Though I am somewhat compelled to talk about a "potential" classmate, my numerous attempts to be a seer have ended so far in somewhat implausible tales. They say that first impressions are made in the first ten seconds, yet for me I have realized that most of the time those instantaneous assumptions turn out to be quite wrong. Therefore, I feel that for me to describe a person that I have never met before may once again lead me down the path of unfortunate misconceptions. Thus, here I make the choice to talk about a real individual, one who I have come to know and respect, for all that he has been through and all that he cared to share.
I first met Paul at TASP*--he was, shall I say, somewhat of a lone wolf from the beginning. Seemingly indifferent to our program's stated purpose of building a community, the phrase "Where's Paul?" became both a joke and jab at his noticeable absences. The way he acted made him seem like he thought he was better than the rest of us, and I secretly disapproved of his supposedly superior attitude. He was never quite part of our tightly knit group, and somehow, I disliked him for his periods of self-imposed exile. While we were all excitedly crowded in an unruly mob watching a YouTube clip on a laptop, Paul hunched in the opposite corner of the tech room and listened to music, lost in his own world.
As the weeks wore on, I began to get curious as to why Paul never got any phone calls from his parents. While my phone often read "10 new messages" at the end of a long evening spent with my fellow TASPers, I never heard Paul talk to anyone on his cell phone. I didn't confront him about this, of course, but I was curious, and even--dare I say it--concerned.
Walking through the hallway of the house one day, I saw Paul, along with Nick and Joy sitting on the chairs, talking. I had turned a corner when I overheard Paul utter these words, "And yeah, so I've been basically living out of my suitcase for a couple of weeks now." These curious words stopped me in my tracks, and I found myself retracing my steps and sitting down to listen some more.
Minutes later, I felt as if I couldn't get up from my seat. I was reeling from shock. The reason why Paul had been living out of his suitcase was because his dad basically kicked him out of his house. Permanently. (He went to his grandmother's home shortly after) It wasn't hard to see why his divorced parents never called him: his dad, a professor with a doctorate's degree, was a brilliant man in physics who idiotically despised his son and his love of music. Facing enormous pressure and insults from his father, Paul told me in a calm voice of how he became severely depressed and was forced by his father to check into a mental institution for an entire week. Sitting there, I felt terrible for Paul and could not believe that he had to go through such a horrible experience. What surprised me the most, though, was how Paul could describe these events with not a bitter voice but with a tone of incredible maturity. For out of all his suffering, he ended his story on an optimistic note that no one could have imagined.
With tears welling up in my eyes, I heard Paul speak of what he learned from those people at the mental institution. What he said exactly is lost to me, but I remember generally: "I saw people who were worse off than I. But they were still great people to be around. They might be different, but they are still people. And for me--well, I'm still here. And I'm stronger because of that." Yes, Paul, I silently said. Yes, you are.
Paul had been through much, but he gave up so little. Through each great trial of his life, he could have chosen to bend and break to the pressure and the pain, but he refused to let his hardships obliterate what he loved. His indomitable love of music made me realize that even though Paul was given only the most discordant of notes, he had somehow found the key for composing a beautiful symphony. As I listened to his story, I heard not the individual notes but a piece of perseverance, a song that sang the importance of believing in oneself.
For people such as Paul, they tell their stories not to gain any sympathy or pity from their audience. They do it because it is their identity and to hide that would be the greatest tragedy of all. I felt and still do feel deeply humbled to be his friend: he inspires me to play my melody proudly, to fear not the wrong notes or the audience watching, but to only keep trying and learning: to never give up hope.
I suppose, then, he is a "potential" classmate in another way. I have no doubt in that we'll continue to learn together, in this great classroom called Life, and know that we have potential—that we can always do something more.
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