Sense-making out of pure hating

9/13/10

They say you learn something new every single day.  For some, this is a refreshing sentiment.  For others of lesser brain capacity, this is kind of frightening.  (One wonders what the kid obsessed with gaming at age twenty-two learns each day.)  The fact of the matter is we are constantly churning our brains to make sense of things.  When we hear of a new concept in class, our minds quickly search around for the easiest way to explain it.  When we see a social abnormality waltzing down University sans shoes in forty degree weather, our brains make assumptions to draw conclusions.  Our brains are working towards making sense of everything around us, including everyone else around us.  Our text explains that people use three certain ideologies to make sense, as well as generalizations and stereotypes.  Does that make sense?

There are three main ideologies dear to sense-makers, according to our text.  The values people should pursue in various relationships, what communicative acts count as being reasonable or fair, and what appropriate communicative practices for persons of different master and intellectual identities.  Each of these contributes to the art of sense-making, and each are embedded in our everyday lives, as well as in my life…and the lives of the strange creatures who flock to me on a daily basis.  (This will make a lot more sense if you watch anything Larry David.)

A fellow in my poetry class detests me.  His looks in my direction are dripping with disdain, he condescendingly speaks to me only when he needs to, and anything I say can and will be disputed.  I do not necessarily consider myself a largely sensitive person, as I am pretty good about assessing the credibility of those who try to see me cry.  BUT this boy made me think.  And when I thought about it, he and I are not as different and I…thought.

A close reflection of every outfit I’ve ever worn to my poetry class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:30 reveals that I actually have worn some form of Greek letters to every single one.  (I frequent long walks with a friend of mine post-class, hence the ultra-srat over-sized t-shirt and, gasp, Nike running shorts.)  With the benefit of the doubt on my side, I’ll go ahead and say that I am not actually the most grotesque female on this campus, and I hate poetry.

By contrast, this specific fellow in my poetry class is unkempt, dirty to the extent of stench surrounding up to a five-foot radius, rarely wears shoes, and is deeper and far more brilliant than you or anyone you know will ever be.  Obviously.  His t-shirts are ripped and dirty, the beginnings of his dreadlocks look more like the foundations for corn rows, and his demeanor is rugged.  And by rugged I mean he comes in ten minutes late and sprawls out his things and is very animated, but not funny or sweet.  He and I share one thing in common, however: we have both stereotyped one another, and our conclusions remain spiteful.

Over the past month, I have gone through the three main ideologies for making sense with him.  First I assessed what could possibly come of a relationship with this person, as in which values should be pursued.  After he wore a Tea Leaf Green t-shirt three classes in a row, I figured we could be friends on a music foundation.  This was quickly shot down when he honestly did not believe that I had in fact seen said band five times in high school and met the keyboardist/lead vocalist.  Speculatively, this individual never saw the “opportunity” in being a friend of mine.  This speculation is based on the fact that he has ignored my meek greetings the two times I have seen him outside of class, and even once rolled his eyes at the sight of me accompanying my boyfriend to a popular student watering hole.

As for reasonable, fair, and/or friendly communicative acts, this student has been scolded several times by our professor for interrupting me, scoffing at me, and pretending to be asleep during the reading of one of my wildly entertaining poems.  (I hate poetry.)  As well, I find myself doodling or even text messaging while he saunters through his mundane stream-of-consciousness-style poems.  In one instance, his poem clearly restated the exact same thought three times in a row, each masked within different fluffy upper crust, arrogant verbiage.  Simply because he rips my poems to shreds, I said, “Aren’t these three lines kind of redundant?”  Later that evening a picture frame fell off my wall with zero explanation.  I’ll leave the assumptions up to you.

The appropriate communicative practices for people of different master identities is by far the loudest quality of the relationship I have with this…person.  Where he is brilliant, I am a simpleton; where he is deep, I am the puddle of water accumulated from splashes of a child’s repetitive “watch this Mom!” cannonball spree.  Anything I say is disputed, and anything he says I dismiss as an attempt to be wise.  The key factor playing the largest role in this is not, however, the disdain we share for one another, but rather our assumptions.

Generalizations, according to Everyday Talk, are necessary reasonable tools for sense-making.  This student sees only a few things when he looks at me: Greek letters, blonde hair, jewelry (though very modest compared to the thousand-dollar David Yurman which girls wear to the Rec…)  a less than hideous face, and most terrifyingly, a seat in the ultra-exclusive club that is poetry class.  He sees my poems as silly homework that I consider, according to him, just another ticket to my MRS degree.  I plead guilty as well.  I look at him and see a confused, sad person who is at all times trying to project power, knowledge, and arrogance at all times.  I see someone so driven to non-conform that his actions do exactly that: conform.  My generalizations of him are just as strong, if not stronger, as his for me.  Because it makes sense to each of us.