Alex’s teacher gave an early, but prophetic warning that family secrets didn’t live long in kindergarten classrooms. In spite of the fact that we had nothing particularly interesting to hide, the Sicilian omertà that must be hard-wired into my DNA left me unsettled at such a notion. Sharing secrets, no matter their insignificance, doesn’t sit well with me.
Maybe that’s why I’m sometimes still caught off-guard when people I barely know share theirs with me. In my role as long-distance interviewer for our clients’ students and grads, I’m sometimes taken aback by what these interesting strangers are willing to tell the voice on the other end of the line. Tragic deaths, debilitating illnesses, abusive relationships, drug dependencies. Perhaps they sense a cloak of anonymity in the strange area-coded telephone number and it lends comfort like a warm and reassuring blanket that it isn’t. I don’t get it. From the start of the conversation, they know that what I’ll be writing is meant for publication. And yet, they share so much that can’t really be published.
On the other hand, I am no longer surprised when my students do the same. Even in our initial meetings, they spill secrets quickly. I attribute their lightning fast disclosures to their youth and the social-media-tell-the-world-all generation from which they come. And understand that there’s something in the dynamic of even our earliest interactions that creates a layer of unearned trust.
I’ve adapted to this strange world order so readily that I’m now confused when students don’t tell me everything from the get-go.
One of my students let down her guard early on, but then did her best to rebuild the wall she tries so desperately to keep between us. For all the times my students—and even my own kids—have shared stories I didn’t need to hear, hers is one I’ve worked hard to unearth. Because I think she really, really wants to share it. Needs to.
We play a game, she and I. It’s a push-pull relationship, the kind with which I am too achingly familiar. Michael and I did this sort of dance for years and it was at times excruciating. But this young friend of mine isn’t my kid. She stepped into my world as a fully formed person with whom I never would have interacted, had it not been for this odd position that I now hold in her life. We’re sort of stuck with each other. We don’t have to be, though, not really. But when I gave her the option to fully bolt, she couldn’t. Like I said, I think she wants to share; she’s just not comfortable with the premise. And that I do understand.
For a whole lot of reasons, I find I have little in common with most of my students. It’s not just the generational divide; that’s too obvious. It’s a lot of other stuff about where we come from and what we consider as life’s priorities. But my sharing-adverse student and I are on the same page, in at least this one regard. I could actually teach her a thing or two about avoiding tough conversations. Instead, I’d rather she learn that the crushing weight she’s carrying would be less of a burden if she’d only share a little of it. It doesn’t have to be with me. I’ve told her as much. But it does need to be with someone she can trust.
She trusts me. On Tuesdays. Not always on Fridays. I get so close. We get so close. And then we’re not.
People often tell me I’m crazy for straddling two worlds, two jobs –both pretty demanding on my time and my psyche. I can’t fully explain why I do it. Except to turn to the metaphor of an incomplete building I can’t leave until finished. Although in my case, I’m not laying bricks, just trying to break a few down.