Still Waters Give RBF

The entry-level English professor took aside the handful of us who weren't, technically, supposed to be in that class. We had tested out of freshman English by passing the AP exam while we were still in high school. However, for our first year of college we had joined a "freshman interest group", a cohort of new students that were supposed to take a prescribed set of classes together. As long as we had to be in this professor's class, he wanted to challenge us above and beyond the others, so that day in his office he assigned us an extra group project. Probably some bonus reading capped with a presentation to the class.

We weren't expecting the additional work, so the professor took a moment to clock our reactions. One by one he addressed us: "You look ready ... you seem a little miffed ... you look pleased ... and you [to me]—I can't tell if you're happy, or pissed, or what." I still remember being caught off guard by his snide tone. I certainly wasn't pissed off about getting an assignment. If I had any emotional reaction, it was probably trepidation, because he was a hard teacher and I knew he had high expectations. Mostly, I was just quietly listening to his instructions, filing them away and formulating a plan of approach to the project. Controlling my facial features wasn't a priority at the moment. The professor seemed irritated that he couldn't get an instant read on my emotions.

It wasn't the only time I've been deemed inscrutable, or worse, unnerving based on my countenance, interpreted by some as resting bitch face, a.k.a. RBF. (For the record, I hate the B word.) My quiet demeanor, coupled with whatever my face does when I'm thinking, apparently freaks out a subset of people. In a society of extroverts, I take time to process information, and avoid injecting myself or my opinions into situations where they aren't asked for.

Once at a lunch with colleagues, during the Obama era, I grew reticent when the conversation moved into politics. After fifteen minutes or so, a particularly extroverted co-worker turned to me and said, with surprise, "Kristen, you haven't said anything in forever!" I answered that I just didn't know enough to weigh in on the issues they were talking about. I had the same political leanings then as I do now, and probably would have been safe expressing them in that crowd, but wasn't interested in proffering opinions I couldn't back up with specifics. They didn't judge me adversely for it, but I suddenly felt out of place. I had violated the American social contract that opinions must be shared loudly and often.

When I was growing up, my peers were less modest about sharing any and all personality judgments. By and large, I was considered a little weird and dorky. One year I served as a teacher's aide in a high school Spanish class, where one of the students was a tough-seeming girl whom I always tried to avoid in the halls. She had swagger, wore cool clothes, and gave attitude to the teachers and other kids. Walking past her desk to drop off some papers, I overheard her say that she was scared of me. I'd never exchanged a word with her, but something about the look in my eyes, evidently, made her want to leave me alone. That was a rare moment when I felt like my quiet nature was an asset, and even a defense mechanism. (Another phrase I heard during those years was, "It's the quiet ones you have to look out for." Perhaps I was harboring a skill so secretive that even I didn't know about it.)

The downside is that being quiet and reserved conflicts with widely accepted social norms. Even worse, as a woman, is to have a default expression that reads as dour. I'm inside my head most of the time, puzzling over some aspect of life, which causes a knitting of the brow and a slight frown on the lips. Traditionally, I think being lost in thought been a less acceptable pastime for women. Pensive men are philosophers and scientists; pensive women are flaky and overly independent. I'm not convinced that a female professor, even a tough one, would have addressed me like that male English instructor did. Certainly no woman or girl on the street has told me to smile more. (Maybe my grandma, but that's a different ball of wax.) In recent weeks, a man I just started working with said that he hadn't "gotten a read on me" yet. The comment was about something he wanted my opinion on, but I internalized it as negative feedback on my demeanor.

I know that getting along with people requires a give and take, and if my conversation partner doesn't register anything being given from me, that may not bode well for our personal or professional relationship. My lack of overt responses can be awkward, but in the words of this blog post by Neurodivergent Geek Girl: "This doesn’t mean you don’t feel anything or that you’re bored, uncaring, cold or uninterested. It means your expression systems are wired differently from how others social expectations, and the roots are biological signals you have little natural control over." I don't claim to be on the autism spectrum, but I relate to that article's description of a flat affect. I simply have no interest in forcing a reaction when I don't quite know how to process the input received.

Still, I catch myself occasionally monitoring for RBF, especially when I'm on camera in a meeting. Do my eyes look mean? Are the corners of my mouth turning downward too much? I probably needn't be policing my appearance like this. The checking and micro adjustments seem like an anxious tic, not too different from when I was fourteen and looking at my calves in the mirror to gauge whether they looked too thick, and adjusting the scrunch of my socks accordingly. I guess I'm still insecure about the girl in the mirror.