I haven’t thought of much to write about lately, so I’ll take inspiration where I get.
I always feel a bit weird finding inspiration from other bloggers (though I feel weird all the time anyway, so why is now any different) but translating my thoughts into a coherent blog post trumped awkwardness in this situation.
So sorry, random internet person who seems awesome--I’m not picking on you. You just said something pretty and I stole a small part of it to think on.
( I was going to use a metaphor then –to chew on—but I wasn’t sure you’d want the thought back after I chewed it up and spit it out…sorry, extended metaphor)
Well, anyway: mollymawkattack said—
“Choice is a dangerous word.”
Choice is a dangerous word—but only because it inspires false hope. Choice gives us the hope that we can control the greater part of our lives, when in reality, our choices are mostly irrelevant. Our options are the defining factor in our lives.
(I’m going to give poor and perhaps illogical anecdotal evidence now and go off on some pretty gnarly tangents, so bear with me, if you will.)
A simple example: Say a student is a freshman at my college and is registering for classes. Freshmen register last. The freshmen wanted to take Farsi, but it’s not offered this semester. Their next choice was German, but it’s only offered in the early morning. Only Russian and French have open seats besides German. So to get the foreign language requirement over with, the student takes Russian.
The deciding factor in the decision was first options, second outside influence, and lastly personal preference—and even personal preference is shaped by enculturation and biology.
So, I would argue there is no free choice, and there is no such thing as decisions made “on a whim.”
I know that by saying this I’ve just invalidated my favorite thing about randomly going off to Charlotte for college: telling everyone it was because it “sounded cool.” When I think it over, that was only a very insignificant part of why I am here, instead of my main reasoning as I originally thought.
Then why am I here?
I suppose I might as well tell the truth—the biggest part of why I am here is that an air force recruiter handed me a book of colleges offering AFROTC, and I was so certain with my academic record, community service and physical fitness qualifications that I’d get a scholarship from the program. In the application, I had to choose three colleges that I’d apply to. I wanted to make my family proud—I wanted to disprove my mother’s words “you’ll never get into an Ivy league school”—the first two universities I selected were Georgetown and Duke.
My third was UNCC. I needed a safety school and I knew I’d be accepted to UNCC without trying.
Only UNCC accepted me. I didn’t get the scholarship. Thus, UNCC was my only option besides community college.
The second part of my answer to” why UNCC?” is always “it was as far away as possible.” I never explain why I wanted to get away.
I would rather not elaborate on it too much, but why I wanted to go “as far away as possible” is closely related with the way my ex-best friend’s boyfriend patted me on the back and inquired “how’s it going, Reg?” when I was waiting tables at a formal event of which he and several of my peers were guests. I ignored him, and he stared at me as I walked away as if he could make everything implicit explicit merely by looking at me sorrowfully.
The only effect that ever had on me was making me feel judged a lunatic and pitied accordingly.
(I had the same judged feeling when I answered, “don’t worry about it” whenever someone told me that they were sorry for my loss after my mother died. I know, however, that this answer is inappropriate and makes the sympathetic person extremely uncomfortable. “Thank you for your sympathy in this tough time” is a much better answer. )
So, escapism. Right. That was the point. Some bullshit about how it was my limited options in going to college and the influence of all those back home who I felt judged by and/or wanted to impress that made me go to North Carolina and try to make it on my own.
Your butterfly,
Reg
P.S. I think I liked the shocked look on mourners’ faces the best…that’s probably why I continued with saying “It’s alright” or “don’t worry about it.”
P.P.S. while I’m on the subject, I’m starting to become suspicious that I don’t even have a choice in what I eat—product placement and my limited budget choose for me.
P.P.P.S. I could even contribute my word choice to psychological priming by things I’ve heard others say or things I’ve read throughout the day. I’m far more likely to say, “douchebaggery!” now that my roommate has yelled it.
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