Sometimes during a conversation, I’m reminded of classroom discussions in college.
I was lucky enough to attend a small liberal arts college where many classes were “discussion-based” rather than lectures or seminars, usually with 12-15 students in a given class.
I remember the situation very clearly:
I am sitting there in class. Someone is saying something—observation, argument, complaint, etc. Maybe I’m listening, or maybe I’m not—maybe I’m looking at the reading or dreaming out the window.
But then:
I have an idea.
(And no one ever taught me to do this next thing, but at some point someone somewhere must have suggested that when you have an idea in class you should share it.)
So:
I raise my hand.
Hand raised, I am suddenly aware of the pending attention of 15 other people. I sit up a little straighter in my chair and really lean into the discussion, listening to what my professor or classmate is saying, and then to whatever immediate response or rebuttal there may be, even though—at the same time—I am helplessly fixated on my own idea, a little more focused on pinning that sucker down so it doesn’t get away. I may even be working out the first few words of what I’ll say. The professor turns to me, and I speak.
This can go two ways: my idea (my wonderful, special idea!) is either relevant to the discussion—or it’s not.
When it’s relevant, that’s great! Even though I wasn’t really paying attention, I’ve still contributed something that advances the discussion. Woo!
But when it’s not relevant—when the discussion has veered away from whatever triggered the idea, or (worse!) when my comment makes clear that I wasn’t listening to the prior discussion at all—this feels…not so great.
You know this feeling. This is the feeling you have when someone abruptly cuts off the album you have playing over Spotify to queue up their own playlist.
Hey! That’s not what we were listening to!
A good group discussion has the spirit that you’re all exploring something together.
Working through a math problem as a group is being placed at the center of a hedge maze and told there are a few routes out. Talking through a sonnet is like strolling through a botanic garden and looking at the weird trees together.
An irrelevant comment questions the group—it’s like hollering to the rest of the class from the other side of a hedge or a different area of the garden.
I remember the collective sigh at an irrelevant comment in class.
Hey! We’re over here still! We’re not done exploring this yet!
What terrifies me—even as I know how misguided and rude this behavior was in a classroom setting—is that I never really learned my decision: I can still be a poor listener in everyday conversations.
I still find myself infatuated with my own ideas, holding onto them as though they are more important than being present and listening to what others have to say.
It reminds me:
It seemed funny back in class when someone would have their hand raised for a while, finally be called on, and then—usually with a sheepish look—admit that they’d forgotten what they wanted to say.
I always focused on the forgetting, but never thought too much about why they forgot.
They were listening.
Taylor Coe 