Almost lost amidst the profusion of contemporary advertisements and photographs decorating the large bulletin board in my office is a reproduction of a clipping from a vintage edition of the Crest, the annual yearbook of E. C. Glass High School, from which I graduated in 1965. It's the Debate Club for that year (or perhaps the prior one), and all eight members are perched precariously along the auditorium's orchestra rail in a perfect tableau of that bygone era.
There are five males sighted and only three females, a ratio I'm sure would be reversed, if not obliterated, on today's roster, assuming one still exists. The girls are primly attired in skirts and cardigans, the boys in jackets and ties, except for one hopeless holdout -- skinnier than his partners' rep stripes, grinning sheepishly through his thick black eyeglass frames, his wrinkled pants' legs riding high above his bony ankles. (Some things haven't changed.)
The topic that year honored a long tradition of irrelevance and dreariness for a teenager, regardless of his purported intellect: international trade policy, the pros and cons of protectionism versus tariff-free markets, which should whet the appetite of my son Matthew, who now reports on these matters weekly for a specialty publication. With the internet having yet to be conceived, for research we traipsed to the old Jones Memorial Library, buried ourselves in back issues of Current History magazine, and took copious notes on obscure monographs composed by diplomats and bureaucrats for each other's edification.
Somehow I presumed that my straight "A" report card and obsession with the printed word -- I was always reading, cereal boxes, comic books, newspapers, children's books, schoolbooks, history books, novels -- guaranteed my competence as a debater. But the proof is in the posturing. And while I no doubt had on hand scores of facts diligently recorded on index cards and organized into case statements and refutations -- which I sorely needed since I would have been destitute without them -- how effective could they have been when delivered by a confirmed introvert who would rather have been standing before a firing squad than a panel of judges?
And who indeed remembers attending a regional conference at the University of Virginia and sitting silently in his seat, never contributing a single word, while his peers volleyed arguments back and forth all day long like nimble tennis players -- a shutout which, when reported to his coach, earned him an embarrassing reprimand.
Back in those days of painful adolescence, I would probably have characterized myself as shy and, even if I had known the meaning of "introverted," would have assumed the two terms interchangeably denoted a personality that was reserved and reflective, like mine; to disinterested observers, the concepts appear to be the same. And while it is true that many introverts turn to further reclusiveness as a refuge from their socially-driven anxieties and a perceived public bias against behavior that is cerebral and quiet, technically and psychologically, there is a distinction. (Cain, p. 12)
As defined in Susan Cain's 2012 groundbreaking study, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, shyness is a fear of social disapproval or humiliation, while introversion is a preference for environments that are not overstimulating. (Cain, p. 12)
And if maturity coupled with the demands of running a family business -- and its attendant involvement in community affairs -- finally wrenched me from the throes of the oppressive shyness which prompted my father to lament that "he always has his head in a book," and my mother to wonder if "he'll ever come out of his shell," I'm now comfortable as an introvert who can emerge from both of those pleasant places when it becomes necessary and desirable, mingle with the gregarious and garrulous at festive gatherings (and leave most of the talking to them), and even enlighten and entertain roomfuls of people with a potpourri of gravitas and humor, always from a prepared script, of course.
Yes, amazingly enough, during a four-week period earlier this year, that formerly mute youthful debater had the honor of presiding at three civic events -- the National Home Furnishing Association Retailer of the Year Banquet, the James River Council for the Arts and Humanities Awards Ceremony, and the William F. Quillian 100th Birthday Celebration.
Cain's work sheds considerable light on how an introvert like me is able temporarily to cross over to the other side, or morph into a persona which she labels "pseudo-extrovert."
If my highly-reactive amygdala -- the potent organ in the brain which controls heart rate, blood pressure, finger temperature, and other properties of the nervous system -- initially fuels an apprehension and uneasiness upon social immersion, a sensation Cain compares to stepping on a high wire, my rational neocortex quickly kicks into action telling me to calm down, extend a handshake, and smile. (Cain, pp. 101, 118)
Cain could be quoting me when she says of herself: "By now I've had so many thousands of social experiences that I've learned that the high wire is a figment of my imagination, or that I won't die if I fall. I reassure myself so instantaneously that I'm barely aware I'm doing it." Researchers have described high-reactive people as inhibited, "and that's what I feel at some dinner parties," along with an urgency to leave only minutes after arriving, she says. (Cain, pp. 119-120)
Years ago, when I wanted to hone my public speaking skills, and repair a self-esteem battered by divorce, I signed up for a Dale Carnegie course. Carnegie (originally spelled Carnagey, but changed by its owner to evoke the master industrialist Andrew) himself was an insecure high school student -- "skinny, unathletic, fretful," worried about "thunder and lightning, going to hell, and being tongue-tied at crucial moments"-- whose meteoric career mirrored the nation's turn-of-the-century cultural evolution from emphasis on the character of an individual to glorification of his personality. (Cain, p. 19)
As a college student, Carnegie identified a correlation between accomplished oratory and anointed leadership. Entering and losing contest after contest, he persevered, practiced, and eventually transformed himself into a speaking champion, campus hero, and speech trainer. (Cain, p. 20)
The booming new economy which greeted the graduate in 1908 -- in which Ford, J.C. Penny, Woolworth, and Sears Roebuck were rapidly becoming household names -- called for a new kind of man -- "a social operator, someone with a ready smile, a masterful handshake, and the ability to get along with colleagues while simultaneously outshining them." After a few grueling years selling beef for Armour and Company, Carnegie conducted his first public speaking class at a YMCA night school on 125th Street in New York City. It was an overnight sensation, and the impetus for him to found the Dale Carnegie Institute, "dedicated to helping businessmen root out the very insecurities that had held him back as a young man." (Cain, p. 20)
If I gleaned anything from Dale, it was that the best way for a speaker to engage his audience, and put himself immediately at ease, is to tell a story, particularly about himself, since, after all, it's a subject he should be familiar with, and one which surely is fertile ground for the revelation of some amusing self-deprecating foible. But since I never won any weekly prizes for telling the truth about my own stultifying routine, in the ensuing years I've employed liberal poetic license in embellishing those narratives as well as in grafting other lies (actually jokes, both canned and original) onto familiar individuals, a technique I learned from an expert in the field, my father.
According to Cain, the process by which introverts reinvent themselves is a little more complicated, and biological, than that.
She writes about Esther, a tax lawyer at a large corporate firm, whose favorite parts of the day were walking alone to her bus stop and digging into work that she loved behind her closed office door. Periodically, however, she and her four teammates were required to make oral reports to the other members of the firm. Esther was fine if advised of the meeting beforehand and given the chance to prepare, but uncomfortable and flustered when asked to speak extemporaneously. Even as she became more well-versed in the intricacies of tax law, her state-of-mind failed to improve. (Cain, pp. 121-122)
Esther's problem is related to her aversion to overstimulation, to excessive input from the outside world -- whether it be noise, crowds, flashing lights, or even the unexpected ringing of a telephone.
In the late 1960's research psychologist Hans Eysenck hypothesized that human beings desire "just right" levels of stimulation -- not too much and not too little -- and that extroverts prefer more stimulation than introverts, which explains their divergent behavior. (Cain, p. 122)
Eysenck speculated that the brain's ascending reticular activating system (ARAS), which includes both excitatory and calming mechanisms, "regulates the balance between over- and under-arousal by controlling the amount of sensory stimulation that flows into the brain." In introverts, said Eysenck, the ARAS functions to open up information channels, causing them to be flooded with stimulation and over-aroused; in extroverts, it operates to constrict those channels, making them prone to under-arousal. Consequently, the over-aroused introvert out on the town senses too many impressions coming at him at once and looks for an excuse to head home, while the under-aroused extrovert feels restless and sluggish in solitary confinement and seeks an outlet for his cabin fever. (Cain, p. 123)
Even the simplest one-on-one conversation requires the participant to process an abundance of short-term information without becoming distracted or overly stressed, including interpreting what the other person is saying, reading body language and facial expressions, alternating talking and listening, assessing how well he is being understood and received, and calculating how to improve the situation or extricate himself. While the extrovert's brain functioning is well-suited to this sort of multitasking, amplify the equation by a factor of ten or twenty, and the introvert finds himself overwhelmed. (Cain, p.237)
In a famous study, while playing a challenging word game during which they were exposed to random bursts of sound, introverts and extroverts were asked to adjust the volume of their headphones to their optimum level. The former chose fifty-five decibels; the latter seventy-five -- at which levels both were equally aroused and performed equally well. But when each group was asked to work under the conditions favored by its counterpart, the introverts were over-aroused by the loud noise, the extroverts were under-aroused by the comparative quiet, and both saw their scores decline thirty percent. (Cain, p. 124)
Over-arousal interferes with attention and short-term memory, which are key components of extemporaneous speaking. Thus introverts like Esther and me are likely to find themselves distracted and forgetful when they are suddenly called upon to take the stand, and hard-pressed to retrieve any of the vast data stored in their brain cells. It's a quandary for which, in most cases, there is a remedy, and that is to provide them with as much notice as possible -- so they can either write out their material in entirety (as I do), make some judicious notes, or steel themselves mentally for their presentations. (Cain, p. 126)
Thus fortified, like the author herself, I've come to embrace the power of the podium -- treating every speech as a creative project, preparing well in advance, so that I have time to edit and practice, reminding myself that I've done this many times before, reassuring myself that I have a relevant message sure to delight and educate my listeners, and eagerly anticipating the palpable rush generated by their high energy feedback.
The case of Professor Brian Little further elucidates how individuals "born and culturally endowed with certain personality traits -- introversion, for example -- can and do act out of character." His own biography lends impressive credibility to a theory he conceived in a field of study he invented. (Cain, p. 209)
Little is a "former Harvard University psychology lecturer and winner of the 3M Teaching Fellowship," the equivalent of the collegiate Nobel Prize. "Short, sturdy, bespectacled, and endearing, he has a booming baritone, a habit of breaking into song and twirling about onstage," and a penchant for enlivening his lessons with rollicking good humor. "His classes at Harvard were always oversubscribed and often ended with standing ovations." (Cain, p. 205)
But there's another side to Brian Little. "He lives with his wife in a tucked-away house in the remote Canadian woods, visited occasionally by his children and grandchildren, but otherwise keeping to himself. He spends his free time scoring music, reading and writing books and articles, and e-mailing friends long notes he calls 'e-pistles.' When he does socialize, he prefers one-on-one encounters. At parties, he pairs off into quiet conversations as soon as he can or excuses himself 'for a breath of fresh air.' " (Cain, pp. 205-206)
In 1980, after delivering a talk to a group of senior officers at the Royal Military College Saint-Jean on the Richelieu River, Little was asked to join the top brass for lunch. Horrified at the thought of having to make small talk for an hour and half -- which would literally exhaust him before another address scheduled for later that afternoon -- he announced to his hosts that he had a passion for ship design, politely excused himself, and spent the interlude strolling along the river pathway. Years later, when the college moved to a land-locked location and Little lost his cover story, he resorted to racing to the restroom and hiding in a stall, even propping his feet on the walls to avoid detection by an untimely intruder. (Cain, p. 208)
"Little believes that personality traits are real, that they shape our lives in profound ways, and that they are relatively stable across our lifetimes." But he also believes -- as articulated in his original Free Trait Theory -- that fixed and free traits coexist, that people can exhibit behavior contrary to their innate temperaments under certain specific conditions. (Cain, pp. 206, 209)
"According to Little, our lives are dramatically enhanced when we're involved in core personal projects that we consider meaningful, manageable, and not unduly stressful, and when they are supported by others . . . Thus, introverts are capable of acting like extroverts for the sake of work they consider important, of people they love, or of anything they value highly." (Cain, p. 209)
"That's why Professor Little, the consummate introvert, lectures with such passion. Like a modern-day Socrates, he loves his students deeply," an admiration that's shared by them. Every year he was asked to write hundreds of letters of recommendation. "Brian Little is the most engaging, entertaining,and caring professor I have ever encountered. I cannot begin to explain the myriad ways he has positively affected my life," wrote one. The effort required for Little to stretch his natural boundaries is justified by his seeing his core personal projects -- opening his students' minds and attending to their welfare -- come to fruition. (Cain, pp. 209-210)
Cain describes another pseudo-extrovert, Edgar, a New York socialite who with his wife hosts or attends fundraisers or similar events seemingly every weeknight. "I love politics, I love making things happen, I want to change the world in my own way," he says. "But I'd much rather sit at home and read and think about things than talk to people." (Cain, pp. 212-213)
So he compensates through artificiality. "I don't really like being the guest at someone else's party, because then I have to be entertaining. But I'll host parties because it puts you at the center of things without actually being a social person," he says. Edgar used to record jokes and anecdotes on index cards and refer to them at cocktail parties when his over-stimulated short-term memory failed him. (I once considered doing the same thing.) He's now grown so comfortable in his extroverted role-playing that he is able leave his verbal crutches at home. (Cain, pp. 212-213)
Sooner or later introverts (or extroverts) acting out of character need to return to their true selves, and will create places enabling them to do so, which Professor Little calls "restorative niches." These places can be physical, like an isolated path beside a river or one's bedroom when all his children are back in town, or they can be temporal, like quiet breaks between a series of sales calls. They can even be cerebral, like choosing where one sits during a meeting and when and how he participates. (Cain, p. 219)
Balancing an introvert's pseudo and authentic personae involves negotiating Free Trait Agreements -- with an extroverted spouse, for example, who wants to go out every Saturday night when her husband needs to unwind at home from a hectic workday, but more importantly with oneself. A recently divorced introvert craving an intimate relationship may push himself to join the crush at a neighborhood bar or cocktail reception, but only for the number of events he can comfortably tolerate -- whether it be twice a week or once a month. Once he's met his quota (or a pleasing partner), he's earned the right to stay home without feeling guilty. (Cain, pp. 221-222)
Introverts and extroverts often complement each other in their natural modes. In an experiment conducted by developmental psychologist Avril Thorne at the University of California, Santa Cruz, conversations between twenty-six pairs of "dispositional opposites" revealed a surprising degree of mutual appreciation. Introverts reported that talking to extroverts was easier, like a "breath of fresh air," and more centered on "cheerier" subjects. Extroverts said they could relax more with introvert partners and felt freer to confide their problems. (Cain, p. 239)
Thorne's research explains how a stereotypical introvert like Jon Berghoff -- lean, wiry, bespectacled, thoughtful, and quiet -- can be a standout salesman. (Cain, pp. 237-238)
A socially awkward high-schooler who hid in the library during lunch, Jon began selling Cutco kitchen products door-to-door as a junior in 1999. In eight weeks he sold $50,000 worth of knives; within a year he generated $135,000 in commissions and broke twenty-five national and regional sales awards. By 2002 he had recruited, hired, and trained ninety other representatives, and increased territory revenues 500 percent. Shortly thereafter he launched his own personal coaching and consulting business, eventually reaching over thirty thousand clients. (Cain, p. 238)
Doesn't salesmanship imply glibness, joviality, and persuasive charisma? Not according to Jon. His affinity for meaningful dialogue rather than idle chit-chat turns his prospect encounters into therapeutic counseling sessions. "I discovered early on that people don't buy from me because they understand what I'm selling. They buy because they feel understood," he says. (Cain, p. 239)
Jon also benefits from a tendency to ask lots of questions. "I got to the point where I could walk into someone's house, and instead of trying to sell them some knives, I'd ask a hundred questions in a row. I could manage the conversation just by asking the right questions," he says, concluding that the number one component of successful selling is the ability to listen well. (Cain, pp. 239-240)
Just as it was for Jon Berghoff, the school structure of adolescence can be highly unnatural -- and intimidating -- "especially from the perspective of an introverted child who loves to work intensely on projects he cares about, and hang out with one or two friends at a time." In the morning, the bus discharges him into a noisy, jostling mess. His "classes are dominated by group discussions in which a teacher prods him to speak up. He eats lunch in the cacophonous din of the cafeteria, where he has to jockey for a place at a crowded table. He has little time to think or create." (Cain, p. 253)
Somehow, this "geeky" kid emerges from this one-size-fits-all situation, and blossoms into a secure, happy adult. But maybe it's not so much he who changes but his environment. As adults we get to select the careers, spouses, and social circles that suit us. We don't have to persist in a culture alien to us. "Research from a field known as 'person-environment fit' shows that people flourish when . . . they are engaged in occupations, roles, or settings that are concordant with their personalities." (Cain, pp. 253-254)
As a dedicated bibliophile, I always imagined I was destined for an academic career, and indeed had my bags packed for postgraduate study in English literature at Columbia University when a summons to appear for a draft physical -- the Vietnam War was in full fury -- sent my father and me scurrying first for a high school teaching position, and, when that proved almost more stressful than a battlefield, an opening in the local Naval Reserve unit. Having abandoned the classroom, I pulled rank to secure temporary employment at Schewel Furniture Company while I waited for a call to active duty, which never came. By a remarkable stroke of good fortune, almost on the same day, I was the grateful recipient of a voluntary discharge -- the Navy had over-recruited and had no use for an educated enlisted man -- and a high draft lottery number.
What's an introvert to do -- cast adrift in an overstimulating retail arena, bombarded continuously by flak from cantankerous customers and curious coworkers, shouldering the burden of a family member's expected competence? I heard whispers that "He's stuck up" and "He never smiles," and was even chastised by my cousin for failing to bid him "Good morning," when it was all merely a matter of not having much to say -- of not yet having apprehended Dale Carnegie's proven formula for winning friends and influencing people.
I stayed with it, intrigued by the multifaceted nature of the business, all so novel to me, and by the realization that it contained myriad opportunities for even the introverted soul, while acknowledging that, as the boss's son, I had the advantage of targeting those departments where I was most comfortable and my inner-directed work ethic most useful -- merchandising, buying, advertising, inventory control.
As my father gradually invested me with more responsibility, enabling me to assume leadership of the company at his death in 1989, I made two other important discoveries: first, that I could easily hire managers who would help the organization thrive by contributing the skills and ebullience I might be lacking; and, second, that in a growing number of situations I was becoming more adept at acting like an extrovert -- addressing groups of employees, coaching and mentoring them for success, conducting meetings.
As Professor Brian Little defined the term, what core personal project could more effectively motivate a classic pseudo-extrovert than the promotion of his proprietary enterprise -- especially knowing he retained the luxury of retiring to his "restorative niche," his private office or the pages of a mediocre book, when the task at hand was completed?
Like a snowball rolling downhill, I soon found myself adopting more core projects -- serving on community boards, rotating into chairmanship positions, accepting speaking engagements, masquerading as Elvis Presley at special events -- all of which have broadened my horizons and enriched my life. Yet those roles are only temporary, and when the curtain falls, as always it must, I'm quite content to slough off my costume, and reappear as my true, fulfilled, introverted self.
Anais Nin wrote: "Our culture has made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We have discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we have lost our center and have to find it again." (Cain, p. 264)
And Cain, in her postscript, offers these homilies to her readers:
"The secret of life is to put yourself in the right lighting. For some it's a Broadway spotlight; for others a lamplit desk. Use your natural powers -- of persistence, concentration, insight, and sensitivity -- to do work you love and work that matters." (Cain, p. 264)
"Respect your loved ones' need for socializing and your own for solitude (and vice versa if you're an extrovert)." (Cain, p. 265)
"Spend your free time the way you like, not the way you think you're supposed to. Stay home on New Year's Eve if that's what makes you happy . . . Read. Cook. Run . . . Make a deal with yourself that you'll attend a set number of social events in exchange for not feeling guilty when you beg off." (Cain, p. 265)
"If your children are quiet, help them make peace with new situations and new people, but otherwise let them be themselves. Delight in the originality of their minds . . . Don't expect them to follow the gang. Encourage them to follow their passions instead." (Cain, p. 265)
"If you're a teacher, enjoy your gregarious and participatory students. But don't forget to cultivate the shy, the gentle, the autonomous . . . They are the artists, the engineers, the thinkers of tomorrow." (Cain, p. 265)
"If you're a manager, remember that one third to one half your workforce is probably introverted, whether they appear that way or not . . . Make the most of their strengths; they can help you think deeply, strategize, and solve complex problems." (Cain, p. 265)
"Bear in mind that appearance is not reality. Some people act like extroverts, but the effort costs them in energy, authenticity, and physical health. Others seem aloof or self-contained, but their inner landscapes are rich and full of drama. So the next time you see a person with a composed face and a soft voice, remember that inside his mind he might be solving an equation, composing a sonnet, designing a hat. He might be, that is, deploying the power of quiet." (Cain, p. 266)
REFERENCE
Cain, Susan. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. New York: Broadway Paperbacks, 2013.
