"What are you doing, Kev?" yelled David as he burst into our room wide-eyed, excited, and with a basketball in his hands.
"I need to study for my economics test. What else do you think I'd be doing?" I snapped back.
Ignoring my need for silence, David began to natter about the basketball game he'd just played. It seemed like he described every play, every foul, and every shot that was made as if it was the NBA playoffs. Something snapped inside me. "Why don't you focus on your study for once? Wouldn't it be great to get an A instead of a D on your test?" I shouted at him, angry that he was wasting my precious time.
I sometimes get annoyed with my friends, but had never expressed my frustrations in such a direct and angry way. Almost immediately I regretted what I had said. We faced each other, for what seemed like endless moments of awkward silence. He had no comeback and was in a state of shock, deflated like a pin pricked balloon. And I had no way of fixing the situation.
Young adults are generally insecure beings, and I'm no exception. I used to focus a lot on study to the extent that I cared little about anything else. I was convinced that the knowledge learnt in school was all I needed in life. I thought that the more knowledge I possessed, the more success and control I would have in my life. Knowledge is power, isn't it?
But at that very moment, I had control over nothing. None of my textbooks could fix the situation-either to remove the guilt I was feeling at my roommate's silence or give me the courage to apologise. I believed that knowledge could explain the whole universe, but what about this situation? What use were all the theories and formulas I had learned at this moment in time?
In the days that followed, guilt weighed heavily on my mind. During lunchtime one day, I noticed a squirrel trying find a way into my classroom. The window, however, was blocking its way. No matter how fast or how agile it was, there was no chance the poor little creature would succeed. It dawned on me that both of us had something separating us from what we wanted or needed. For me, the window was a barrier to the outside world, keeping me locked in academia, and separated me from reality. I could look out- just like the squirrel could look in- but never ventured out. I had developed a comfort zone inside the realm of my books and had built a barrier to everyone and everything else.
It occurred to me that the knowledge I had been focusing on was purely academic; I realised I needed to learn how to manage and understand other peoples' feelings and emotions. Googling "connecting with people", I found an interesting article. It describes the role of non-verbal language in conversations and that listening is often more important than speaking. Reflecting on how I usually communicated with my friends, I realised that I usually spoke too much and didn't really listen to what they were saying. It was like I was only 'hearing' half of what they were telling me.
Suddenly, I felt enlightened. A few days later, while I was walking out of the canteen, I saw David, eyes fixed to the ground, shoulders hunched forward like an old man, heading my way. I mustered up the courage and waved my hand excitedly as if I hadn't seen him in years. When he got closer, instead of the usual 'hi', I said "what's going on? Are you playing basketball later?"
David quickly let out a big smile and began telling me about all sorts of things. We walked, I listened. This time around, I actually heard what he was saying.
"I need to study for my economics test. What else do you think I'd be doing?" I snapped back.
Ignoring my need for silence, David began to natter about the basketball game he'd just played. It seemed like he described every play, every foul, and every shot that was made as if it was the NBA playoffs. Something snapped inside me. "Why don't you focus on your study for once? Wouldn't it be great to get an A instead of a D on your test?" I shouted at him, angry that he was wasting my precious time.
I sometimes get annoyed with my friends, but had never expressed my frustrations in such a direct and angry way. Almost immediately I regretted what I had said. We faced each other, for what seemed like endless moments of awkward silence. He had no comeback and was in a state of shock, deflated like a pin pricked balloon. And I had no way of fixing the situation.
Young adults are generally insecure beings, and I'm no exception. I used to focus a lot on study to the extent that I cared little about anything else. I was convinced that the knowledge learnt in school was all I needed in life. I thought that the more knowledge I possessed, the more success and control I would have in my life. Knowledge is power, isn't it?
But at that very moment, I had control over nothing. None of my textbooks could fix the situation-either to remove the guilt I was feeling at my roommate's silence or give me the courage to apologise. I believed that knowledge could explain the whole universe, but what about this situation? What use were all the theories and formulas I had learned at this moment in time?
In the days that followed, guilt weighed heavily on my mind. During lunchtime one day, I noticed a squirrel trying find a way into my classroom. The window, however, was blocking its way. No matter how fast or how agile it was, there was no chance the poor little creature would succeed. It dawned on me that both of us had something separating us from what we wanted or needed. For me, the window was a barrier to the outside world, keeping me locked in academia, and separated me from reality. I could look out- just like the squirrel could look in- but never ventured out. I had developed a comfort zone inside the realm of my books and had built a barrier to everyone and everything else.
It occurred to me that the knowledge I had been focusing on was purely academic; I realised I needed to learn how to manage and understand other peoples' feelings and emotions. Googling "connecting with people", I found an interesting article. It describes the role of non-verbal language in conversations and that listening is often more important than speaking. Reflecting on how I usually communicated with my friends, I realised that I usually spoke too much and didn't really listen to what they were saying. It was like I was only 'hearing' half of what they were telling me.
Suddenly, I felt enlightened. A few days later, while I was walking out of the canteen, I saw David, eyes fixed to the ground, shoulders hunched forward like an old man, heading my way. I mustered up the courage and waved my hand excitedly as if I hadn't seen him in years. When he got closer, instead of the usual 'hi', I said "what's going on? Are you playing basketball later?"
David quickly let out a big smile and began telling me about all sorts of things. We walked, I listened. This time around, I actually heard what he was saying.