Beating around the bush; afraid to get snagged in sticks.

I have a discussion group that I attend about once a week during lunch. It's offered every semester and if you attend enough meetings and write up a reflective project at the end, you are promised an extra week or so for your interviews in forth year. Almost everyone does it at some time or another. It's kinda like a book/movie/random thoughtful thing club. Except I don't really read the books or watch the movies. I don't have time. Truthfully, I don't think any of the second years do, just the first  years. They haven't gotten to the point where they know what to prioritize. Everything is super serious when you're a first year in first semester.

The meetings typically start like this. None of the second years have read the material because they've been studying path all week. Though truthfully, I know our group and they're not the most forward of the class, err...excluding myself. Either way, we always start out quietly reading the handout that outlines the discussion topic for the day along with the summary of the movie/book/etc that seeded this topic.

Meanwhile the star alpha first years are detail dropping like no body's business; they're very eager to talk about reviews they looked up online, the plot of the story, and of course what the idealistic doctor should have done. And goodness, do the first years spring forth with idealism. Idealism that is simultaneously fluffy and well, stiff. Very black and white terms, with little explanation. The non alpha first years then nod in agreement and they say very little. A premature conclusion is reached, and there's a predictable awkward pause while the moderator tries to pry some actual opinions out of people that do more than scratch the surface.

Of course by this time the second years have finally figured out what the hell is going on, (thank you first years!) and we piss all over everything.

Or maybe that's just me. I piss all over everything.

I seem to be the one that leads the charge more often than not. As self conscious as I am about being the loudmouth, I can't handle awkward silence. In T-minus 10, I will be off like a rocket and there is nothing that anyone can do to stop me.*

However, then something magical happens. Once that seal of unanimous thought is broken...the quieter first years start having opinions. Thoughtful, deep, interesting stuff. Now they've got something to say! They're speaking a little more each time. This makes me squee inside.

I will keep this up if it kills me. I will do everything I can to encourage them to have a voice in the face of their class. To take pride in it and know it's worth. And if that means I have to make a bit of an ass of myself by announcing a taboo opinion of oh, something like...that the 'sane' population actually glamorizes and glorifies the manic portion of bipolar episodes to the point of creating a flourishing street market for adderall. That it is actually cruel and insensitive to act like a patient's hesitation towards mood stabilizers is no big deal when they're identity is at stake...then let's make an ass of myself in a discussion group. Now half the students probably think I'm an adderall addict and sympathizer, but whatever.

Of course, I know I could be politically correct. I can remember the right talking points to say and regurgitate sprinkles with the best of them. But if there's something I can't do, it's play politically correct in a discussion about personal reactions to a topic. Being politically correct in a free, open discussion is the first step to castrating your identity.

There could be any number of reasons they do this. I don't think it's because they see the world in black and white terms. It might be that first years are afraid to show their inner snark or they are uncomfortable with picking opinions they're not sure if they're allowed to have. I'm waiting for them to blossom into some lovely sarcastic, sassy ladies. Because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's beating around the bush because you're afraid to get snagged in the sticks.

Later this week, we'll dance this little dance again. I'll keep playing my part. For as long as it takes.


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*Unless they're my mother. She is the master that trained me. I am no match.

Love my mom!