(1/2) Living through the Shattered Lenses of Unhealed Wounds
From empathy to entropy: Your unresolved tensions distort the way you see others. Part One: A narrative.
This is the first part of two posts. To read part two, the analysis, click here.
TLDR: When we have not healed from the horrors of the past, it becomes easier to see others as horrible. When we have not come to terms with our oppressors, we begin to see anything and anyone who bears even the smallest resemblance as their replicas and spawns. This missasociation invokes a desire to eradicate any form of similitude in a person, tradition, and religion, no matter how innocent they may be. Living through the wounds of our unhealed traumas paves a path. Not for us to liberate the world of all oppression, but to become oppressors ourselves as we embark on a journey towards the death of diversity and the establishment of one homogenous way of being.
Ah, Graduate School. Where academists of incredible potential talk about how they're going to save the world and pave a new path for the future. Where critical thinking meets stimulating conversations. Students and professors of diverse ethnic and professional backgrounds all in one room.
What richness can manifest there? Especially in a master's of Social Work program. Especially at the self-lauded #1 ranked program in the nation — where I proudly found myself during the Fall of 2022.
The first class of the day was at 9:00am EST in the School of Social Work building. Upon arriving, one could not help but be enchanted by the beautiful brick edifice. It was surrounded by other buildings with similarly aged charm, separated by luscious fields of grass, trees, and squirrels all cohabitating the same space.
But, inside this apparently pleasant structure, awaited some of the cringiest interior design work I had ever seen.
The sterile white walls seemed to frown. Violently random splashes of vomit green, piss yellow, and a dazzling blood-red paint were meant to mimic stars — very sorry stars. The horrendous display of pseudo-inclusive “art” and interior “design” overwhelmed me.
Nonetheless, I continued to my class; Introduction to Social Work.
My classmates were ethnically diverse and accumulated varying professional experiences. They all proudly announced their aspirations, which nearly made up for the horrendous first impression of incohesive paint. I found my circle of people with the Arab and African students, in addition to one white girl who seemed well-traveled.
We frequently grouped together after class outside the School of Social Work building, where an ugly interior could be out of sight for a moment.
“You don’t really talk much in class.”
One of the women in our group (we’ll call her Ayana) inquired from one of the men (we’ll call him Salik).
Salik: “I’m a bit cautious about speaking in public places.”
Ayana: “What do you mean by cautious?”
Salik: “I feel like I can’t express my thoughts because they come from my beliefs, which are different from most people’s here.”
Salik had a nervousness to him that could be sensed from his aura and voice whenever he spoke — perhaps from suppression. Within the larger group of friends, the two had confirmed they were both from Muslim-majority countries in Africa.
Ayana: “You don’t have to worry at all. You’re free to express yourself fully wherever you are, especially in this class where there are so many diverse people. You are welcome here and don’t ever think otherwise!”
For the first time since I met him, I observed Salik displaying physical signs of ease. His shoulders seemed to drop back, gaze shifted from the ground to looking eye level at Ayana with a hint of a smile, and his posture even seemed better.
Salik and Ayana’s seminal dialogue led to a conversation about identity and belonging within the larger group. After a good 30 minutes of complaints and sympathy, the other Arab man, besides Salik and myself, exclaimed that he wished he could have more conversations like these (we’ll call him Rami).
“Whenever we talk, it’s locker room talk” he remorsed.
“That’s because all men are trash,” Ayana responded in a confident and nonchalant tone. the white woman nodded and rolled her eyes (we’ll call her Abigail).
Rami: “Honestly, like, I can’t have deep conversations like these with any of my guy friends”
Ayana: “Are you actually friends with guys who talk locker room talk?”
Rami: “Well, I mean not now, but for a long time I didn’t realize that.”
Ayana: “Glad you’re not with them anymore.”
Rami: “Honestly! They’re all trash!”
A very strange fog descended upon the group. I confusingly looked at this guy, Rami, who now appeared visibly comforted by this woman’s insult to his gender and himself.
“Guys who talk like that are disturbing to be around, that’s for sure,” Salik offered. “But in my tradition, we actually wouldn’t even call them men.”
My head instinctively twitched in his direction. If I was right in assuming what he was about to say next, I knew he’d be in danger.
“What do you mean?” Ayana questioned, her eyes almost squinting.
“Well, we’d actually just call them males, as in; of the male gender. We consider a man to be someone who acquires certain qualities like respect, truthfulness, and chivalry. And they have to convey them towards others, like women, one another, and in private; something these guys clearly have not embodied if they talk the way you say they do.”
Salik confidently remarked to Rami. It was as though Salik was operating on the premise that what Ayana reassured him of earlier was actually true . It was as though he believed her when she said that he was indeed free to share his thoughts and could express himself without worry.
Ayana blinked violently Rami's way as if to assess his position on Salik's statement. Rami over-played his facial expressions to convey “No! I’m on your side, remember?!”
“And, what about women?”
Ayana approached curiously, turning back to Salik who now seemed to finally feel the worry.
“Well. . based on my tradition. . .I’d believe that the same applies to women. The qualities they need to embody to complete their womanhood are more along the lines of compassion, mercy, and empathy. A-among others of course.”
Ayana and Abigail both looked at him oddly.
Salik now seemed to be panicking.
“So what do you mean? That women have to achieve things men don’t have to?”
Abigail peered audibly.
Her persona changed from exuberant and bubbly to now looking like you were overdue on 200% interest for the fentanyl she sold you behind Walmart last Thursday.
This conversation was not headed where it should have been. My eyes darted back and forth between Ayana, Salik, Abigail, and Rami the simp who looked like he was being burned alive from the fear of being outcasted by his new friends whom he discarded his identity for.
But what a show this was.
“It’s not really like that, you see."
Salik offered in truce.
"My tradition just has different beliefs about the world, and that includes gender. . .Think about it like this, men and women take a test. Each gets 7 out of 10 right. Some of their correct answers are the same, indicating an overlap, and some are just different, indicating their inherent differences. They each have the same amount of qualities they need to reach but they’re just different overall, you know?
Ayana: “So. . . Like, separate but equal?”
Abigail let out a condescending scoff.
The kind that sympathetically waives the 200% interest you owed her after she sees just how pathetic you really are.
Salik’s jaw dropped. His eyebrows, like two rough patches of earth, slowly came together to form a mountainous unibrow, whose peak was so steep that every last ounce of Ayana’s former reassurance slid right off. It was a scene that rivaled even the most illustrative haikus that capture the transition from winter to spring.
The melted remains of betrayal polished his eyes. With a frozen tongue, Salik spoke only the silent language of regret.
Abigail looked him up and down with disgust. As if to say: "If I ever catch you on my block again, Imma find yo family."
They say send-off messages usually stick with people the most.
Salik now looked like he received an inconspicuously lethal Tekken finisher move. I was utterly convinced that Rami the simp felt the damage even though it was not directed toward him. An awkwardly defeatist pause made Rami change the topic to keep the fallacious unity of the group intact.
“. . .Anyone ever been to that pizza shop before?”
Salik excused himself, I slipped away, and it was the last time I heard him speak in public.
