Date: Tue, 8 Apr 2014 21:49:56 -0400
From: Mthobisi Sibandze <mthobisi.sibandze@gmail.com>
Subject: Maybe it is worth it chapter 4

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Chapter 4

That morning I walked into my Literature class with my professor trailing a
few centimetres behind me.

"Today we are wrapping up The Crucible and moving on to Romeo and Juliet,"
he said, without a greeting gesture of any kind. Why was it so hard for
people to be kind? A simple `good morning' with a smile would have
transformed the atmosphere in the room. I should not have been so
judgmental, given that I was definitely not a morning person. My brain was
always slow to process or retrieve information in the mornings. Well, my
brain had slowed down a lot with my fall into depression and I had not
recovered all my faculties.

"Is projecting a true phenomenon?" he asked. I had missed the previous
sentences due to musing about my dysfunctional brain.

"We cannot be certain of it, and so the truth of it cannot be determined in
the absolute because there are no absolute truths," answered the girl
behind me. I didn't have to turn back to know who she was – she always
answered with a tone of superiority because she was a Philosophy major. But
my professor seemed to like this.

"That is `true', though in a literature lesson we often do not pay as much
detail to the use of that word as philosophers do," he said.

"And that is the problem. We use these words carelessly and do not realize
that they create an illusion of certainty in knowledge that is left to be
questioned only in Philosophy," she retorted. I was so annoyed, though I
could see her point.

"Your argument is valid," I said, surprising myself. "With my limited
understanding of the conclusions that a learnθd philosopher may draw
from epistemology, I am convinced that one of the key lessons is embracing
that there are no 'certain' truths that are beyond questioning. While
instilling doubt in knowledge is shown to be one of the fundamental pillars
in fostering mindful learning – leading to more creative and novel use
of knowledge, I cannot help but feel that epistemology often seeks to
abandon and cast aspersions on all intellectual tradition... just for the
sake of doing it.

"What more can one possibly gain from coming to the same conclusion every
day - that our ways of knowing are severely limited and so we cannot
achieve certainty in knowledge? Epistemology does not offer any remedies to
this conundrum but merely points out that it plagues all areas of
knowledge... and cannot be remedied." I paused and turned around to face
her.

"Yes, I believe that the thinking individual should very well dismiss any
notions and paradigms of absolute facts in favour of scepticism. However,
if this is done to the extreme, then by all means it is not worth learning
anything because we can never be certain about any of it!

"As opposed to rejecting the only knowledge we are capable of gleaning with
our limited faculties, perhaps the cultured mind, to paraphrase Einstein,
should adopt an attitude of being vigilantly content with the imperfect
knowledge and understanding of the harmony, structure and mysterious forces
in the cosmos. Don't you think so?" I asked, but did not give her the
opportunity to respond before I faced the professor and delivered yet
another speech from goodness-know-where.

"Projection is accepted among some circles in psychology and great thinkers
have often referred to it – Ludwig Feuerbach for instance. He posited
that humans have projected their wonderful attributes into an external,
pure being they call god. But by doing this, we are left feeling, for want
of a better word, inadequate or downright evil. I would venture so far as
to say that that picture was too brutal, too unbalanced and so we sought a
way to project our `evil' attributes such as rebellion, carnal desire onto
another external being – the devil. That way we are not at one end of
the spectrum with god at the other, but we occupy the middle ground as a
kind of ego boost – we are better than the devil and striving to be like
god," I finished breathless.

"Those are nice thoughts but let is bring the argument to our primary
text," my professor said looking at the rest of the class. It appeared that
no one wanted to volunteer any information. And so his eyes landed on me
again.

"Well, the accusers are projecting all their sinful behavior onto their
victims. This is well known. It's an ego boost. As Abigail projects her
shameful behavior onto Elizabeth, who is a morally upright woman, she does
something unconsciously. Yes, she wants her dead so she can dance on her
grave with Proctor – to paraphrase Miller himself. The crucial point,
however, is that Abigail has been worried about her name being blackened in
the village, by projecting that onto such a character as Elizabeth –
knowing stupid Danforth will believe her – she moves herself along the
moral spectrum towards god while pushing Elizabeth towards the devil and so
she gains a sense of moral superiority that she does not actually possess.

"It's the exact same situation with Ann Putnam and Rebecca Nurse." I paused
and realized everyone had their eyes on me. I hated attention so I slowly
sank into my chair, hoping that it would magically turn into a cloak of
invisibility.

The girl behind me started speaking and later a few people joined the
discussion. But by that time I could not focus – my anxiety was acting
up. I kept looking at the door.

I'm not sure when or how I stood up and gathered my things in the middle of
the lecture and ran to the nearest bathroom. When I came to my senses I was
sitting on the floor inside a stall with my arms pulling my knees towards
my chest. I remembered my breathing exercises but they wouldn't work. I was
shaking quite severely. I was in tears and my nose was wet with mucus. I
don't know for how long I stayed there. I had no sense of time.

After some time I pulled myself up, grabbed my bag and went to the sink to
wash my face. In such moments I always avoided looking in the mirror. I had
trained myself not to. I hated how I looked in general and seeing that
already abominable form made worse by red eyes, slimy mucus and messy hair
would not help my condition. I sent a message to my Dean and informed her
that I had a panic attack and had to run out of class. She promised to give
my professor a call and asked if I needed to be excused from lessons for
the rest of the day. I declined that offer.

I was a mess in lab that afternoon, and I felt so sorry for my partner for
getting stuck with someone as useless as me. I wanted to just leave but I
had to stay because it was hard to redo labs.

I avoided the crowded dining hall during lunch and bought a sandwich and a
coke from a cafι instead. During my French lesson, I sat quietly in the
corner not taking in a word. Mercifully, French was my last class for the
day.

I wanted to just curl up in bed and miss my black fat cat because he would
comfort me with his purrs in such moments. But I had to keep going. A lot
had been given to me in order to afford the high education fees in this
prestigious institution. I often felt very guilty about my `inactive'
status. There were students on campus that were advocating for one thing or
the other; some were winning sports tournaments; some brilliant musicians
were holding recitals; and the scientists were producing research papers
about remarkable discoveries. What about me?

I couldn't do anything exceptionally well. A lifetime ago I could run and
dance rather well, but I lost that when everything fell apart.

I spent the rest of that week in that mood, not answering my phone and
avoiding people as much as was possible (which led to me missing my
appointment with my therapist). I spent the weekend in bed, without eating
any food, watching episode after episode of NCIS and Arrow and I finished
reading Romeo and Juliet for literally the 15th time.


Monday was a bit brighter. I went through my lessons and was able to focus
and to participate very in discussions, albeit minimally.

During lunch I met Emi who was excited about something.

"Why are you so hyper and happy?" I asked.

"Hello to you too," he said rolling his eyes. "It's just that Justin is
coming."

"Judging from your look, I should probably know who Justin is..." I said.

"Yes! He is a professional football player and he graduated from this
college 2 years ago or something."

"Since when do you call American football just `football'? And I didn't
know you had any American football aspirations."

"I don't bro, but imagine how useful he could be if I asked him to be the
face of my social entrepreneur project."

"Ah, quite the opportunist," I said, but quickly added an "I'm joking"
after the look he gave me.

"Anyhow, he'll be here this Friday and Saturday nights and we get to have
dinner with him."

"Well, sounds like a massive orgy. Not my preferred scene at all! But I do
hope he will acquiesce to your request and be the face of your project."

"You should come, it will be fun."

"Let me get this right: an American football star is coming and will be
surrounded by a cloud of admirers – which are numerous, I imagine –
in a dining hall. Do you know what happens when you get a group of people
with all their bacteria and other pathogens, and each person has a
luminosity of say 780 watts? You get an incubator for all pathogens. And
then add to that mix an African, born prematurely with a generally weak
immune system, and that immune system does not yet produce the necessary
antibodies to protect him against North American pathogens. In short, you
would have to bury me the following weekend."

"You are such a drama queen!"

"You have never met a drama queen before because if you had you would not
call me that," I responded with my voice getting slightly aggressive.

"Very well then, I don't want to be the guy that kills you, so I won't drag
you to see him."

By evening that day, there were massive posters of a guy carrying a
football while walking out into a stadium from the changing rooms I
supposed. He was not as bulky as I imagined an American football player
being. He looked quite nervous – as if it were his first game. I
recognized the look because I had seen photos of myself (taken against my
permission) during my first recital. I almost felt sorry for him imagining
the kind of pressure he must have felt.

It was an immediate paradigm shift. Whenever I thought of athletes, which
was very seldom, I always naively assumed that they had it easier than
artists. Artists never knew how their works would be received by the
public. But then I suppose athletes never know how they will perform. And
actually there is a greater kind of pressure that comes with having an
opponent. Artists do not compete against anyone but themselves – at
least when art is done appropriately.

I do not really know why, but I was suddenly curious to find out how this
Justin, big as he was and yet as emotionally vulnerable as any one, coped
with all of the expectations and how he dealt with losing a game. I had
never really lost because I had avoided all activities that included a
direct opponent. The reality, though, was that I would probably not get
anywhere near him.

I walked back to my room and passed the tennis courts where several male
tennis players were walking around nude. I had my eyes fixed on them
all. There was something exotic about Caucasians – their bodies looked
so edible.

As I entered my hall, after swiping my key card, I noticed yet another
poster of the Justin guy. He was cute. I made a resolution not to pay
attention to how people look. The body was a very unstable vessel, subject
to all elements that could alter it at any moment. I was getting
uncomfortable with all the exposure to men and their bodies such that I ran
up the stairs in an effort to get my blood circulating away from certain
regions. When I turned the corner, someone was sitting in front of my
door. He looked up when he heard me approaching. It was Thomas.

"About time," he said. "I've been waiting for quite a while. I want to know
why you have ignored me the past several days."



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