(Un) Common Sense

Sometimes, people accuse me of not thinking before I speak. The truth of the matter is worse than it seems because, I did think. I just think differently.

I have been belittled many times when people say to me, “It’s just common sense. Have a little common sense.”

But my common sense is there; it is just slightly (un)common sense. Let me illustrate.

________________________________________________________________________________________

I have always felt weird, my whole life. I have a vivid memory of the day I took my written driver's test for the third time. (Yes, the person pursuing their Ph.D. failed the written driving test multiple times.) I was sixteen years old, and on this particular day as I anxiously answered the questions on the giant old computer screen, I found myself staring at a picture of a street sign which was shaped and colored like a railway crossing line, but without any markings. Basically, a yellow circle. I paused and read the question, “What type of street sign is this?” I panicked-- I had never seen anything like this before! I read through the answers, hoping I may get lucky… “Railway? No, no markings. Stop sign? Of course not. Yield? No, that is a triangle!”

Finally, I came to the last answer. I don’t even recall but it was, but it was unfamiliar to me, so, with little hope, I clicked it. “Failed test,” the screen read. As I read through the correct answers, I realized that the sign I was looking at was actually considered a railway sign, even without the markings. The makers of the test had wanted me to look at the sign as if it were incomplete and had imagined that I would do this instinctively, knowing that it is emblematic of a railway sign. However, with the way my brain works, since they did not say that explicitly, I had no idea.

I hung my head, having failed for the third time, and got back into my mom’s convertible. As we drove home, we talked about what I missed and she tried to help me understand the railway sign question. Exasperated, confused, and frustrated, I told her the longing I had felt for as long as I could remember, “I just want to be normal!” As soon as the words escaped my mouth, it was as if a floodgate had been opened. I began to cry so hard that my mom had to pull over.

(She tells me now that every time she passes that street in my hometown, she too thinks back on that memory. That is how salient it is in both of our minds.)

Another memory stands out just as vividly.

I was a few months into therapy for my eating disorder and had traveled with my mom, dad, and sister to visit my brother and niece in Pennsylvania for Christmas. While we were there, we decided to head to the mall together to do last-minute shopping. As we entered, we found a store where you can build your very own stuffed animals to take home, and, better yet, they had my favorite character.

I have loved stuffed animals my whole life and this character had recently become important to me, so I longed to go make one, but I was too embarrassed, thinking, “I am a junior in college, why would I want a stuffed animal?” So, instead of making me do it myself, my mom and dad decided to make it for me. Later, as we were heading out, I reached back and found my stuffed animal, cuddling him close. As soon as we got back to the house, I decided to go downstairs to work out (I had/have an eating disorder, so the behavior was compulsive. I was doing the best I could. Still am.).

As I was down there on the treadmill, I started to wonder about my stuffed animal and why I loved it so much, thinking, “I am an adult, I shouldn’t want this. Am I ever going to grow up?” My mom came down to see how I was doing and, when she asked how I was, I again burst into tears, singing the same old refrain, “Why am I not like other people my age? Why can’t I just be normal and like normal things?”

I was reminded once again of my strangeness in class the other day.

We were sharing out after completing an activity when I realized that I had interpreted the activity completely differently than those around me who shared their answer.

[As a concession, for one Reader in particular, (the one who inspired the terminology “Reader” which I now use to call her into dialogue here) it’s true that I may not have been the only one to interpret the prompt the way I did. Maybe I am not weird, or alien… maybe my brain isn’t broken (a sentiment I shared with the Reader after the incident), maybe it’s beautiful. But I don’t know; all I do know is how I felt in that moment and countless others.]

I felt frozen. In fact, I did freeze physically for that whole class. And for me, being still is unusual. I am usually the chair spinner, fidgeter, and pen tapper. I can not stop moving during class, something that already makes me feel different than everyone around me. So, as I froze because of my perceived difference in mindset, I realized that this perception forced me into a position that was actually more “typical”-- which made me feel about ten times worse.

“Great,” I thought to myself, “Not only do I think in an entirely different way than everyone else around me, I also behave differently and the only time I am normal is when the differences become so overwhelming that I freeze entirely.”

You can see, Reader, how this self-talk was wickedly unhelpful. But I was tired. Tired of leading, learning, and writing. Tired of constantly feeling like an odd person out. Too tired to speak, to defend, to do anything. So, I sat there. Stayed away from every conversation and left the class without having contributed anything at all, wishing more than anything that I could be normal for once in my life.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Looking back at all of these moments it becomes clear to me that there is no “normal…” but there is a social majority that follows a set of norms and can make anyone who deviates from these norms feel pretty miserable. Although growing up these social missteps were a source of shame (and can still sometimes cause me to feel like the odd one out), more often than not they now seem to be my greatest strength.

Let me be clear; I have not changed at all… but it seems like the world (or the place I currently inhabit within it) has. These oddities are no longer highlighted as detriments to my character, but instead are often celebrated as the very tools I need to be an effective reader, writer, advocate… in other words, they make me a darn good graduate student.

[As a second, funnier concession for another Reader, I know I will never be as good of a graduate student as you were, but I can try!]

Truthfully, I have tried many, many times to not be myself. To be “normal.” To want normal things and have normal interactions, and it has not worked.

So, here I am. Left with me, myself, and I. Decidedly not normal. Sometimes in trouble for, as a mentor of mine put it the other day, “stepping on landmines,” because not only did I not see them, I didn’t even realize I was in a minefield in the first place, while sometimes also being praised for these very same behaviors in different contexts.

These moments of alternating praise and admonishment, joy and shame, are not accidental and they all derive from the exact same place: my brain.

Which thinks out of chronological order (and in incomplete sentences, apparently). Finds Heidegger as easy to read as a children’s story, but cannot grasp the idea of writing a research question.

The brain that is always angry. Always hungry. Always lonely. Always tired.

The brain that can tell you how many days it is until any major holiday without trying. That knows details of people’s lives, but can not remember their names.

That is wickedly selfish in a way that comes across as entirely selfless. That renders me thoughtful and manipulative.

The same brain that outthought itself so much that it failed the written part of the driver's test three times. That is still a sucker for a cuddly stuffed animal. That sees a statue brought into class for a writing exercise as a colorful shape devoid of meaning rather than a pair of lovers in a warm embrace.

This brain is mine and sometimes I wish I didn’t have to claim it. But after 25 years of being stuck with it and all its quirks, it seems to matter less how I choose to label these oddities (un(common) sense or weirdness), and more about how I choose to use them.

Maybe being weird isn’t such a bad thing after all.