jebmo’s posthaven

It’s been a while since I have had a full-blown, this is really truly nutso, case of Imposter Syndrome. I’m having one now, so I want to pull it apart and see what makes it tick.

When I arrived at Facebook in January 2011, I felt completely over my head. I learned enough technical details to get along, but everybody seemed much better than me. It got to where I would have an idea and say to myself, “Someone must have already had that idea. If I mention it people will think I’m stupid. There’s probably an obvious reason it won’t work.”

After about six months of this, I had a long talk with myself. I didn’t get here by being an idiot. Most of my ideas won’t work out, but that’s because most ideas don’t work out. Give each one a little time and energy and see what pays off.

Six years later, when my manager asks for an unexpected meeting my first thought is still, “That’s it. I’m fired.” The difference is that now I quickly move on to other explanations, like oh for example there’s something he wants to talk about.

Music

When I started jamming with people at Andela in Lagos, though, Mr. Imposter Syndrome set up a shiny new shop in my brain.

I arrived in Lagos on Saturday night. Sunday I went to church, rode on the back of a motorcycle (it was okay, I’d been to church), and out to dinner. When we got back to the shared staff apartment, we broke out the instruments and started playing.

In a lull after a song I heard a fast jam in my head, so I started playing. After a few seconds the other musicians took it up. I started twisting the rhythm in ways I never would dare in a group of American folk musicians. No problem, everyone stayed right in the groove. And further out. And further.

I went There, that place where you hear music and it comes out your fingers and your brain just sits back on a park bench and watches the show. I started playing guitar with my whole body. I was dancing and playing and listening. Sounds good, right?

As I was going to bed late late late that night, Mr. IS kicked in. “You know, they were probably laughing at your antics. You looked ridiculous.” Shut up, asshole. That was glorious.

Thursday we jammed again. Same thing happened. New jam, same connection to the music, same insane internal conversation afterwards.

Friday night was the Christmas party. We got up. Did our first song. I started the jam. The singers went to town over the top of it. Keyboards and bass. The drummer lashed in (drummer? there wasn’t a drummer here a second ago–I love playing in Africa). The whole party hit their feet. Five minutes later we finally wound down, drenched in sweat and smiling like fools.

And me? Mr. IS. “They’re just humoring you. Any minute now they’re going to say, ‘Ha ha, just kidding.’ There’s nothing special about what you do. Especially not here, you old, bald, white eejit.”

Dissection

So that’s what my Imposter Syndrome looks like. I have absolutely no evidence that anybody is saying any of those things except me. I have plentiful evidence that people like what I play. Doesn’t change the voice, though.

What’s going on?

• Cognitive dissonance? If I love music and people enjoy the music I play and I have chosen not to play much for decades, well, that doesn’t make sense. If people secretly hate my music, then not playing makes perfect sense.
• Daddy issues? The only screaming fight my father and I ever had was over whether I would study music in college. His dad had to pawn his sax to feed the family during the Depression. I was going to by god get a real job. Maybe I’m still fighting that fight.
• Scary options? Maybe I don’t want to consider the possibility that music will be a much bigger part of my life in future. If people secretly hate my music, then that’s not an option, and I can go on doing what I’m doing now without worrying that I’m missing out on a beautiful part of life.

I don’t have any conclusions, just questions. And a crazy voice in my head. And memories of transcendent jam sessions. And new friends. Peace.