Be Vulnerable

My English class is segregated.

The chairs and tables arrange themselves in a horseshoe shape with Mr. Phillipson standing at the opening. The boys occupy all the seats on the right side, while the girls fill up the middle all the way to the left (there aren't many boys). Occasionally, Ana finds herself next to Lucas or myself, but for the most part, the setup is usually very divided.

And still, we seem to be so interconnected.

Of course, you still have the generic, stereotypical students in the class. The ones who don't talk much. The ones who talk too much. The ones with food. The ones complaining about not having food. The ones not-so-secretly doodling in their notebook. Yet, the classroom doesn't feel generic or stereotypical.

There are a lot of unforgettable moments. The viewing of gruesome scenes in the film "Get Out" together, Rishi's hilarious dialogue essay, the Zoom and in-person meetings with Richard Rudolph and Sam Hollander, and more.

It's quite hard to describe the environment – "free" would be my best word.

There are no boundaries, no restrictions on what a person can say or do. You can curse if you want to. You can argue with the teacher. You can write about Lionel Messi instead of William Golding's Lord of the Flies. You can write about a Japanese anime instead of an American novel for your end-of-year 10-page research paper – if you want to.

Perhaps what makes the class so united is the fact that we've all been vulnerable at some point. Perhaps it's the "freedom" we're granted that fosters this vulnerability.

In this English class, there are a variety of different assignments. There are the usuals: reading pieces from famous writers and analyzing them. Discussing certain TV shows and examining what those works teach us about America.

But, we've also acted in front of everybody, emotionally performing sections of Glengarry Glen Ross which has over 150 F-bombs. We've also read – essentially presenting – personal essays to the class, some about breakups, some about phobias, some a little bit more embarrassing.

Glengarry Glen Ross

At one point or another, each member of the class has put themselves out there completely naked – scared but undeniably unapologetic.

Why is it that showing your true self to someone makes you so much closer?

Perhaps it's because it just doesn't happen that often, maybe ever – it's the rarest commodity in any relationship. Perhaps we don't think it's worth it to be that exposed. Perhaps we're afraid of what may happen. To show your "true self" is to slice open your thorax with a high-carbon steel scalpel, exposing your heart and hoping people won't break it.

When do we develop enough trust to open up? To make the first incision with that scalpel? Is it possible that we may potentially wait too long?

Perhaps it's not a matter of whether you're ready to share your feelings with "them" but rather if you're ready to share them with yourself.

Indeed, are we even that true to ourselves? Have we ever taken time to look inside? Do you really know how you feel – how you feel about "it", whatever "it" is? How many times do you unconsciously lie to yourself a day?

The scary thing is that you don't know – obviously. You're the one simultaneously doing both the lying and the believing.

That begs the question: when do we know when we're telling ourselves the truth?