Speak Up
This morning, I was thinking about the times in my life that I have doubted myself or have let someone else doubt me, and honestly, it wasn't about keeping count, as it is impossible to do so, but it was about how it had affected me. And then I remembered one particular instance. It was the second or third year of university, and we had a professor who, for lack of a more respectful word, was an utter c***. Why? Because nothing gave him more joy than tearing other people down. He used to come to class every week, pick somebody to humiliate and belittle, and then tell us as a group that we would never amount to anything in our lives. It almost felt like doing this was his source of energy. It was like he was feeding off other people's misery.
I remember a particular assignment he gave us to write an essay about city life vs. urban life. I spent hours preparing this essay, and knowing he might pick on me, I tried to use different resources to strengthen my argument, and it turned out to be a good piece of writing. I was proud of it until the day of the class. He asked me to read it out loud in front of the class, and when I was done, he scoffed and said, "Plagiarize much? There is no way you have written this."
Do you see what I mean by calling him that word? Basically, he was telling me this is a job well done, and there is not a chance in hell that you could have done it. I froze, and I remember just staring at him, not being able to speak. I was in shock. You see, for someone who used to constantly doubt herself, this was brutal. This was me living what I had internalized for so long out there in the real world. I was going down the spiral of self-doubt, shame, and self-pity, and suddenly I heard a voice saying: "Well, that's not true. She is good, and I can believe she wrote this herself."
Silence... you could hear a pin drop. From behind a thin layer of tears, I looked at her. She was sitting in the second row and she was saying this with so much calm and confidence. I wanted to hug her and then run out of there.
"Ahem!" The professor cleared his throat and said, "Well, I have to take a closer look at the essay then. Moving on..."
I excused myself from the rest of the class that day, and I don't think I ever properly thanked her for what she had done for me. The whole experience was so painful that I just wanted it to be over. Then I remembered that I didn't do the same for my friend, with the same professor, mind you, and I am still regretting it to this day. I had a gay classmate who, in my opinion, was one of the bravest people I have seen in my life, not hiding himself amidst all the bigotry and close-mindedness of society, and the fact that he was in danger of getting prosecuted if he ever admitted he was gay. And this waste of a professor and a human truly decided to "explain" the etymology of the word 'gay' in class, explaining how it used to mean happy and joyous before getting associated with all that filth. Yes, you read correctly, he used the word filth. I still remember feeling so ashamed just to be in that setting and witnessing that hurtful moment. My friend, B, on the other hand, didn't even blink. He told me later on that you learn to have a thicker skin when you live among people like him. But after nearly a decade, I still regret not speaking up and standing with my friend. This is something worth remembering and practicing and fighting for. Speak up when you can; someday, you'll need someone to do it for you.