In my first year of university at the wide-eyed age of 17, my first class was second-year environmental history. I had signed up for the class by mistake, thinking it was the history of NAFTA, but thus was the result of my confused introduction to the university’s registration system.
I sat in the right-hand corner, three rows in from the back. This allowed me to look forward at the shoulders and heads of the more seasoned, second-and-up year students. I learned the social rules and etiquette of what to do with your backpack, where to put your requisite Nalgene bottle, when to offer your opinion in a class discussion and when to avoid being a mega-keener (hard for me). It was a year-long class, so the process of opening up to classmates and talking as we sat in the halls before class was slowed down. For awhile, most seemed to stare intently at the lip of their coffee cups (or in this particular class, most seemed to prefer herbal teas), staring with faked fascination at the floor tile designs. Eventually, as misery over assignments drew each other’s company, we started to smile, groan, roll eyes and talk together. Alliances were formed and note-taking and sharing systems were in place to cover those Thursday mornings when we were just too hung over/sick/overcome wth grief at the travesty of the environment to come to class. The system worked well and we formed a sub-culture of environmentally-aware university yuppies.
Except one guy. He had the dyed blond dread locks, patched clothing and poncho of the university yuppy social system that attended classes like “History of environment.” He smoked on the breaks and had his own Nalgene filled with Eucalyptus. But he never spoke to anyone. His hand was never darting in the air during agitated anti-government discussions in class. He sometimes slept in his cradled arms, defying the teacher of this 20-odd student class. Being a wide-eyed student who believed in the potential inside everyone (I was only a few months out of hearing proactive, inspiring “you will change the world” high school graduation speeches), I offered him my smiles as we stood outside the class before it began. I asked him if he had last week’s notes, and even where he got his eyebrow piercing done. But on the best of days, all I could squeeze out of him with my eager-beaver first-year kindness was a half grunt.
Fast forward to last week. I am some 43 weeks away from graduating, and a seasoned-university-attending pro. I gave fiancé campus tours and passed on the university slang, and social rules that I had acquired in my academic pursuits. I can wave and say “hey bud” to at least one person as I walk to the coffeehouse or student center. I saw aforementioned enviro history guy walking in the social sciences building last week. Only I had to fix my eyes a little longer because the only thing I recognized was his facial bone structure. Then I saw the indent where his eyebrow ring used to be. But I also saw that he had short, clean cut brown hair. He wore tailored dress pants, a pressed shirt and carried a leather messenger back. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a cell phone outline visible in his pocket. And when he saw me looking at him, likely with my head cocked right a little and my eyes squinting a tad, he waved at me. Wha?
But the scenario made me smile, even chuckle a little. I kept walking to the law class I was headed to and spent the better part of the first half imagining what situations or series of events could have transpired to create such a transformation in this former laisse-faire yuppie. But I hope when he graduates and goes onto his own boardmeetings he will remember what he learned about better business practices for the environment. Hopefully he wasn’t on drugs or something and doesn’t remember that chunk of his life!