Septembre Russell, copy chief. I’m sitting in Philosophy East West. Professor Tichenor’s lecture reaches a segment about cultivating relationships. I dare not dole out too much background information because your entire world will change and you will want to sign up for the class — sorry, it’s full. Given that, you will cherish what I am telling you.
To the class, Tichenor said, “Do something you’re good at, and relationships will be created whether you intend them to or not.”
He told us a story about a man who was feeling alienated as a result of his residence in another country.
Naturally, one sticks to what one knows best. Dancers dance, writers write and so forth. The man in the story was a runner, and a talented one, at that.
During one of his runs, he happened to share his course with a track team, and a competition of sorts ensued. He kept pace with the track team, and following the event, his competitors immediately extended their friendship; the run was his “in,” so to speak.
Listening to the story, the edges of the screen became blurry in that dream-sequence sort of way. I began to relate what I was learning to my personal experience.
Told in all of Seth Tichenor’s grandeur, it was a far better story to listen to firsthand, but all is not lost, since his story is a merely a segue into mine.
Come with me to high school, that oh-so magical place. Now, believe it or not, I was no outcast or anything of the sort, yet there were two sisters that I did not get along with. The feelings were mutual.
My school was putting on its first poetry slam. Do poets poet? I’m not sure, but I entered the contest regardless. With shaking hands, I did my thing for the audience. I didn’t win, but after all was said and done, I realized that I had acquired a new fan base. At the helm of my new following were the sisters. They were all smiles and candy, too. And I wasn’t even famous. How interesting.
If in transitioning to this paragraph you expected some bit of advice to wrap all of this opinion into a pretty package, begin feeling disappointed before you reach the end of this sentence. There are no words to live by that I wish to leave you with. No moral — just story. I am not Aesop, people.