It's been just over a week since I finished my first year of college. In this week, besides developing a case of stir craziness along with the general anxiety that comes with once again being dependent, I've been repeatedly faced with one question whenever I run into people I know. Without fail, every one of my friends or family members from home asks the same thing: How was your first year of college?
I am not at all surprised by this question. It's a sensible thing to ask someone who has just come home for the summer. But what I find interesting is the nature behind the question. It's like a formality. It's like when you run into someone you have not seen for years and the first thing you say to each other is "How have you been?" When this question is asked, very rarely does the asker wish for you to relate to them all the events that have happened in your life since you last saw them. You don't have to talk about the little things, like what you do one the weekends or what books you've read or how you're starting to prefer drinking tea instead of coffee. They don't expect to hear every detail, every experience that has shaped you over the years. What they expect is simple. You say, "I've been good" or "I've been alright," and maybe tell them about the important things, like the job you now have or the apartment you just bought or whether or not you've married. But these details, while they most definitely affect how you've been, are just pieces of your life. They're just chunks, albeit important ones, but they do not fully answer the question of how you've been.
When someone asks me how this past year went, they rarely expect more than a few sentences of an answer. I say, "It was great. Yes, I'm majoring in English. Hopefully I'll go into publishing. Yep. It's a really great school," and that's it. Nothing in those few sentences even begins to convey just what this first year has meant to me, but it's what is expected.
A formality. It's the thank you after the bless you that follows a sneeze. It's the head nod when you make prolonged eye contact with a stranger as you pass each other on the street.
But could you imagine what would happen if we made these moments into something more? What if we stopped following what was normal and gave these little moments and conversations our full attention?
What if I told the full truth to whomever asked me about my first year of college? I'd tell them all about how scared I was and how numb I felt the first few weeks. I'd tell them about losing myself and struggling with my identity and trying to remember what it was like to be a pure and innocent child of God. I'd tell them about swing dancing and how it made me feel so safe around complete strangers; how, no matter how many nights I went out with my dance family, I will always regret not going out one more night. I could relate the time I ate curry at five in the morning in a friend's apartment, or when I fell asleep between shelves at the library during finals week. They'd hear all about me and a ragtag troupe of Sunday evening worshippers who met without fail each week to sing and pray, or PTL, as we called it. I'd talk for days about my international family and how much they taught me about myself and about my faith. About how I've learned to love people, even the ones I barely know. How, these past few months, these people have brought me closer to seeing the face of God than I have ever been before.
No one would expect it, but so what? If we all shared our experiences with each other, regardless of how well acquainted we are, can you imagine how much fuller and deeper our relationships would be? That person you haven't seen for years could become someone you trust with every detail of your life. That interaction with a stranger on the street could become one of the most meaningful moments of your entire day.
Just before the semester ended, I met someone who helped me realize how much we miss when we let societal norms dictate what we do and who we speak to and what we say. Now I'm through with letting what is normal keep me from finding the beauty and unlocking the potential in the little interactions we share with each other. We miss out on so many opportunities when we do what is expected. So I'm finished with formalities.
I am not at all surprised by this question. It's a sensible thing to ask someone who has just come home for the summer. But what I find interesting is the nature behind the question. It's like a formality. It's like when you run into someone you have not seen for years and the first thing you say to each other is "How have you been?" When this question is asked, very rarely does the asker wish for you to relate to them all the events that have happened in your life since you last saw them. You don't have to talk about the little things, like what you do one the weekends or what books you've read or how you're starting to prefer drinking tea instead of coffee. They don't expect to hear every detail, every experience that has shaped you over the years. What they expect is simple. You say, "I've been good" or "I've been alright," and maybe tell them about the important things, like the job you now have or the apartment you just bought or whether or not you've married. But these details, while they most definitely affect how you've been, are just pieces of your life. They're just chunks, albeit important ones, but they do not fully answer the question of how you've been.
When someone asks me how this past year went, they rarely expect more than a few sentences of an answer. I say, "It was great. Yes, I'm majoring in English. Hopefully I'll go into publishing. Yep. It's a really great school," and that's it. Nothing in those few sentences even begins to convey just what this first year has meant to me, but it's what is expected.
A formality. It's the thank you after the bless you that follows a sneeze. It's the head nod when you make prolonged eye contact with a stranger as you pass each other on the street.
But could you imagine what would happen if we made these moments into something more? What if we stopped following what was normal and gave these little moments and conversations our full attention?
What if I told the full truth to whomever asked me about my first year of college? I'd tell them all about how scared I was and how numb I felt the first few weeks. I'd tell them about losing myself and struggling with my identity and trying to remember what it was like to be a pure and innocent child of God. I'd tell them about swing dancing and how it made me feel so safe around complete strangers; how, no matter how many nights I went out with my dance family, I will always regret not going out one more night. I could relate the time I ate curry at five in the morning in a friend's apartment, or when I fell asleep between shelves at the library during finals week. They'd hear all about me and a ragtag troupe of Sunday evening worshippers who met without fail each week to sing and pray, or PTL, as we called it. I'd talk for days about my international family and how much they taught me about myself and about my faith. About how I've learned to love people, even the ones I barely know. How, these past few months, these people have brought me closer to seeing the face of God than I have ever been before.
No one would expect it, but so what? If we all shared our experiences with each other, regardless of how well acquainted we are, can you imagine how much fuller and deeper our relationships would be? That person you haven't seen for years could become someone you trust with every detail of your life. That interaction with a stranger on the street could become one of the most meaningful moments of your entire day.
Just before the semester ended, I met someone who helped me realize how much we miss when we let societal norms dictate what we do and who we speak to and what we say. Now I'm through with letting what is normal keep me from finding the beauty and unlocking the potential in the little interactions we share with each other. We miss out on so many opportunities when we do what is expected. So I'm finished with formalities.