Thoughtful or sweet? Sure. Acquiescent and at times even ingratiating — yes. But not nice. I can think of a dozen other ways I would describe myself before using the word “nice:” observant, creative, persistent, generous, grounded, optimistic, intuitive, fair-minded, understanding, gracious, passionate, magnanimous... not nice.

And of course, that’s only half of it — one side of the page, if I were making a list (which now I suppose I am) — that “nice” would fall on. The other side contains the likes of impulsive, impatient, self-sacrificing, people-pleasing, perfectionistic, antisocial, childish, indecisive, overly sensitive, resentful, and passive-aggressive.

But you wouldn’t know that if we met at a party and had a pleasant, surface-level conversation about what TV shows you’re watching (that I’m not) or where you recently traveled to (with accompanying photos) or a work problem you’re having (or worse, have had). You wouldn’t know that for 12 years of Catholic school in my formative years, a nun named Sister Daniel Mary who stood 12 feet tall in my mind, terrified me into standing still and staying quiet, with exception of the rote recitation, “Yes, Sr. Daniel Mary,” after whatever she said. You wouldn’t know that a minimum of once-a-week mass taught me how to endure discomfort while staring straight ahead and smiling as someone talked at me for an hour. You wouldn’t know that these years were fertile ground for some of my best and my worst qualities to propagate, let alone what those qualities are.

Instead, you would walk away thinking, “I like that girl. She’s nice.” And if someone were to quiz you on the basics that are usually covered in the first few minutes of a meet-and-greet, you’d struggle to answer. “Well, I don’t know where she’s from; she didn’t say. I can’t recall what she does.”

You wouldn’t know that I’m tired: of always being the one to move over for the other person as we cross in a narrow hallway; of shrinking so as not to draw attention; of dimming so as not to outshine; of being talked over or not listened to by those with a louder voice; of not taking up space so that others can inflate into Macy’s parade-sized floats that get wedged between buildings.

I am not nice. I’m a banshee right before I get my period. I’m a wailing woman when my cat comes limping up the front steps, mewing in pain. I’m a wild woman who will dance her toenails off for a night of good music. I’m an independent woman who will work her ass off for a decade and give it all away without a second thought. I’m an artist who was trapped in the body of a corporate stiff for longer than is healthy, but not long enough to be fatal.

I’m a former tomboy: a master tree climber, a fierce defender who could box out someone twice my size on the basketball court, and a powerhouse with a baseball bat. I was a “good” student, but I’m a slow learner, sometimes repeating the same detrimental mistake ad nauseam before learning my lesson. I’m a late bloomer; I held onto my belief in Santa Claus longer than was age-appropriate, collecting evidence of and making a case for his existence to classmates with older siblings or more rational minds or weaker imaginations.

I’m an eternal optimist and, because of it, I’m perpetually late. I’m a student of life, my own and others’, constantly studying to satiate my desire to understand it (and I don’t feel like I’ve made it past Kindergarten yet). I’m constantly in wonder, in awe, and gratitude. And I often don’t know how to express it beyond a gasp of, “Wow!”

I’m a writer. I take to the patient quietude of the page to express what I don’t get the opportunity to speak in a world incessantly shouting, “Get on with it!” I’m practiced at keeping silent. I’m curious and know how to ask questions. I am a good listener.

I’m not nice.

Credits

Late August by Erki Pärnoja. You can watch a live version of this song on my YouTube playlist or Spotify.

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