This Old Pond

Last night I couldn’t sleep; the old pond of my mind kept kicking up detritus and sediment to swirl murkily under the serene surface of lily pads and lotus. I remembered a story a friend told me years ago, when we were in college together in the upper Midwest. He said that when he was a teenager, growing up in the Philippines, he joined a local dojo to learn a martial art – I don’t remember which one. His teacher would sit on him, grinding one elbow into his chest until my friend had a permanent bruise over his breastbone, a tender and painful spot that he learned to reflexively defend. That was precisely the purpose of this injury, this bodily harm – so that the boy would never let anyone get near that spot, would react at lightning speed to knock away approaching blows.

This past week, rough footsteps stomped through the shallows of my mental pond, boys playing, for the most part, in their own ignorance, grappling to understand the world we share and where our perspectives so many times to not match. But their rough and ignorant words upset me.

Later in the week, though, telling my sister all about it, I cried for the first time over the tremendous grief their words gave me, stirring up old hurts. I realised in that moment, not for the first time, how much I intellectualise my sorrows and old wounds, partly trying to understand and partly trying not to feel because feelings are overwhelming. And all day Friday tears kept coming, over inconsequential things. That tender and painful spot over my heart – any small bump, the lightest touch making me flinch.

For example. A friend laughed because her husband wore yellow leather shoes one day – “You canNOT wear those here” in Tirana, where dandies are not welcome, apparently. This made me cry.

Example Two. In a meeting with our director about school policies on internet use. I slammed my laptop shut and shouted that she was constructing a straw man argument to mock my position (which would grant students more autonomy, whereas she was pushing for more control and oversight). It was a clear overreaction; the other person at the meeting, my immediate supervisor, said later, sympathetically, “it’s hard not to react when it’s an issue you really care about.” “Yeah,” I said, “I guess, but do I really care that much about critical thinking? It’s just been an emotional week.”

Here’s the thing. I teach at an evangelical Christian school, where the dominant discourse is that if something is “Christian” it is automatically excellent. I grew up with a form of Christianity that ground a permanent bruise into my heart. My reflective implicit assumption is that if it is Christian (hashtag not all Christians, I really mean evangelical) it will hurt me. I spend a good part of every day deflecting what I perceive to be incoming blows to the chest, even from students – and they are children! – mostly by keeping silent on any number of issues and conversations. It’s been better this year, working under a direct supervisor whom I like and trust. But it still wears me down.