To Be Human

Last week, my class was having a discussion on truth, reality, and scholarship when my professor asked the following question: “When do you feel most human?” As we each discussed our scholarly identities (or lack thereof), beliefs about what is true in our life, and the question of what we write matters, this question seemed to stop us all dead, throwing everything we had talked about in class that semester into context.

In a class about narrative, maybe the real question is not what makes a story, but what makes us? How can we ever tell a story about our humanity if we don’t know what it is? How can we create scholarship that honors it if we can’t even define it for ourselves?

Not everyone was able to answer during the class, but afterward, we all hovered and I felt as if we had unfinished business we wanted to discuss before we parted ways. Unfortunately, we didn’t get the chance, but as the week wore on and I heard the familiar finals refrain play in my head, “What the heck am I even doing here?” I began to spend more and more time trying to define my humanity so that I could bring it into my burgeoning scholarship.

As I thought long and hard, I realized that I had a social engagement to go to and had to cut my scholarly musings short. It was hard to turn my brain off, and as I drove to watch my friend’s daughter play tee-ball I mentally checked off my to-do list in my head. When I arrived, it took me a few minutes to find the right field, but when I did I sat happily in a camp chair and chatted casually with my friend as her daughter’s team took the field. It was in this moment, as the sun started to go down, a gentle breeze blew by, and I was surrounded by the sounds of laughing kids and slow, relaxed conversation that my brain finally cleared up and I realized something.

I feel most human when I’m slightly out of town and in the country, joining together with hundreds of families to watch a kindergartner’s tee-ball game.

I feel most human when I’m driving home from the game with both windows down and music blasting on the radio.

I feel most human when I dance around my office to my hype song of the week.

I feel most human when I’m being held in a loving embrace by someone I care deeply about.

I feel most human when I think of how my friends and family love me.

I feel most human when I’m sweaty and tired.

I feel most human the moment I wake up and haven’t yet reached full consciousness.

I feel most human when I’m cold and wrapped up in a blanket.

I feel most human when I take the first bite of a delicious meal.

I feel most human when I cry.

I could go on.

These moments where I feel most human, they have some things in common. None of them are rushed; they’re slow, patient, delicate times. None of them have much purpose past that of joy, love, or faith. Almost all of them involve a universality, a being that is distinct to life, feelings of cold, exhaustion, hunger, touch, community.

It is incredible to me that what is most universal is somehow also the most individual, and vice versa. The more detailed a story you tell, the more relatable it becomes. How is that true? I would like to believe it is because of our unique, distinct, nearly universal ability for empathy. As cliche as it may be, putting yourself in “someone else’s shoes” can help you not only understand and recognize their humanity but your own, as well.

These ideas are not new, and I know I have heard them at least multiple times in class, yoga, and even standup comedy-- some of the stuff that I am made of, you are too, WE are, too. Cut from the same cloth. Whatever language or metaphor you use, the sentiment is always the same, there exists a common nature to all of humanity and I don’t need to read a single book to know that, as much as I “know” anything-- deep down in my soul.

Another place I feel my (common) humanity is when I attend colloquia on Fridays with my colleagues.

Draw on whiteboards to help formulate a paper while my friend elaborates her ideas verbally.

Engage in decidedly “unscholarly” conversations during lunch.

Attend coffee chats with mentors and super-hero-themed lunches. (iykyk).

Remembering the prompt that started this blog post, “What makes me feel human? -- And how can I bring this into my work?” I begin to see an answer.

I feel human when I do things that make me feel alive and connected. Experience awful lows and breathtaking highs. Honor my mind and body; treat both with respect and care. Sleep well. And, above all else, take breaks from what feels like what the academy considers “work” to do the actual work of living. After all, I always want my work to imitate my life; not the other way around.

So, if you have been writing that same paper for three days straight and stayed at your office for ten hours on a Saturday (guilty as charged…), this is your sign to take a break. Go be human. Not for the sake of your work, but for the sake of your life.