What do I do? Sitting in a chair, stuck to the wall. Bound by tradition. Bound by “respect”. Respect your elders they say. Listen to them, maybe you will learn something. The thing is I do listen, but I also listen to everyone else. Everyone has a voice and those who choose to use it should be heard.
I was sitting in the Binghamton University Psychology Department when I heard a whisper. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Stop. At first, I was confused. Was I really hearing that? and if I was who was saying it?
Then I noticed, off of the reflection of a whiteboard, a man turning his head side to side as he whispered a conversation. He appeared to be turning his attention to someone, or something, in the room. Reassuring that thing that he would be done soon, and to stay calm. The issue is, after later investigation, I came to find out there was nothing else. His conversation was not with another person, but instead with himself.
Of course I could not be sure of this at the time, but those were certainly my initial thoughts. Having experienced schizophrenic type episodes in my life, I initially related my own experience with what he was doing. He seemed conflicted and almost scared. I empathize with him. I started reflecting back on my experiences and wondering how severely the illness was affecting him. How was it affecting his social life? Did his family know? Did he have any family?
All these thoughts came rushing in, but the most prominent one was whether he was okay or not. As I continued to eavesdrop on his small talk, I increasingly became worried about him. Was he okay? Did he need to talk to someone? Did he want to talk to someone? I didn’t know, and I still don’t.
After my five minutes of analysis and reflection, I decided that I should attempt to reach out. He is a human being, and like all human beings, he deserves love (not the most popular opinion of mine, but maybe I will write a post explaining why I think that).
What made this situation so weird, was that he was not another student. He was a professor. He was an authority figure with a title that I could only dream of reaching. He was, to my emotional self, superior to me.
Our inability to challenge our “superiors”, comes up in a number of issues. One example, outside of the article I hyperlinked above, is commonly referred to as memory banking. This term is used to describe the nearly worldwide education system of teachers telling, and students memorizing. There is little room for questioning or discussion, which leads to a decrease in creativity and an increase in blind faith. It also creates a mindset that teachers, and professors, are above their students. That their thoughts are unchallengeable. Therefore a hierarchy of power emerges, one that has a profound effect on both the students and teachers.
This mindset scared me, but I was not about to let it stop me. As said before, this professor is a person, and like us all, he deserves love. I did not think that I could simply walk up to him and request his deepest darkest secret. Therefore I instead did what any rational human would do, I googled him. Since he was in his office, I was able to read his name off the wall and within seconds I had his bio on my Google Chrome tab.
After reading about his research interests, I had a clear idea on how to begin our conversation. With a bit of hesitation, I knocked on his door and introduced myself. He seemed a bit confused, as I am sure I did too, and we began to talk about his research.
I told him that I was considering switching my major and that I would like a better picture on what he does on a day to day basis. A bullshit excuse to talk, but one nonetheless. After I finished telling him about this, he proceeded to tell me the very thing I asked about. A lot of neuroscience terms I will never hear again, some pictures, a few graphs, and a long awkward silence after he finished.
I didn’t know what to say. Do I ask now? He seems fine. Scratch that, he seems annoyed I am even bothering to talk to him. These thoughts filled my brain and before I could think otherwise, I left.
I didn’t answer his whispers. I didn’t help him. And if anything, I just pissed him off. I don’t like that I did that. That I failed to act. That I allowed fear to consume me to the point I could not complete my mission.
But that is not what makes me the saddest. What makes me the saddest is that I know where his office is. I know his name, and I know his office hours. I could have gone to him today or tomorrow or next week. The thing is I won’t. I don’t know why I won’t, but I know I won’t. I want to, I really do, but uncertainty and fear will not allow me to. I am fighting myself, and in doing so I am failing to help. Failing to do the very thing I set out to do.
Sometimes things don’t have a happy ending. Sometimes we don’t turn out to be the hero’s we always thought we were. I suppose that is something that we have to learn to live with or to fight against. Usually, I fight, but I guess not this time. I suppose even the hero’s fail sometimes. And I suppose even fighters need to lose occasionally.
I may have failed him, but I hope someone else doesn’t. Someone different than me. Hopefully, they can finish what I couldn’t. But it’s that hope that makes us feel better. The process of reassuring ourselves that the issue will be resolved even if we failed. Because then in a way our failure is rather minimal. I failed him, not much else is as objective as that.