Conflict
I am the type of person who takes things personally. If you have a grievance to air about me, I want to hear it right away, and I want to apologize for it as soon as possible, for if I don't, I would spend the rest of the day kicking myself over it.
After finishing my calculus class for the day, I was energized to get on with the day (it was a Friday). In calculus, we had learned of definite integrals for the first time—my teacher has the rare ability to impart upon students the beauty of mathematics, at least to those who desire to appreciate it. Oftentimes, I leave class with a sense of genuine wonder. Calculus is my first period class, meaning it is the first class I attend—the first room I enter when beginning the school day. My school's bell schedule system is set up so that immediately following first period is homeroom.
The purpose of homeroom is to provide for a brief, 5-minute span of the day where announcements and general information may be broadcast. Teachers coordinate the homeroom, and generally, most teachers take it upon themselves that students are paying attention to the announcements and receiving the information they need. Unfortunately, for the past 2 years, none of my homeroom teachers strictly enforced this kind of attention, so as time went on, I started to habitually ignore the announcements (which were in the form of a student-produced live newscast-style broadcast). So today, when I entered my homeroom, out of habit, I divided my attention.
"Michael!" said one of my classmates. "Did you do the gov homework?"
"Yes," I replied, "but I still have to print it out." The homework assignment in question was a partner activity in which we had to research various minor political parties and classify them. The partner whom I worked with for the assignment sat close to me in homeroom, and thus was listening to the conversation.
"You still have to print it out?" he said. "I can print it out in my next class, if you want."
"Nah, it's fine," I replied. "I can print it out in physics."
"Dude!" said the classmate whom I was originally talking to. "You know how we had to research eight political parties? I thought it only meant two political parties! Not two for each of the four types."
At this point, my homeroom teacher had begun announcing something, but habitual ignorance had taken root, and I did not pay attention to what she was saying.
"By the way," my classmate was continuing. "What did you put for your cover page?"
"I just put a school logo with our names. I don't think it needs to be too complicated. I also put a..."
At this point, the homeroom teacher forcefully interrupted our conversation. She was apoplectic. She derided us for being rude (and rightfully so!); her demeanor indicated that this was the culmination of a series of repeated injuries on our part. To my absolute horror, I realized she had been speaking about the school's Turkey Drive, a fundraising effort to buy turkeys for families less fortunate. I realized that by speaking while she was speaking—almost to the point where I may have been subconsciously trying to speak over her to get my thoughts across to my classmate—I had committed a grave wrong. As soon as I realized this, I tried to apologize. "My bad," I said, feeling like total fool. "I'm so sorry."
I will never forget what she said back.
"But you're not, and that's what makes me sorry for you."
My reaction was initially one of confusion. I was genuinely sorry. I knew this. However, I attempted to look at the situation from her point of view. The past week, she had passionately urged us to contribute money to the fundraiser: "A single dollar from everyone is all that's asked." She probably cared a lot about the cause, and perhaps she feels personally motivated by it. I had donated a grand total of nothing. When she was once again speaking about the fundraiser, she had been rudely interrupted by me and my conversation with my classmate. I have seen and spoken with families who have been homeless, who have struggled their whole lives, so I understand and appreciate to the greatest extent possible why my homeroom teacher cared so passionately about this cause, and as a result, I could equally understand and appreciate how indignant she became as a result of my blunder.
The situation was so completely and utterly my fault that I was overcome with guilt. To put salt on an open wound, my teacher remarked that she had never yelled so lividly for a long time. "Congratulations," she said to me, her voice laced with the deadly stab of sarcasm.
Following homeroom, I went forthwith to her desk. She looked up, glanced at me, then returned to gaze at her computer in disgust. I told her that I was genuinely sorry, that what happened did not reflect how I truly am. She shook her head, eyes still refusing to lift again from her computer, and pithily rejected my apology: "Too little, too late." She told me that I could not dig myself out of the hole I created using words alone—that I had to show her true apology with actions, not words—that for the future, quiet was demanded from me during homeroom. I told her that I understood. I thanked her, and then I left.
I spent the entire day reflecting upon what happened. I still feel the painful stab of guilt as I compose this post. I hate this feeling, the feeling when you've done wrong to someone, and they will not accept your apology. When you've exhausted someone to the point where they can't take it anymore. This is the feeling of remorse. As I continue to reflect, I begin to vaguely recall, with increasing horror, that this situation may have occurred before. Earlier in the year, I faintly remember having to apologize profusely for the same offense to the same person. It had been many weeks earlier, and I realize now that this may have actually been my second chance on this matter. My homeroom teacher's reaction, therefore, becomes far more understandable to me. An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.
Reflecting on what happened has caused me to ponder the overarching issue of how humans deal with conflict. As the day progressed, I often found my mind trying to push some of the blame on others. What about my classmate? He was speaking too! This is, of course, completely false. Although he had been engaged in conversation, the blame was utterly on me, since I didn't choose to suspend the conversation for the teacher.
Ultimately, it will now take me potentially a long time to make up for what I did. I have a reputation to restore. I have resolved to never again carry conversations while announcements are being broadcast, and give my utmost attention to my teacher whenever she stands before us. Over the summer, I took part in a three-week service-learning program in Chicago, and my residential assistant there told me that there are always three sides to a conflict. There is one party's side, there is the other party's side, and when you take the two sides together, you get the truth. My side here is that I truly am sorry. The amount of regret I feel cannot be adequately communicated with words alone, and the effect of this experience on me will certainly extend to my future actions.
After finishing my calculus class for the day, I was energized to get on with the day (it was a Friday). In calculus, we had learned of definite integrals for the first time—my teacher has the rare ability to impart upon students the beauty of mathematics, at least to those who desire to appreciate it. Oftentimes, I leave class with a sense of genuine wonder. Calculus is my first period class, meaning it is the first class I attend—the first room I enter when beginning the school day. My school's bell schedule system is set up so that immediately following first period is homeroom.
The purpose of homeroom is to provide for a brief, 5-minute span of the day where announcements and general information may be broadcast. Teachers coordinate the homeroom, and generally, most teachers take it upon themselves that students are paying attention to the announcements and receiving the information they need. Unfortunately, for the past 2 years, none of my homeroom teachers strictly enforced this kind of attention, so as time went on, I started to habitually ignore the announcements (which were in the form of a student-produced live newscast-style broadcast). So today, when I entered my homeroom, out of habit, I divided my attention.
"Michael!" said one of my classmates. "Did you do the gov homework?"
"Yes," I replied, "but I still have to print it out." The homework assignment in question was a partner activity in which we had to research various minor political parties and classify them. The partner whom I worked with for the assignment sat close to me in homeroom, and thus was listening to the conversation.
"You still have to print it out?" he said. "I can print it out in my next class, if you want."
"Nah, it's fine," I replied. "I can print it out in physics."
"Dude!" said the classmate whom I was originally talking to. "You know how we had to research eight political parties? I thought it only meant two political parties! Not two for each of the four types."
At this point, my homeroom teacher had begun announcing something, but habitual ignorance had taken root, and I did not pay attention to what she was saying.
"By the way," my classmate was continuing. "What did you put for your cover page?"
"I just put a school logo with our names. I don't think it needs to be too complicated. I also put a..."
At this point, the homeroom teacher forcefully interrupted our conversation. She was apoplectic. She derided us for being rude (and rightfully so!); her demeanor indicated that this was the culmination of a series of repeated injuries on our part. To my absolute horror, I realized she had been speaking about the school's Turkey Drive, a fundraising effort to buy turkeys for families less fortunate. I realized that by speaking while she was speaking—almost to the point where I may have been subconsciously trying to speak over her to get my thoughts across to my classmate—I had committed a grave wrong. As soon as I realized this, I tried to apologize. "My bad," I said, feeling like total fool. "I'm so sorry."
I will never forget what she said back.
"But you're not, and that's what makes me sorry for you."
My reaction was initially one of confusion. I was genuinely sorry. I knew this. However, I attempted to look at the situation from her point of view. The past week, she had passionately urged us to contribute money to the fundraiser: "A single dollar from everyone is all that's asked." She probably cared a lot about the cause, and perhaps she feels personally motivated by it. I had donated a grand total of nothing. When she was once again speaking about the fundraiser, she had been rudely interrupted by me and my conversation with my classmate. I have seen and spoken with families who have been homeless, who have struggled their whole lives, so I understand and appreciate to the greatest extent possible why my homeroom teacher cared so passionately about this cause, and as a result, I could equally understand and appreciate how indignant she became as a result of my blunder.
The situation was so completely and utterly my fault that I was overcome with guilt. To put salt on an open wound, my teacher remarked that she had never yelled so lividly for a long time. "Congratulations," she said to me, her voice laced with the deadly stab of sarcasm.
Following homeroom, I went forthwith to her desk. She looked up, glanced at me, then returned to gaze at her computer in disgust. I told her that I was genuinely sorry, that what happened did not reflect how I truly am. She shook her head, eyes still refusing to lift again from her computer, and pithily rejected my apology: "Too little, too late." She told me that I could not dig myself out of the hole I created using words alone—that I had to show her true apology with actions, not words—that for the future, quiet was demanded from me during homeroom. I told her that I understood. I thanked her, and then I left.
I spent the entire day reflecting upon what happened. I still feel the painful stab of guilt as I compose this post. I hate this feeling, the feeling when you've done wrong to someone, and they will not accept your apology. When you've exhausted someone to the point where they can't take it anymore. This is the feeling of remorse. As I continue to reflect, I begin to vaguely recall, with increasing horror, that this situation may have occurred before. Earlier in the year, I faintly remember having to apologize profusely for the same offense to the same person. It had been many weeks earlier, and I realize now that this may have actually been my second chance on this matter. My homeroom teacher's reaction, therefore, becomes far more understandable to me. An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.
Reflecting on what happened has caused me to ponder the overarching issue of how humans deal with conflict. As the day progressed, I often found my mind trying to push some of the blame on others. What about my classmate? He was speaking too! This is, of course, completely false. Although he had been engaged in conversation, the blame was utterly on me, since I didn't choose to suspend the conversation for the teacher.
Ultimately, it will now take me potentially a long time to make up for what I did. I have a reputation to restore. I have resolved to never again carry conversations while announcements are being broadcast, and give my utmost attention to my teacher whenever she stands before us. Over the summer, I took part in a three-week service-learning program in Chicago, and my residential assistant there told me that there are always three sides to a conflict. There is one party's side, there is the other party's side, and when you take the two sides together, you get the truth. My side here is that I truly am sorry. The amount of regret I feel cannot be adequately communicated with words alone, and the effect of this experience on me will certainly extend to my future actions.