"Be Quiet" by Brian McCurdy

My son, Leo,talks a lot. From the moment he is fully awake in the morning, at the breakfasttable in robe and slippers, to the moment he is back in bed, listening to meread a book, or struggling to keep his eyes open—in a near continuous flow,broken only by activities that require concentration (reading, homework,drawing, video games), the words pour out, roiling, surging, at times too manywords for even Leo to keep up with.

“Hey, Dad,” he begins. “You know that Godzilla costume you'regoing to make for our movie?”

I say “yeah,” knowing I've opened the floodgates.

“Well, I think I know how we're going to make the mask. We'll putsome small holes where my eyes are so I can see, and the mouth will have—whatis it, oh yeah—hinges so it can move up and down when I move my mouth up anddown, and the mask will be connected to the rest of the body, probably withVelcro, and there will be a zipper down the back, but it will be covered by thescutes—you'll have to zip it up for me—and the tail will be really long andsticking up in the air, kind of like Shin Godzilla—we'll probably have to usewires for that—and the claws will be gloves that also attach to the body withVelcro, and for the roar, we'll make a recording of the Godzilla All-Out Monster Attack roar, but we'll put some effects onit so it's not copyright infringement, and then we'll set up a—what is it, ohyeah—green screen and show Godzilla stomping through a city, and oh, I havethis awesome idea for a scene where . . .”

By this time my brain has had enough, and I start thinking aboutwork stuff, or an essay I'm trying to write, or the bills I have to pay, or theillogical treatment of time travel in a superhero series my family and I havebeen watching on TV. Simply put, I replace my son's verbal noise with internalnoise of my own. If Leo realizes I'm doing this, which I suspect he does, sinceI'm no longer looking at him, he doesn't let it deter him. The words continueunabated.

“. . . and we can also show Godzilla's foot coming down and therecan be a shadow that gets bigger and a guy going like this [arms shielding bodyagainst invisible Godzilla foot] and screaming 'ahhh!' We'll have a greenscreen for that, too. And oh, I know what we can do . . .”

Since my ignoring Leo has no effect on his recitation, my wife,Mayu, feels compelled to intervene.

“Brian, are you listening to him?”

“Uh, I was.”

“Then say something. Leo, who are you talking to?”

Leo shrugs his shoulders, glancing at both of us. “You guys,” hesays. Then he gets the point of the question. “Ugh, you guys never want tolisten to me!”

I try explaining to Leo that, on the contrary, we're interested inhis ideas, we're glad he's so creative, but sometimes it's just too manydetails, too many words. Too much.

“Okay,” he says glumly, returning to a drawing he's been workingon.

I feel bad when we put a lid on Leo's talking like this. Noparents want to squash their kid's free expression, and this kid clearly has alot he needs to express. It does appear to be a need within him, a compulsion,an accumulation of words and images and ideas welling inside his mind, pressingagainst his skull and finally escaping through his mouth. The pressure appearsto be significant, for I've seen him tighten his lips against it, and heard himgrowl and grunt with the exertion, the frustration, of keeping it inside.

It's always been thus with Leo, from the moment he was able to string words into sentences. On educational field trips to nature centers and museums, he is constantly raising his hand, both to answer questions—often correctly, to his credit—and to offer expert commentary, some detail or association he has noticed, which he believes everyone has missed and must not be deprived of. Year after year at school he receives “clip down” disciplinary reminders from his teachers for “talking too much” or “blurting,” and his report cards show lower scores for “self-control” and “listens attentively” and “follows verbal instructions.” These reports don't surprise us.

It wasn't until recently, having received an email from Leo'sfourth-grade teacher about his “behavior,”that Mayu and I started to consider seriously that Leo's incessant talking maynot be a habit, not a proclivity, but a physical condition. The teacher calledit “oblivious talking” and described Leo's inability to at once talkduring class and “know what's going on,” hisinability at times to “function.” We had received similar emails from Leo's teachersin the past, but there was a tone of concern and frustration in this recentmissive that made us pause. Were we nearing a crisis point? Was it time for usto take some next step, some decisive action in figuring out what to do for ourson?

Ever since Leo's kindergarten year, when his teacher told us, in a matter-of-fact way, that he was “not normal” but that he would “be okay,” we've been turning over the possibility of ADHD in our minds. Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder—this compact cluster of words seems to describe our kid. He has difficulty paying attention. His mind—and often body, too—are exceptionally active. And the practical details of his life, unless some adult is directing him, reining him in, are decidedly not in order. In our research, we ran through the usual checklist of symptoms:

• Does he overlook details and make careless mistakes? Yes. Math homework, in particular, has a loose hold on his attention.
• Does he have problems sustaining attention? Yes, especially during parental speeches.
• Does he seem not to listen when spoken to? Yes, especially when anticipating aforementioned speeches.
• Does he get easily sidetracked and fail to follow instructions? Yes. The expression “in one ear and out the other” could be applied here.
• Does he have problems organizing tasks and activities? Yes. When I use the word efficiency, he stares blankly.
• Does he dislike tasks requiring sustained mental effort? Yes, unless it's drawing or video games. He can do those for hours.
• Does he lose things? Yes. Gloves, hats, lunch containers, school supplies. If it’s not attached to his body, it’s at risk.
• Does he become easily distracted by unrelated thoughts? Define unrelated.

While it's true that Leo's hyperactivity has never beenexcessive—the indoor screaming and racing variety that makes you fear forsomeone's safety—he has always felt to us to be not in complete control ofhimself. The volume of his voice in particular has been difficult for us andothers to cope with. It seems to have just one setting: loud. In a calm, quietroom, he'll begin talking at the decibel level one employs in busy cafés andoutdoor events.

“Leo,” we interrupt. “Why are you shouting?”

“I'm not shouting,” he says.

I know, from an alternative point of view, that Leo's behaviorcould be framed as that of an average developing kid. His teacher, the one whowrote the concerned email, said as much in a recent conference with us.

“Some of this is just normal kid stuff,” he said. It would bepreferable, of course, to hear that allof this was normal kid stuff. “But I can tell you,” he continued. “I've beendoing this for many years, and I've seen kids like Leo. Some of them are eventeachers now. They come back to see me today, and I'm amazed. Is that reallythe same kid? So often they grow out of it.”

Again it would have been more encouraging to hear they always grow out of it. But a littlereassurance, I figured, was better than none.

We have to admit, Mayu and I, that Leo has already been changingbefore our eyes. He's not the kid he was last year, and last year he wasn't thekid he had been the year before that. And Leo's academic performance isexcellent. His brain, no matter how crowded and disordered it might be, seemsto be working fine. Maybe some kids simply require more work than others. Maybewe—two parents worried about the future of their first-born child—need to relaxand have faith.

*

This latest round of research into ADHD and interactions with Leo's teacher both coincided, in a revelatory way, with events at my place of work. I belong to a small team of technical writers, a family-sized group that has managed, against a backdrop of nearly seasonal company restructuring, to stay close, intact, and committed to a shared mission. Recently, however, the pace and degree of change have started to pull us apart in ways that none of us fully understands or is willing to address openly. Like any family, a team of workmates accumulates internal stress points over time, and acquires, in response to them, a unique mix of dysfunctions. To its credit, my company provides an outlet for this social pain in the form of anonymous “team health” surveys. The results of these are shared with us, and as intended, they let us see and hear how healthy or unhealthy our team appears to be.

One theme that emerged in the comments of my teammates was adissatisfaction with the discussions we have together. The gist of it was that,all too often, a few people on the team were doing most of the talking,dominating the conversation, while the others, unwilling or unable to asserttheir opinions, were silent, disgruntled, and increasingly disengaged. Thoughsurely not an unusual problem in environments where collaboration is valued,this instance of it resonated with feelings I had already been having, notabout my fellow writers, but about myself. For I felt strongly that one ofthese inveterate, domineering talkers was me.

Something happens to me when I'm in the midst of a groupdiscussion, or any conversation. If the topic is one I don't care about, I cantune out easily, letting my mind drift into its own train of random thoughts.But if I'm “engaged,” as they say, if I feel invested in the ideas or thepurpose of the talk, my brain revs up, a kind of mental excitement, whichincludes a mounting, accelerating, overwhelming need to speak. Sometimes thisneed becomes so urgent, it's all I can do to wait for the current speaker tofinish, hearing only the voice in my head as I organize the words I plan tosay. But in truth I'm not aware of planning anything. My words seem tomaterialize all at once, ready to deliver, and I feel that if I don't let themout, if I don't release this pressure of thought in my cranium, Iwill explode. Indeed, I'm aware of wincing at these painful moments, opening mymouth expectantly and closing it again, and making other odd, nervous gesturesthat those around me must notice. How blatant this behavior must appear to themwhen I'm least able to suppress it, and how poorly it must reflect on me.

And when I do launch into what I have to say, it's rarely terse oraphoristic. Rather, I speak in whole paragraphs, sometimes miniature essays,with introduction, elaboration, culmination, and conclusion. If I had enoughsleep the night before, and I know particularly what I'm talking about, theseelongated recitals flow fairly well and make the intended point. But there aretimes, of course, when I get to where I'm headed in a more groping, roundaboutfashion, surely losing listeners along the way. In either case, I feel purgedand unburdened, able to relax and listen once more, at least until my headfills up again.

As much satisfaction as I derive from this verbal participation,I'm also aware that I'm probably talking too much. After many a team meeting, Itell myself I will do better next time. Prepping for the next gathering, Icoach myself. “Okay, Brian, no talking today. Keep your mouth shut. Just listenand be quiet.” But once again, as the final agenda item slips away forever intothe past, I find that I have failed utterly in keeping my private vow. The onlysound lingering in my head, fading still as an echo in a cave, is that of myown voice.

In the last year or so, I've been grooming myself, you could say,for a leadership role in my company. I expressed this intention to my managerso that he could help me find leaderish opportunities for practice. I eveninitiated a mentor relationship with a colleague whose leadership style I'vealways admired. Something else I did was ask a few of my teammates to sharetheir impressions of my communication style, using (once again) an anonymousonline survey. Sure enough, a few of these comments corroborated my fears thatI've been erring on the side of verbosity.

One read: “I'm sometimes not sure what point you're making oradvocating. It seems like you start talking and you hope you're eventuallygoing to reach it.” (Though I might expect as much from an essayist, the meanderingexploration of a topic, I knew what this person was talking about.)

Another read: “At times you may belabor a point a bit longer thannecessary.”

And another: “Sometimes too much information is given, making itdifficult to parse out what's truly necessary.”

As I reflected on the impressions of my peers, and as I paidcloser attention to myself in action, I started to see similarities between myson's verbal tendencies and my own. The way Leo sometimes speaks beyond theborder of clarity, as if he's talking faster than he can think. The way histhoughts wander from one association to the next, arriving at a destination hehad clearly not planned. The way he hums to himself while engaged in someactivity, monotonous, idiosyncratic ditties repeating forever in unconsciousloops. His absent-mindedness, his self-absorption, his oblivious disappearanceinto one distraction after another. The way he suddenly broadcasts some goofythought that has occurred to him, sometimes standing on a chair to achievemaximum projection. All of this—except the standing on the chair part, thoughfiguratively I've stood on plenty of chairs to make myself heard—all of this,unfortunately, reminds me of myself.

*

One provocative finding about ADHD is the inclusion of “genetics” in the list of possible causes. If this is true, if Leo inherited these problematic behaviors from me, then perhaps I, too, acquired them in this way. It also stands to reason that, somewhere in my hazy memories of childhood, I might find evidence, harbingers, of the person I would become. But I've been unable to recall any events, any scoldings or parental lectures, that suggest I once exhibited some facet of the ADHD triad: inattention, hyperactivity, impulsivity. I asked my mother, the only adult left with any intimate experience of me as a child, but she had nothing to share.

“No,” she said, “you were a very mild-mannered, well-behaved boy.”

I was willing to believe her, but something still felt missing,some unrecognized clue.

How about my mother and father, or their parents and siblings? Intheir generation, ADHD would have gone undiagnosed. My father had a brother, Irecall, who talked incessantly, always telling corny jokes, and who couldbarely hold down a job. He seemed a likely candidate. And a couple of aunts onmy mother's side definitely exhibit a scattered, jittery unpredictability. Younever know what they will say or do.

My father was a hot-headed Italian, which certainly had an effecton his life, not to mention his wife and kids. But otherwise he seemed “normal”enough, a smart, cheerful, responsible mensch of a guy.

My mother, on the other hand, though on the surface calm andseemingly dispassionate, provides glimpses into a mind that may at times beoverwhelmed by the chaotic stimuli of the world. Her almost compulsiveattention to physical neatness and cleanliness, in herself and hersurroundings, could be her way of smoothing out nature's disorderly ways. Andduring a heated argument, I've seen her eyes become distant, disengaged, as ifthe words issuing from her are no longer directed at me, but instead havebecome a distracted conversation with herself. If there were, behind her sereneexterior, a churn of emotions and tumbling thoughts, her achievement in keepingthem hidden, keeping herself under control, would be impressive indeed, if alsounhealthy.

One researcher on ADHD that I encountered was emphatic about therole of emotion in the disorder. He stressed that it was the inability toregulate emotions that sped up one's thinking, not simply a case of runawaythoughts. This insight resonated with me immediately. I can't be sure, ofcourse, what transpires in Leo's body and brain when he initiates one of hisverbal fusillades. It's clear, in any event, that he does so in a state ofexcitement. Something manic deep inside him has kicked into gear and takencontrol. The old expression, “motor mouth,” comes to mind. I believe the samemay be true of me when I'm speaking in public, though a more controlled versionof it. I've even caught myself shaking my foot or leg, or humming some randomtune, during those moments of intense mental activity, when it's not my turn tospeak but I really, really need to speak.

Am I just a nervous person? When I was a younger man, a girlfriendonce told me her mother believed I was the most nervous boy she'd ever met. Ihad no idea what she was talking about. But I do see, reflecting across thehalf-century I've been alive, evidence of a mind trying to calm itself. When Iwas seven or eight, I used to roll my eyes in response to an impulse I didn'tquestion or attempt to understand. I just knew I had to do it, especiallysitting in front of the television, and that it somehow made me feel better. Whydid I need to feel better? I don't remember. Since I felt no embarrassmentabout this behavior, my parents had many opportunities to observe it. They wereconcerned, of course. They took me to a doctor, who ordered anelectroencephalogram to see if I might have early signs of epilepsy. I stillrecall the wet, cold paste used to affix the electrodes to my head, and theneedle dancing across the rolling paper like a giant dismembered spider leg. Idid not have epilepsy, thank goodness, though what I did have was anyone'sguess.

Eventually the eye-rolling disappeared, to be replaced, however,by similar compulsions. I remember them well, as if I stopped doing them onlylast week. There was the thing I did with my hands, where I successivelypinched my thumb against each of its companion fingers, from forefinger topinky and back again, sometimes several cycles in a row. At school, writingwords or numbers caused me considerable anxiety. I needed them to be asperfectly formed as possible. Erasing one over and over to get it just right, Iput holes in the paper. When I did reach the excruciating end of an assignment,I would swipe both hands from the center to the sides of the pencil-markedsheet, three times, exhaling through my mouth at each swipe, as if literallysweeping away any remaining doubts. Finally, back at home, this time in theprivacy of my bedroom, I would go through my belongings—books, magazines, rockand trading card collections, cassette tapes, action figures, old schoolassignments—all the stuff a kid accumulates over the years. I would examineeach piece, turning it over in my hands, reminding myself of its existence andwhy I was keeping it. Occasionally I would get rid of something, feeling nolonger attached to it, no longer troubled by the thought of letting it go. AndI would organize every object, or class of objects, as I progressed throughthis curation, arranging items by shape, size, color, and the like. Again, Idid not ask myself why I felt the necessity of this task. I knew only that,once the necessity had seized me, I had to respond to it and carry it outfully.

Whatever it was under these childhood idiosyncrasies—anxiety,nerves, perfectionism, mild OCD—it has smoothed itself out and found somebalance. I imagine many of my readers have similar memories of being an oddkid, but metamorphosing into an only slightly odd adult. If we look closely, wecan still see traces. We don't leave everything behind, as much as we'd liketo. But I've learned to accept a certain amount of chaos around me, and insideme. The words I write, the sentences I craft, day after day, I believe theyhelp me. The deliberate rhythms and sounds, the symmetries, the music, thesemay be the coalescence, and the neutralization, of everything that troubles me.If not perfect, at least fixed and realized. A quiet, methodical exorcism ofthe demons still dwelling inside me.

*

I think of my son, Leo, and his drawing, which he does daily and sometimes to a manic and obsessive degree. Like his talking and humming, the drawing seems to be a manifestation of the noise in his head, or perhaps a means of calming it. Whatever its purpose, its abundance is impressive, and as a sign of the creative spirit, it's a habit I hope he can keep.

Still, I worry about Leo. His restlessness and lack of focus, in anine-year-old boy, is more or less expected, within the bounds of normal. Butwill he learn to gain control of his racing mind? Will he be able to center allthat energy and harness his power to some directed purpose? Will he be okay? Iknow these are the typical apprehensions of a parent. Even with the example ofour own lives to reassure us that things turn out all right, we concoct themost dire scenarios for our children—as if one's survival were a fluke, one'ssuccess a gift of chance. Maybe this is true. Maybe some of us are just lucky.

Recently I got the idea to try something with Leo that, at almostregular intervals over the years, I've tried incorporating into my own life.I'm talking about meditation. I've never had the patience or discipline tostick to a meditative practice. Like yoga, another failed personal enterprise,meditation is too hard and boring for me, and too slow in producing thepromised results. But I believe in its benefits, so I keep coming back to it.Now, with the Leo problem to solve alongside my own, it seemed like the righttime to try again.

When I was a young man, I would have needed to buy a video oraudio cassette to bring a guided meditation narrator into my home. Now I've gotYouTube, which as you can imagine has an overwhelming variety of selections inthis category. In seconds I found a twelve-minute “Guided Meditation for DeepRelaxation” video that seemed to fit the bill. Leo would certainly not lastlonger than twelve minutes, and frankly I didn't see me doing any better.

It took some cajoling to get Leo on board with the idea,especially the prospect of lying down to do anything but sleep.

“I don't know about this,” he said. “Meditation's not my thing.”

“It'll be good for you,” I said, as if selling the virtues ofgreen leafy vegetables. “You'll see.”

He exhaled dramatically. “Why do you want to torture me?”

The only place I could think of for two people to meditatecomfortably was my queen-size bed. So one morning, while Mayu madeschool lunches in the kitchen, Leo and I lay down beside each other, lightsoff, my smartphone queued to the selected instructional video.

I've done plenty of guided meditation in my life, so I was alreadyat it—gently clearing my mind as it filled, again and again, with aimless,intruding thoughts, and mentally traveling up and down my body in search oftension to release, trying to sink into that blissful state of totalrelaxation.

Leo, by contrast, an absolute meditation beginner, was busyexercising his usual faculties: talking and fidgeting.

“This is sooo boring,” he said. “How much more time?”

I told him only a minute had passed.

“Ooohhh,” he moaned, as if the attempt to relax were causing himphysical pain.

Once he had managed to quiet down, the same animating forceshifted into his legs, bobbing his knees and twitching his feet. I reached overand pushed down a knee, which, like a warped book cover, popped back up after Ireleased it. “Leo,” I said, louder than I had wanted. “Please. Try to relax.”

“I'd feel more relaxed if I was playing Roblox,” he said, sighingagain to underscore his suffering.

Then it occurred to me that, while I was busy with Leo's state ofmind, I was neglecting my own. I could do only one thing at a time: helpsomeone else or help myself. And maybe, it also struck me, the challenge ofmeditating with Leo was not to keep him quiet, not to control him, but tosilence my own mind and body beside the noise of my son's existence. Once I letgo, once I stopped caring about what was happening around me, time flowedagain, and my body disappeared into stillness.

Before I knew it the recording was finished, the last ocean waveshad washed ashore, and I was opening my eyes, recalling where I was and who wasbeside me.

“Okay, Leo,” I said, “that's twelve minutes.”

“That was twelve minutes?” he said. “It felt like an eternity.”

There had, I agreed, been a touch of eternity in that fleetingcluster of minutes. But for me it was that pleasurable feeling of timeless,limitless floating that a successful meditation session can give you. On thisparticular occasion, I had felt that brush with eternity for perhaps thirtyseconds, which is relatively long in mediation time. After all, I was just abeginner, too.

“That meditation made me hungry,” Leo said suddenly, interrupting my reverie. As one might expect from a nine-year-old, he was not waxing philosophical—gastronomical, rather. And with the smell of toasting croissants and brewing coffee wafting from the kitchen—thank you, Mayu—I had to agree with my son for a change. Another way he and I were categorically alike was our mutual interest in big, starchy breakfasts. No reason to be quiet about that.

***
Artwork: "Cheap Red Paint Job" by William C. Crawford.

Brian McCurdy has been writing personal essays about anything and everything for more than twenty years. He lives with his wife and two children in Michigan, where he works as a technical writer. His essays have appeared in The Iowa Review, Under the Sun, Fourth Genre, and most recently in Work Literary Magazine and The Boiler. His work was published at one time under the name Pappi Tomas.

William C. Crawford is the inventor of  Forensic Foraging, a latter day technique of photography utilizing minimalist, throwback techniques. See more on Instagram @bcraw44.