The Art of the Singular
Sometimes, I have random memories pop into my head. I’m not quite sure where this one came from…
I was a pretty good student when I was in school. I didn’t skip classes…I didn’t set off stink bombs…I didn’t put thumbtacks on the teacher’s chair…I did my homework (by and large)…I kept my head down, and thus I was able to float under the radar. I’m almost positive that my teacher’s liked me. I’m pretty sure that they appreciated my contributions to class. And, I’m fairly certain that most every one of them couldn’t remember my name to save their lives (but that’s okay because I can’t remember most of their names either).
In other words, I didn’t rock the boat.
I also wasn’t all that close to my family. Sure, I lived with them. I ate with them. I watched TV with them. I spent a good chunk of my formative life with them, and they were a big part of what I’ve become, but I didn’t have many things in common with them. Actually, that’s not quite right. In reality, I had things in common with everyone in my family, but everyone else had at least one thing they were passionate about, whereas I’ve never really had that type of focus. I’m too scattershot with my interests. This has made for a relatively well-rounded personality and a pretty eclectic list of interests. I’m as comfortable talking about 2-Pac as I am Van Gogh. This has made for a pretty interesting collection on my iPod, but it doesn’t lend itself to talking for hours about the minutia of fishing lures or needlework techniques. These types of passions always meant that I would always be tangentially involved with my family members. Sure, I would go fishing occasionally, but I didn’t want to own a boat and make it my life. Somewhere in there is the distance that kept me separated from my family.
So, where is this rambling going? Well the memory I have is of being in a math class when I was a freshman or sophomore in high school. I was bored, and so I wasn’t really paying attention. A bit of motion caught my attention from the door. I could see my brother’s girlfriend through the little glass window in the door. She was motioning to me to come out into the hallway. I don’t think anyone else saw her, but if they did, they didn’t let on. Of course, it’s not customary to just get up and walk out in the middle of a class, but it seemed important, so I asked if I could go to the bathroom so that I could go and see what she wanted. This, as you can probably guess, was not in my nature. I didn’t duck out of classes to talk with girls – not because I never got bored in class, or I was overly fond of following the rules, but rather because it never really occurred to me as being a viable option. If I’d thought about it, I probably would have concluded that there was nothing any more exciting happening in the hallway of the school than was happening in my classroom, but quite honestly, I never even got that far. It just never popped into my head that it was even an option. So, having said that, if I said I needed to go to the restroom, it was because I had to use the restroom. This was different though, and as with any other time you break the rules for the first time, it was a bit exhilarating.
So, there I am in the hallway talking with my brother’s girlfriend…a girl who, quite honestly, I’d never had much interaction with before then. Sure, I knew that she was my brother’s girlfriend, and she knew that I was her boyfriend’s brother, but other than that she was just a girl who stopped by my house from time to time. Because she was a couple years older than me, and as those types of things mean more in high school than they ever did before or have since, we didn’t talk much. She also was pretty popular, so imagine my surprise when she started crying and wanted to talk to me about her relationship with my brother.
Everything about this situation was new to me. My first time ducking out of a class for an unnecessary reason. My first time having a heartfelt discussion with a girl. My first time talking to a crying female. My first time talking about my brother in any sense other than as the older guy who lived in my house. As you can probably guess, I was absolutely lost. I had no idea what to say or do with this weeping girl. She seemed to think I would have some great insight into my brother, but she couldn’t have been further from the truth. I wish I could say that I was suave and insightful and concise and that I helped solve her trauma, but the truth is, I was 15 years old, and although I probably knew the definitions of those words, I definitely didn’t know the practical applications of them. I don’t remember anything about what had happened between the two of them or how the conversation finally ended, but I vividly remember hugging this sobbing 17 year old girl and thinking how much I would rather be in my boring math class.