I always thought I was good at empathizing—I’m an introvert, so what else do I have to contribute to a friendship but thinking about feelings and our deep interpersonal connections? But then I watched this video and had to reconsider:
Before my wedding last June, I had been living alone and teaching freshmen for two years. I got accustomed to keeping to myself. Ninth-graders have no filter and ask way too many personal questions, so I got used to curtly saying, “Irrelevant” and moving on to my lesson (consequently, “irrelevant” became their favorite word).
And I guess I stopped connecting to people.
I didn’t want to share too much, and I certainly didn’t want to seem vulnerable, so I just chose to listen and not show myself to friends who felt alone.
Starting now, I’ll share a little more (at least in person).
It’s time for me to reconnect.
ooks since 2007, and, by my count, less than 25 were novels by women. Of those 25, approximately half were Young Adult books and 2 were Harry Potter. The fullness of my prejudice hadn’t even occurred to me until earlier this year, when I was asked to review a biography of Sylvia Plath. Not having read anything of hers, I sat down with The Bell Jar, expecting an emo-tastic slog, and was amazed–amazed–when I loved it. Where had my bias come from? The blurb on the back said it was like a female Catcher in the Rye, a widely misunderstood book that I love, and that turned out to be a fair description