Social groups

I took a German language exam yesterday and had an experience similar to that of my own students, who are currently sitting exams, upon entering the room. My phone was collected, put into a pouch with my name on it, and then locked away until the exam was over and I left the building. The interesting aspect of this is that there was a long break between the written and oral parts of the exam, long enough that we were allowed to go out for lunch, and devices were not returned during this time. There were some signs of distress among my fellow test-takers when the announcement was made but, having read the regulations that arrived by mail two weeks ago, I was neither bothered nor surprised. A Margaret Atwood paperback was waiting in the break room.

As luck would have it, my name was last on the list for the oral component of the exam, a full three and a half hours after completing the written portion. Every twenty minutes, another pair of candidates left the waiting area, ultimately leaving the building through a back door. As we waited, we did what I suppose is natural in situations where other diversions are minimal: We talked.

I tend to be on the quiet side in large groups, and I sat with my book until someone identified that I was listening and directed a question at me. I must admit, the remaining time passed far more quickly as I joined in the lively conversation of German language learners. We shared what we were doing in Germany, how we had gotten there, how life now compared to wherever we came from, how long we’d been learning German. Casual small talk, really, but interesting considering the variety of nationalities, cultural and linguistic backgrounds, and work and life experiences of the people in the room. Everyone had something brand new to say and, as a doctoral student in the group pointed out, it is pretty easy to be myopic about our own experiences. There were, after all, many ways of getting to Germany.

There was also the fact, commented on by many, that likely no one would have exchanged any words at all had we had access to our phones. This had been the case upon arrival that morning, at which time I noticed that I seemed to be one of three who had brought other reading materials, a sure sign that life without a device is impossible for many to imagine. As it turned out, the time without a phone to get to know others really was a window into a very diverse group that I otherwise never would have encountered; aside from learning the same language, we have precious little in common that would naturally bring us into the same room.

My current thesis about the state of society, which I find increasingly stressful, egoistic, small-minded, oblivious, and fearful, to include just a few adjectives, is that the individual worlds that technology has created for each us have led to a wider world in which people are skeptical of each other because they do not know each other. They are stressed because they do not see people around them, anxious because they are living in a world that is too bright, too fast, and too anonymous. When we do not raise our eyes to others, we lose the need to fit into the norms of a society, leading to behaviours that are egocentric and, frankly, often obnoxious, equally disinterested in others as unaware that others are even there. This then leads to artificial worlds where everyone thinks the same way and everyone who doesn’t is shut out in their own little world, and the easiest way to keep people there is to create a false sense of security in the familiarity developed by personalized algorithms.

Therefore, it is no wonder that some people in the room yesterday clearly panicked when they learned they would not have access to their phones for a few hours. It is no wonder that some individuals chose to remain outside the group, pacing the hallway alone instead. But I think it is a very positive sign of what lies deep in humanity that the majority of us gathered around a table and got to know each other.

My town has recently installed a box of toys to share in a favourite field in the park. There are table tennis racquets, skipping ropes, large hoops, all the pieces for Vikinger Schach (a beloved German lawn game), and other toys made of wood in the box, a sign taped to the inside lid stating the box’s contents and the rules, which are simple: Use what you’d like and bring it back. Because the norm of trust is there, people behave accordingly. I think there’s a great deal in people, and biology supports this, that makes us want to be together, want to feel connected to each other. This is what made the pandemic so hard, isn’t it? And have we forgotten that already?

I have a poster in my classroom that quotes Hanna Holborn Gray: “Education should not be intended to make people comfortable; it is meant to make them think.” Being uncomfortable and working through that is what allows us to learn, and I think this is absolutely true of getting outside of our own bubbles and seeing the world with different eyes. It is this that then opens us to others, to new ideas and perspectives. The recognition that others experience the world differently provides new possibilities for how we understand the world, and then new ways of walking in it.

I think the fact that we have buried ourselves in technology, that we let something that is not real become our reality, has made us too used to what is easy, what is familiar, what we like. Losing contact with the many, many aspects of the world that are unfamiliar turns us away from each other and deeper into ourselves. This might be easy, but I also find it sad. Anyone who has observed children knows that humans are naturally curious, and I think it is critical to cultivate that. I am grateful to live in a town with a box of toys in the park, and grateful for the women who pulled me gently out of my book yesterday so that I, too, could spend some time in the real world.

And on the train ride home, the book stayed in my bag and I just looked around. Why not?

Every so often there are moment that remind us of the groups we are fully, intrinsically, unquestionably part of . . . and the groups we are not. The groups where, for one reason or another, we stand a little bit on the outside. This is not necessarily a negative thing; we cannot be an invested member in all of our groups, simply because there’s not enough of us to go around. Furthermore, we might not want to be so deeply involved, perhaps because this would present us with obligations that we are not interested in or prepared to shoulder. It can be painfully difficult to come to terms with the groups that we want to be part of that do not want us, but that is not of interest in this post. Rather, this post is about recent circumstances in which group membership was unspoken but thrown into focus.

Language and Culture

Before I moved overseas, I helped out with the international student exchange program at my school. This opened my eyes to the question of integration: How do I help young people integrate into a group that is relatively homogeneous . . . and very different from what they are used to? This question changed in form when I had the opportunity to work in a very diverse environment in which integration was a question caught between language and culture. (Danau Tanu’s phenomenal Growing Up in Transit deserves mention here for its impact on the way I think about schools and language.)

In my somewhat nomadic adulthood, I find that language plays a more important role in my interactions and friendships than I would have guessed. For example, there is a difference in the shared understanding that I immediately sense with those who come from the same linguistic background as I do. I almost always know who is American (accents aside) based on the words that they choose in certain situations, or the way that they explain past experiences. Having worked with so many Brits, Canadians, Australians, and Kiwis over the years has tuned me into the differences in our cultural contexts, and therefore also informed the words that I use when talking to certain people. My favourite example here is “college”. This has a meaning in the US that does not match the meaning used by English speakers, and sharing the context is important. Telling a story about a high school experience needs a different explanation when I’m speaking with people who had a similar educational experience to mine. I am immediately “in” with those people, and forever “a little bit outside” of others.

A few weeks ago, my partner and I had dinner with friends and talk turned to just that – our school experiences. Not only did I have to ask clarification questions about what was clearly a shared understanding among the others, but I also had to provide background context before much of what I said could make sense. I laughed along with them as we talked, fully aware that the picture in my head of their world was likely as inaccurate as their picture of mine. The pleasure is in finding common ground despite the differences, and seeing my own experiences through new eyes.

Things like this happen so often. There are many instances in which my partner and I interpret actions or events differently, to say nothing of the differences in our language. Because I am the one who has moved, it is my responsibility to adapt to where I am rather than expecting to find what I chose to leave elsewhere. I find that I am sometimes caught unexpectedly unaware simply because I didn’t know that there could be another idea, interpretation, or action. I am simply “not from here” and haven’t run into this particular circumstance yet. A little bit outside, as it were.

I’m not sure when one begins to feel at home in a culture, though I have had years of experiences being surprised at what I found when I returned to North America. Sometimes I know how to live the way people in Germany live and I do it automatically, and sometimes it’s like seeing yourself in a mirror and forgetting that you got a haircut. It’s familiar but not quite right.

And now for a completely different example, one in which no one is talking about the groups that everyone knows are at the centre of the conversation.

In order to make plans for the summer holidays, I sent a message to a group of people who I had previously talked with about plans. The daily lives of these individuals are intertwined and I am the one clearly on the outside, a result of the choice made to live somewhere else. It is not a secret that this group interacts without me, that I fit in only at the seldom moments when I’m around. If I ever had different expectations, I lost them a long time ago. And I’m no more present for this group than they are for me; we interact infrequently, as has been the habit since before I knew it was a habit, and otherwise, it’s pretty silent.

For that reason, it didn’t entirely come as a surprise when my message went unanswered. I had anticipated precisely what I did not like, which is becoming a topic of conversation that I was not privy to. Being outside of this group means that I am not privy to very much, but it was obvious what was happening when I received no replies to a message that, among people who are part of each other’s lives, would have received replies. That the group responded (by not responding) en masse suggests that a discussion had occurred, a course of action deliberately taken.

This is a situation in which a group was clearly more than just one group, and being outside the group meant not being in the group at all. It’s interesting because this fact was always simmering under the surface and now it is fully out in the open, precisely by not being open. One of the things I learned when first working to integrate groups of students was that friendships thrive on shared experiences; it is difficult to feel connected to people when our shared experiences are few and far between, and especially when, looking back, what was ostensibly shared was only shared at the acquiescence of the group, and not those standing a little bit outside.

Reflections

Our daily lives are enmeshed in relationships, both those we’ve chosen and those we have been forced into, for a range of reasons. Building and maintaining relationships is a process with which we are all familiar, and it governs the way we structure our world. I love teaching the human relationships topic in psychology because it’s about the everyday experiences of all of us, immediately relatable and immediately captivating.

Maybe it’s because of teaching psychology that I am fascinated by the inner workings of my own relationships, and try to be conscious of the role I (and others) play in each of them. I think the important lesson here is that relationships are complex and there are more stories to explain them than the ones I can tell; just because I’ve interpreted a situation a certain way doesn’t mean someone else has. Humility plays an important role here, too. We must be humble enough to listen to other viewpoints, as well as confident enough to express when we disagree. We must be vulnerable enough to let others in, and strong enough to stand on our own. It’s a delicate balance, being human, and that is what we doubtless share, regardless of who is on the inside and who stands a little bit outside.

Photos, travels, musings, and ideas on education by someone trying to make the world a better and more peaceful place