Oh, calamitous day! wails the wannabe inside my brain.
I do not want to talk about what I “do.”
The question mocks and snickers. I am tempted to lie to cover my inadequacy. Though I tell the truth, I still fight down fear that I will be exposed as a fraud.
Why? So many reasons, each of them contradictory and incomplete. Like a blindfolded hostage, I have found it difficult to describe my captors. In a nutshell, at a conference or party, I dread the “So what do you do” question because it’s complicated, embarrassing, and disappointing.
1. It’s complicated.
I imagine that the CEO of Chase Bank doesn’t have any trouble telling people what he or she does for a living. “Oh, me? Why, I’m the CEO of Chase Bank.” See? Easy. The same goes for a lawyer or software designer or chef. Straightforward question, straightforward answer.
But what if someone’s work doesn’t fit neatly into a category? That’s me. If I were a full-time writer, professor, pastor, mom, volunteer, or supporter of the family business, then I think I could probably just say so. No angst, no hem-hawing.
My problem is that I’m not full-time. I do this and I do that in all of those occupations. My roles do not always come with titles.
How should I characterize that reality? It is harder than you might think. Consider my options.
I have tried the short approach: “I do a little of this-and-that in a variety of occupations.” That’s a less glamorous (hillbilly) way of saying, “I have a successful portfolio career.” This evasive answer sometimes works, but it says too little. It can even come off with an air of secrecy, like, “I work for the Mafia, so it would be in your best interest to stop asking so many questions.”
I’ve also tried another option: explaining the complexity in good faith. After all, they asked, right? These days, such an explanation could go like this: “I do a variety of work in interciltural Christian ministry,” an answer that inevitably prompts more questions.
“Well, I create courses for universities, and I sometimes teach them. . . . No, not at the moment, but I have a course starting in six weeks. . . .
“What am I doing in the meantime? Oh, well, the center of my career is actually Christian ministry, which takes different forms, so. . . . No, I’m not employed at a church right now. I mean, technically I am, but It’s complicated. . . . That’s just how it’s turned out because, uh. . . .
“So, mostly I lead workshops, speak, consult, do special projects, write. . . . Yeah, uh, well, that’s a bit complicated, too.”
Trust me. The long answer is not the way to go, either. Explaining the complexity is a whole other kind of TMI, and I usually err on the side of saying too little just to keep it tidy. Unfortunately, despite the askers’ interest and my desire to engage, I often leave then without much clarity about what I do. Worse, I risk sending the wrong message that I’m unfriendly or disinterested or that I have nothing important professionally going on.
2. It’s embarrassing. The last example should have drawn a pretty good sketch of why my current answers might make me aware of the false impressions hearers may be forming.
Think about it. I’m an academic without a clear institutional home, an ordained minister without a clear role, and a published writer without a consistent platform. When the dreaded question comes up, my internal doubt detectors start alerting me to possible misunderstandings: “Does this mean she can’t get or keep a job?” they might wonder. No, it just means that I juggle several balls that aren’t easy to describe. I try to find a comfortable way to say so.
Part of the complication is that though I have needed be deliberate over the years about keeping my work flexible, people prefer neat categories. When my explanations reveal active support of my husband’s nonprofit work and (for 22 years until recently) management of our household of six, I can see their clouds almost visibly parting. “Oh, so she’s a stay-at-home mom!” they conclude. “So all that other stuff–scholarship, ministry, writing–must just be a hobby.”
No, not so. Sort of. Sometimes? It depends.
Reshuffling priorities has been necessary at times. Though I am very glad that the odd structure of my career has allowed me to be available for these important needs dear to me, they are not an accurate summary answer for the so-what-do-you-do question. And I suppose I’m obvious proof that a woman’s career can be complicated.
Either option–short answer or long–feels embarrassing. Clarifying takes us back to wading through the weeds of TMI, but leaving things vague makes me concerned that I look like an underperformer. And that’s disappointing.
3. It’s disappointing. I never dreamed the word underperformer would ever describe me. Maybe it doesn’t in the grand scheme of things, but the notion haunts me. I’m competitive. Both circumstances and my own shortcomings have left me feeling a little disappointed.
Major upheavals within organizations and two cross-country family moves have contributed to challenging career disruptions, without a doubt. One such transition five years ago produced life circumstances that considerably narrowed my range of opportunity. It required a difficult restart in a new place.
Since then, I’ve needed to define new goals and to construct my own organization, work plans, platforms, teams, resources, and everything. Though that moment has had tremendous potential, it has also been daunting to start at ground zero. I’ve had to build with bricks that I make myself with straw I gather in meager handfuls from our household income. Progress takes time.
Those setbacks have certainly been disappointing, and in some ways, my reactions to them have, too. In contrast to the entrepreneurial energy and creativity that propelled me in the past, isolation and discouragement in my new blank-slate opportunity have been drags on my productivity. I can’t escape the belief that I should be doing better and producing more at a faster pace.
Underperforming is a disappointment in itself, even if no one but me is measuring. I miss the easy confidence and signal strength that pulse outward from clearly winning and achieving, and I admit that it has been a valuable correction to pride to be taken down a couple notches through the difficulties.
So with all the clunkiness of a complicated resumé and the plot twists of disappointimg setbacks, I have found it hard to describe what I do without reflecting the reality that it is neither what it once was nor what I hope it yet will be. Instead of reflecting strength, I find myself awkwardly trying to dodge the question.
Redeeming the Dreadful
That’s not the way I want to live, and with my whole life ahead of me, it is in my best interest to get a grip on answering this difficult question, just as I had to do with the dreaded questions that preceded it. And just as I learned back then, I will be able to serve, lead, and interact more wholeheartedly when I address the insecurities that underlie it.
Despite my qualms and inadequacies, the fact is that my experience, expertise, and reputation have grown steadily over the years. I produce good work that I enjoy and that enriches the lives of others, even if it is not always easy to describe to people unfamiliar with the organizations I serve.
The multifaceted nature of my work certainly adds complexity, but it also gives me the freedom to be creative, to take valuable risks, to learn quite an array of new skills, and to work with a wonderful variety of people. It allows me to be choosy and deliberate. I can honestly say that I am serving on mission, directing my efforts consistently toward the Lord’s purposes as I understand them.
And in my three areas of discomfort, I have been making progress.
- As a solution for the complexity challenge, my 21-year-old with a limited attention span has helped me refine my quick answer to be more informative.
- As for my embarrassment, I’m reminding myself that my worth and hope do not come from a job title or responsibility or the esteem of others, but from the love and promise of the God of the universe, who continually pursues me (and you) as a friend and partner in his ongoing creative work. I thought I had learned this lesson many years ago, but apparently, I have needed a refresher. And not only that, but–as one of my favorite thinkers, Stanley Hauerwas, asks with his characteristic lack of ceremony–who do I think I am, anyway? I am but dust. I am but clay, willingly surrendered into the Potter’s hands.[1]
- And regarding my disappointment, I’m seeking to live out some paradoxes: to be both content and proactive; to partner with others and to guard my own vision; and to avoid complaint and faithfully critique. At the heart of the matter, I trust the Lord with the setbacks. And maybe in the different light of hindsight someday, I will be able to see his developmental curriculum even in the disappointments.
Of course, there’s always another option when someone asks a question that makes me uncomfortable. I can stand aloof and avoid engaging. I can keep the conversation at the surface so deftly that it never even has a chance to touch anything of substance. Snobs at least have an air of mystery, right? But when I go this route (and I admit that I have a few times), I feel regret for not living consistently with my deepest purpose. I’m a minister, remember?
Technically, anyway. You know. It’s complicated.
Sound a Little Too Familiar?
Recognizing that we have become entangled in the sticky strings of new or old dreaded questions does not necessarily mean that we have much of a clue about how to extract ourselves. But I believe that we can get better.
For some of them, practical preparation for the discomfort of the moment can help. My next post proposes some tips for responding to intrusive questions.
For others, slow and sometimes painful work is necessary, as the Lord brings understanding regarding the deeper insecurities underlying them. I personally know that God can do the impossible in us through that honest, prayerful process. And I also know how much better it feels to be free.
Are you a question magnet, too? Can you imagine a day when your dreaded questions no longer have a hold on you?If you can relate to my bracing and cringing, even at a pretty basic one, then let’s help each other. Drop me a line!
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1. Stanley Hauerwas, 2018, The Character of Virtue. Eerdmans.
VIBRANCY 