Trivial fears:
Stepping out alone

Not long ago, Carmen came to the Opera House and my trivial tragedy unfolded: I didn't have anybody to go with. My friends were either sick, out of town, had previous commitments or plain didn't have the money.
My friend Susan could not accept my offer to buy her a ticket because she had a meeting at school and suggested I go alone. "By myself? No!" My voice quivered. The palms of my hands got all sweaty just thinking about entering the theater alone.
We experience these vital fears, fears that threaten our lives or our integrity. We also experience trivial fears, those almost insignificant anxieties that often define our lives.
Years ago I lived in Lima, Peru, raising two kids as a single mother. Peru was undergoing the most violent time in its history. Terrorists tried to erase every hint of "capitalist society" through bombings, kidnappings and executions. As a reaction, the anti-terrorist forces tried to erase everyone who looked like a terrorist � which could mean anybody.
We, the people, were in the middle of their war.
I call those fears vital. They showed their ugly faces especially at night. In the darkness of the blackouts, the explosions would shake the house as if in an earthquake. I would lie awake wondering which government building, which bank, which mall had been destroyed that night. Whether or not a night guard or passerby had been blown to pieces and his limbs scattered with the rubble. Sometimes, gunshots whistled in the nearby park. Holding a candle, I would check the doors and windows and then step into my sons� room, look at their beautiful faces and wonder what would I do if violence came even closer.
Sleep would eventually come, with me tired and weary, thinking the end of the world was indeed very near.
Invariably the next morning, the gardener at the nearby park saluted the sun with his Andean tunes. He pruned the roses while whistling with all the power in his lungs. The house woke up to the bright light, to the familiar sounds of the milk and bread delivery, to the smell of fresh brewed coffee. I got up, got the kids ready for school, and went to work at an international magazine.
And every morning, life went on in Lima. It was as if the night terror dissolved with the sheer energy of determination. People walked briskly to work, filled the buses to the utmost, and drove their cars with a purpose. People in Peru were not giving up, they were embracing life.
Life is stronger than war and terror. Life is resilient, stubborn, stoic and optimistic.
Trivial fears are not that overwhelming. Trivial fears lurk in the back of our unconscious and present themselves as one element of the makeup of our personalities, as an insignificant characteristic, a small idiosyncrasy. But beware, there are certain moments when these trivial fears can define aspects of our life. They keep us in a house when we should be talking in public, they cause us to lose a cherished job for fear of losing the guy. They can make us miss a great play because we don't have anybody to go with.
That night and the following day after I heard about the opera, my thoughts kept going to the same question. Why do I feel so scared? Where does this fear come from? The image of me as a shy girl came to my mind together with a sinking feeling in my guts. Boys calling me ugly and me running past them to get to the shop and buy noodles for dinner. And the Sunday matinee. I entered the movie theater convinced that everybody had their eyes fixed on me, made fun of my big nose, ugly dress and dark skin. Their glances made my feet become heavy and clumsy.
If I didn�t still feel that way, then why was I terrified of going to the theater by myself? It was fear also, but a different kind. People might criticize me for not having a man at my side, for not being able to attract a guy, for not being woman enough to keep one. Or they might pity me, which is worse.
The idea came as a revelation. If I am complete without a man, why should I care what people think?
One ticket for a single woman, I said jokingly to the woman at the ticket booth, when I arrived at the Opera House.
And here is the best place in the house for her, she answered with a wink, offering me the numbered ticket. (It is easier to find tickets for singles. Odd seats remain unsold after couples buy theirs.)
The main floor of the Opera House swarmed with people. Some dressed elegantly, and some just wore their working attire, like me. I sailed easily around the groups and climbed the curved stairs leading to a glass foyer overlooking the river. I waited there.
Rosy clouds peeked behind the clock tower of the river park. I watched a couple, almost hiding under the bent willow branches. The man embraced the woman from behind while she threw the pieces of bread up, high into the air, for the swans to catch. I watched them with no envy. I was going to see Carmen by myself.
When the time came to enter the auditorium, my nerves didn�t fail me. I went to the right door and found a uniformed usher who guided me to an aisle.
People were trying to find their seats. No eyes were fixed on me. Signaling to an empty seat, the usher gave me the ticket back and said, There is J-15, beside that gentleman.
Seat J-15 was located in the center of the mezzanine. It dominated everything, the scenario, the orchestra pit, and the audience. A sense of power grew inside me. I relaxed in my seat, smiled, and felt the presence of the man at my side. He said hello, and I noticed sparks of intelligence in his eyes. He was the perfect guide for the evening, a musician exempt from playing for the night.
And across the centuries, Bizet's dreams enchanted me.
Afterward, the musician invited me to the artists' cocktail party and gave me a ride home. He did not send a dozen roses thanking me for the wonderful evening. I did not either. We did not date and fall in love. He is not practicing his violin in the next room while I write this article. Nothing romantic ever happened between the violinist and me.
The evening when I saw Carmen didn�t have to do with finding a man. It was a lesson in joy and discovery.
Joy, because the little shy girl was no more, discovery because I realized that living as a single woman requires a constant shedding of vital and trivial fears.