Last night I had a dream that we traditionally had an open community forum instead of just writing letters to the editor about something here in Washington, DC. This week, I had letters prepared about various things, like the importance of The Vagina Monologues (and asking for more funding and more support on campus for them), the power of a low-carb diet and a request to hold an open Q&A to increase awareness, the push for increased dialogue about many things on campus, and a list of true statements to say to my friend Harry, among other topics generally sensitive to me, that my twenty one year old self would assertively discuss.
When I was about to begin reading my written (and rather eloquently written, I might add) arguments, suddenly a flood of people arrived, as if on the Vern Express (late, as usual), like they had all gotten on the same bus due to a late metro train and come just in time. People from my old life, people I knew in high school, in middle school, people I thought I was in love with at some point, people who I thought were mean, people who I thought were too cool, people who I would be bashful to be myself in front of until Alice Turner taught me that I'm just fine the way my brain is and that I am worthwhile; people who never thought of me as anything else other than "nice" and "Elissa's friend." There were people I might always have a funny bond with, because we tried things together (one, arriving with his current girlfriend to attend the forum, came down the escalator and, seeing me, turned and took my hand), coming in with teachers from their high schools and their favorite college professors.
They all walked past me and my classmates to gather in the back of the room, ordering beverages and seating themselves comfortably. Nervous -but mostly excited - I waited for the microphone to be passed to me, so I could give my list of assertions and grievances. And maybe all those people, who - to be honest, probably hadn't thought much about me since we had last seen each other - I always thought had the wrong idea about who I was, and I know it wasn't that important because we all change and evolve, and naturally I couldn't have been myself around them before - but they probably didn't notice -
and all those people, I was finally about to show them what I believed in and who I was. I watched as, one by one, my classmates passed the microphone from person to person, saying something unimportant like "I think Gelman Library should be open longer," or "Why can't we take less than three science credits for our B.A. in a social science?" or "Has anyone seen my Blackberry?" until people stopped listening so intently. The noise level in the back of the room, filled with people from Emerson and from North Carolina and from all over, was rising uncomfortably.
As casual conversation started overcoming the miked college students, the ordered seating in the back became more and more jumbled and the whole ordeal seemed like a poorly organized party as everybody stopped listening to each other. Finally I was next in line to speak, and I uncrumpled the sheets of paper that I had carefully scribbled all over, flattening them against my knee in anticipation.
Despite the diminishing audience, my fellow speakers kept grabbing the microphone from each other to speak. I didn't know any of them very well, and they were very noisy.
I got nervous and I didn't reach for the mike, though it was clear that nobody was going to just hand it to me. And since my audience had started disrespectfully milling around, I accepted the double futility of the action. I walked up the escalator and out the door to meditate. There was grass outside, spilling over a large cliff. It was lonesome, but the view of the ocean was spectacular.
When I was about to begin reading my written (and rather eloquently written, I might add) arguments, suddenly a flood of people arrived, as if on the Vern Express (late, as usual), like they had all gotten on the same bus due to a late metro train and come just in time. People from my old life, people I knew in high school, in middle school, people I thought I was in love with at some point, people who I thought were mean, people who I thought were too cool, people who I would be bashful to be myself in front of until Alice Turner taught me that I'm just fine the way my brain is and that I am worthwhile; people who never thought of me as anything else other than "nice" and "Elissa's friend." There were people I might always have a funny bond with, because we tried things together (one, arriving with his current girlfriend to attend the forum, came down the escalator and, seeing me, turned and took my hand), coming in with teachers from their high schools and their favorite college professors.
They all walked past me and my classmates to gather in the back of the room, ordering beverages and seating themselves comfortably. Nervous -but mostly excited - I waited for the microphone to be passed to me, so I could give my list of assertions and grievances. And maybe all those people, who - to be honest, probably hadn't thought much about me since we had last seen each other - I always thought had the wrong idea about who I was, and I know it wasn't that important because we all change and evolve, and naturally I couldn't have been myself around them before - but they probably didn't notice -
and all those people, I was finally about to show them what I believed in and who I was. I watched as, one by one, my classmates passed the microphone from person to person, saying something unimportant like "I think Gelman Library should be open longer," or "Why can't we take less than three science credits for our B.A. in a social science?" or "Has anyone seen my Blackberry?" until people stopped listening so intently. The noise level in the back of the room, filled with people from Emerson and from North Carolina and from all over, was rising uncomfortably.
As casual conversation started overcoming the miked college students, the ordered seating in the back became more and more jumbled and the whole ordeal seemed like a poorly organized party as everybody stopped listening to each other. Finally I was next in line to speak, and I uncrumpled the sheets of paper that I had carefully scribbled all over, flattening them against my knee in anticipation.
Despite the diminishing audience, my fellow speakers kept grabbing the microphone from each other to speak. I didn't know any of them very well, and they were very noisy.
I got nervous and I didn't reach for the mike, though it was clear that nobody was going to just hand it to me. And since my audience had started disrespectfully milling around, I accepted the double futility of the action. I walked up the escalator and out the door to meditate. There was grass outside, spilling over a large cliff. It was lonesome, but the view of the ocean was spectacular.
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