Clara-Hannah Sobouti ’21
The Intricacies of the Mind
Some look back at their high school careers with fondness and nostalgia. For me, however, that is far from the case. For as long as I remember, I have been inherently kind and selfless. Once, when I was four, for example, I caught a fever, and my parents were worried. Instead of crying and making it worse, I repeatedly said: “Don’t worry mommy, don’t worry daddy, I am okay,” so I am told. In addition, whenever in the playground, playing with other children my age, I felt some unusual kind of motherly instinct that would compel me to look after the others, letting them go down the slide or cross the monkey bars first. This impulse took different forms as I grew up. In elementary school, it started with relatively small things, such as sharing my lunch with others and lending pens, paper, and other school supplies. In middle school, this impulse took the form of “helping” others with homework or basically just doing it for them, as “a favor for a friend.”
Then came high school, and things were never the same again. I attended a private bilingual school where the workload was double the norm because almost all subjects are taught in English and in French. I soon realized that I no longer had the time to complete my work, let alone “help” others with theirs. When I confronted my friends with this reality, they began making excuses as to why we wouldn’t be able to have lunch together that day or the next, or why they couldn’t go shopping with me next weekend because they were babysitting. And, an excuse I heard often, they wouldn’t be able to make it for our weekend outing in the city because they had family over. I can safely say that I heard so many excuses those first few months of high school that I could write a short anthology of all of them. All this to say that, before I knew it, all my friends were gone, leaving me with a broken heart and devastating, all-too-common questions: “Why are they gone?” And, worst of all: Was it something I did?
Sophomore year came around, and I was miserable. Peers I had come to trust, depend on, and care for, had all turned their backs on me. It felt as if they had magically transformed from the people I used to know or thought I knew, to complete strangers I didn’t recognize. When I received either really good or upsetting news, there was no longer anyone I could share it with on the spot. Studying for tests became a lonesome activity, whilst in the past it had been an entertaining and instructional group effort. Additionally, lunch break now consisted of only me, my food and the painful sounds of my peers in the midst of discussion and laughter. Collective trips to the bathroom, where the hot gossip of the small high school we attended was carefully deliberated, had become but a mere memory.
*
In junior year, despite my heightened dislike for school, English class was a place of solace. We read many works of literature I enjoyed, such as Frankenstein, A Streetcar Named Desire, and Beloved, which all in turn, transported me to different worlds in which I could escape, even momentarily, my unfortunate reality. But it was one novel in particular, that ultimately rescued me from my predicament,Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I remember feeling intimidated by both the size and reputation of the book, but once we began reading and discussing it in class, I recognized how relevant it was to my current situation.
The novel follows the story of Raskolnikov, a Russian man in St. Petersburg, who commits two murders in the first few pages of the novel. He spends the rest of the novel grappling with these acts, not only the societal consequences but, perhaps most importantly, the guilt, which is ultimately his downfall. By murdering a member of society, Raskolnikov transgresses a fundamental societal norm and as a result, excludes himself from society.
Although I didn’t commit a real crime and my circumstances were entirely different, I could relate to Raskolnikov. I too felt a pervasive sense of guilt. I realized that, deep down, I blamed myself for no longer being able to “help” my friends with homework. I blamed myself for the complete loss of my friends, as if, somehow, I should have been able to continue. It seemed to me that choosing not to anymore was unfair and cruel on my part, and completely out of character. Somewhere in my subconscious, I felt deserving of some punishment for my “wrongdoing”; and in my mind, my loss of friends. Most importantly, my isolation was just that—a well-deserved punishment.
This punishment had different facets. Peers I had once called my friends, as well others they had since befriended, took it upon themselves to engage in clearly ill-intentioned acts of unkindness towards me, some acts subtler than others, on a regular basis. These ranged from making sure never to intentionally or willingly sit at the desk directly to my right or to my left (unless the teacher assigned them to such a seat), to stares brimming with unprovoked feelings of judgment, disapproval, and disparagement. Additionally, I had the opportunity to experience blatant demonstrations, with spiteful and vicious comments spoken either behind my back (that I would occasionally pick up on), or, charmingly, right to my face. Many of the girls in the high school, being French or European, tended to be fair-haired (with little to no visible facial hair) and on the more petite and skinny side. In comparison, I’m of Iranian descent and have naturally darker hair (and, therefore more visible facial hair, to the point where one could say fairly that I had a slight “mustache” and unibrow), as well as naturally bigger bone structure. It would have been wishful thinking to expect my peers, both girls and boys at the peak of their callous phases, to resist mocking and ostracizing me for these physical attributes.
Other comments, however, had no plausible basis at all, yet despite their lack of rationality, were the most hurtful. During a high school trip that year, the seat next to me on the bus was, naturally, unoccupied. The bus had exactly the number of seats for every student, so the seat would eventually be occupied by someone. When Guillaume, a peer who was new to the school that year, realized that he would have to sit next to me, he asked his friend Marc, seated one row in front, to let him squeeze in. Marc asked Guillaume why he couldn’t just sit in his seat and Guillaume replied, “Because I have to sit next to her,” pointing at me. “Would you sit next to her?” That comment came as a huge blow. I spent the rest of the time pondering in disbelief how Guillaume, to whom I’d never even spoken, could express such contempt and disgust, on the basis of reputation and hearsay, without even getting to know me first. I accepted my unfortunate fate as penance for my “crime.”
It was difficult grappling with the idea that I’d been rendered a pariah. It became difficult to resist feeling as though I was the problem, that there was something seriously wrong with me, if my peers didn’t like me. My self-confidence fell to an all-time low. The feeling that my actions had brought about this general animosity was so disheartening that, like Raskolnikov, it impeded any potential attempts of communication with my peers. Dostoeyevsky writes:
What was taking place in him was totally unfamiliar, new, sudden, never before experienced. Not that he understood it, but he sensed clearly, with all the power of sensation, that it was no longer possible for him to address these people in the police station, not only with heartfelt effusions, as he had just done, but in any way at all, and had they been his own brothers and sisters, and not police lieutenants, there would still have been no point in this addressing them, in whatever circumstances of life.
I remained in utter isolation from everyone, watching my peers go through the tears and thrills of high school from the outside.
Raskolnikov’s isolation prompted me to reconsider my own isolation. Was I truly isolated because others didn’t want to have anything to do with me? Or was it because I was taking all the negativity my peers had thrown at me and accepting it passively, as some kind of requisite punishment? Punishment for what though? Not being able to “help them” with their homework? I came to see how completely absurd it sounded. After all that time alone, I’d subconsciously accepted that if no one wanted to be my friend anymore, it must mean that I was not worth being friends with, and that I did not deserve to have any. But the reality was that my peers were actually in the wrong for pretending to be my friends and taking advantage of my kindness. This reality was something I had known all along but not wanted to admit, because of how painful and demeaning I knew it would be once I acknowledged it. Although painful, it motivated me to rebuild my dismantled self-esteem and sense of self-worth.
Raskolnikov finally decides to confide in Sonya, a young destitute woman who is forced into prostitution in order to provide for her mother and siblings. Despite the fact that in the eyes of society, she too is a transgressor of norms, she is a symbol of purity in the novel. By confiding his crime to Sonya, Raskolnikov shows that he truly regrets his actions and wants to reintegrate into society. In the novel’s epilogue, after Raskolnikov turns himself in and faces punishment for his crime, Sonya visits him in Siberia. “They were both pale and thin but in those pale, sick faces there already shone the dawn of a renewed future, of a complete resurrection into a new life. They were resurrected by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.” By confessing his love for Sonya and in her reciprocation, Raskolnikov shows true repentance, and proves that he has regained his humanity and is ready and capable of redemption and reintegration into society.
*
That summer, I traveled to Spain for a language immersion program. Beforehand, inspired by Raskolnikov’s story, I made a few resolutions I would stick to during the trip. First of all, I decided I would stop feeling guilty about a situation in which I was ultimately never in the wrong. Consequently, I decided not to isolate myself from others because of the things my peers had said about me. Finally, promising not to mentally sabotage myself by belittling my abilities and traits, I set out on my summer adventure.
Like any other immersion program, where one is surrounded by a relatively new language all day, as well as new acquaintances, the first few days were daunting. However, I didn’t let this deter me from my original resolution. Overlooking my occasional, slight nervousness, I approached seemingly friendly classmates during water breaks. Before long, my classmates, notably Heloise, Tom, Esther, Sarah, and Patrick, also began approaching me during water breaks. What began as quick exchanges of pleasantries soon evolved into longer conversations, generally geared around language learning, ourselves, and our aspirations.
These conversations continued over lunch, and even after class in the evenings over drinks on one of Spain’s many magical terrazas. It was in these terrazas that my classmates and I bonded over the shared experience of the occasional struggle to find words, to correctly conjugate verbs, and to remember whether to use “ser” or “estar.” It was equally the place where our Spanish lessons of the day would come in handy, when ordering food and drinks and conversing with locals. Whilst a few months ago I would never have imagined it possible, I found myself starting conversations with Gael, an art connoisseur who shared, among others, many interesting facts about the paintings of Goya, Velasquez, and Picasso; Monica, a student studying to become a teacher, who explained to me the inner works of the Spanish education system; and Andre, a student and skilled dancer who taught my classmates and me the basics of salsa and bachata and invited us to go dancing during the weekends.
In retrospect, I stayed true to myself, was outspoken and genuine when meeting new people, and ended up forming many lasting friendships. The trip proved to me that I am just as good as anyone else, and that if my peers at school don’t see it, then that is their loss. When my senior year of high school began, I was a new individual, much more confident in myself and my abilities, something that helped me overlook my past hardships with my peers as well as find authentic friends in the unlikeliest of people.
Raskolnikov’s journey taught me, amongst other things, the fragility and intricate nature of the mind, the power the mind holds over the body, and the consequences, both positive and negative, of the things one manifests. Taking these lessons to heart, to this day, I practice mindfulness by keeping a journal of my thoughts, trying my best to stay positive, being confident in what I do and who I am, and finally surrounding myself with people I know I can trust and who truly care about me.