Volume 2, Entry 19: Like Magnets
Given only 55 minutes each day for instruction and interaction this year, there has been altogether less ad-libbing. Deviating from the plan within a lecture is dangerous: indulging in a whim or exploring a tangent costs the ability to offer the bare minimum conceptual development and modeling necessary for learning. No matter how much I tried to demonstrate that the math wasn’t the sole purpose for my classes this year, I insisted on respecting the fact that it still required our attention. That we addressed every single concept in the AP curriculum across this year is a testament to insisting that I fulfilled my academic responsibility.
Last Thursday, though, was a rare day in which I could go off-script a bit. We had finished up the final lessons of the course the previous two days and, with some independent practice and question-answering for their final exam on tap, this was the rare day in which we had 55 minutes on the clock but no urgency to spend them judiciously.
After introducing the rough plan for the day, I opened things up for Therapy Thursday, the Wyman-inspired tradition that has been a weekly staple in all five of my core classes. But, unlike the typical Thursday, I let them know that we could extend things on this day; there was no rush to start the next part of class because it was independent work they could begin at any time.
Therapy Thursday’s dual credos of “Positive, negative, neutral” and “No wrong way to use it” reflect in every story, feeling, and frustration shared. Most weeks include celebrations—vaccine appointments and doses were frequent flyers in April, college acceptances and decisions in March—and cathartic balloon-emptying in equal portions, but every week requires me to cut things off at some point. (In that way, I suppose it is even more like authentic therapy.)
But, with no cut-off on Thursday, the sharing in both BC classes continued so my processing and responding did as well. This was comforting to me, less than 48 hours from the worst panic attack I’ve ever had and still boiling like a lobster in a crock pot of intense stress. I was in an emotionally vulnerable and, honestly, somewhat-compromised state myself, but somehow the emotional peril of honoring everything shared pushed aside my own stress and discomfort. There was no room to consider any of it; I had a job to do that was far from my actual job description yet more imperative than any other aspect of it on this day.
Still: I wasn’t exactly optimistic or light-hearted. The weight of stress and lost control wasn’t in the front of my mind but piled in the back, a stack of heavy wet blankets waiting to smother me. I had to be mindful of how I responded so as not to let that shadow blot out the resiliency and empathy I aim to reinforce each week.
One student, though, shared something that immediately challenged me. The gist of her message was this: she feared the disintegration of her first true friendship when she moves this summer. She sought reassurance that their relationship wouldn’t be doomed to end under the strain of distance.
Without thought, I began my response. I talked about the question Kyle had asked me during an open work time in Pre-Calculus back in 2010. “When you get older, do you get to see your best friend all the time?” he had asked. His had just moved to San Diego, if memory serves, and he too wanted a shred of hope to cling to that the move didn’t mark an ending.
My response to him was honest but unfortunate: “No, I don’t. We only live a few blocks apart but no, I don’t see him as often as I’d like.”
I remember both the lump in my throat as I said it and the disappointment that crept across his face.
This was the truth though, and, in responding with that story on Therapy Thursday, I aimed to concede that point. (Yes, ICARC is ingrained in my head.) To lose the daily shared setting of school, to move in pursuit of grand things, to grow up: all of these mean less time with those friends and people we care about. The world stops facilitating interaction nine months out of the year; suddenly it’s all inside your control and up to you right when it becomes the hardest logistically.
So I shared that story of my response to Kyle and conceded the point that it is definitely harder going forward to maintain and hold onto those relationships. There’s less time together and distances can intercede. But as I finished saying all this, a nagging sensation reached me:
This sobering response wasn’t the end this time.
It’s difficult to capture what it’s like to be thinking 10,000 miles per hour but also feel like my head is completely empty. I wasn’t selecting my words with care and precision or drawing on any preparation of having thought through my stance on this for hours or months; I was just responding and letting the gears turn in the background, unfiltered and free from intense overthinking, trusting myself to respond freely.
So I continued, putting into words thoughts and feelings that had been marinating unconsciously for months or years or taking them from others’ mouths while understanding and believing their sentiments for the first time. I told her—and, thus, this class of 40 in which 39 face varying degrees of this precise dilemma over the next few months—that distance and decreased time together don’t have to sever real connections. Seeing the most important people less often sounds like tragedy, but it makes me appreciate the time even more. There’s always something to talk about; there’s a feeling of occasion to every dinner, movie, and conversation. There are less of those moments, but each is amplified.
Next I pointed out that separation doesn’t mean out of contact. Technology allows for conversation and communication to be ongoing no matter where people are. A few messages exchanged each week, the occasional phone or Zoom call, a meme here and there—these are all tiny things but vital threads nonetheless. They keep the knots tight so that reaching out in search of a conversation or support when they become necessary remains possible.
Exploring my mind in real-time, I continued. “Even if you don’t stay in touch that way, though, that doesn’t mean that the relationship is gone. So often I’ll get together with my closest friends and, despite four months, ten months, a year gone by, we’ll sit down and talk like no time has passed. It’s hard to believe at first that it can work this way but then, ten minutes into being around them again, I recognize that our connection is somehow impervious to distance.”
Finally, without an ounce of planning or foresight, I reached what I was unaware of having understood before her question had even been asked.
“It’s like magnets. Pull two magnets apart and fly one of them to Istanbul. Stay there for days, months, even years. Then fly back. Bring those two magnets together again and they’ll pull together like nothing ever changed. The friendships and relationships that are important, the ones that we want to hold onto? Those are like magnets.”
It suffices to say that this was the right thing to say.
For her. For them.
For me.
I did finish a television series this week but I don’t feel ready to review it. This week was all about finishing the Steeplechase and the result was glorious. I think that the entire spectacle—and it was a spectacle—deserves its own story some day, whether in this arena or not, so I’ll not say more except that I really stretched myself physically to do this. I am shaky as I type this because of it and I know that I shouldn’t have pushed myself this hard physically and, okay yeah fine, or this hard emotionally, but it was a fun challenge for me and seeing the excitement and comments not just from our team but the other teams’ made it feel 297,000% worth it.
If that isn’t the point of living and breathing and working, I don’t know what is.