“Oh, I don’t care about that. They just make me squeamish, the way they scurry about and never meet your eye. I’d rather have an Irish girl like you have.” Why do I find it impossible to speak my mind in these instances? I am always hopeful that I have misheard or misunderstood, and then I am held by anger and indecision—if I say anything at all, I fear a torrent of emotion will burst forth that will cause embarrassment. I worry too much about offending or rousing conflict.
