Coming to a place like Brown, I anticipated that I’d face a fair amount of rejection—from clubs, classes, other people, or even myself. I was right to prepare for it, but what became apparent was that dealing with social rejection was like trying to swim through quicksand. I know continuing to try to escape is fruitless, but I do it anyway, because it’s innate. I wish so desperately for my reality to be different, but it will not bend to my will.
Of course, there’s only so much I can control about external circumstances. People fundamentally do not owe me anything, so social rejection doesn’t have to be personal. A friend of mine told me this once: The extent that you think about others is the extent to which they are thinking about you.
But after a recent experience, I’ve come to view social rejection as something analogous to a fortune teller at a state fair. Rejection sat down across from me at a rickety wooden table inside a dimly lit tent. The interior was nice, at least. A dark velvet purple surrounded me. Breezes from the frigid night crept in, but the atmosphere was familiar. A small fire crackled somewhere in the back of the tent, but it didn’t smell smoky. It smelled like incense—something I could recognize miles away.
Feeling my shoulders relax, I thought to myself, sure, I’ll see what this is about. What’s the worst that can happen? So, I took Rejection’s outstretched, soft hand and let my curiosity actualize. Rejection smiled at me warmly, its kind eyes crinkling around the edges, and leaned in. Its voice was some melody of ones I knew intimately: my mom, my best friend, my own as a child.
No one is looking for you, dear.
I sat there with a smile plastered on my face, because when Rejection spoke, its voice was as smooth as honey. The meaning of the words did not land. Then, it let go of my hand, and retreated into the dark folds of the tent. The wind rustling outside became a whistle, then a scraping, and finally a cacophonous screech like an abrasive machine.
Come back! Aren’t you going to tell me more than that? I shouted. I paid you good money!
Sitting there in the tent, the only thing I was left clinging to was my own relentless, unreciprocated curiosity.
I see curiosity as the easiest position to adopt when meeting new people, because it’s something we have used since infancy. So what warrants such friction to their curiosity about me? What is it about me that makes it easier for them to sidestep the innateness of curiosity than to follow that instinct? It is such a contrast inside my mind; I am endlessly curious about it.
But not once have I inhabited their mind in the same way. They have no desire to learn my quirks and complexities, my daily routines, the things that remind me of home, and certainly no desire to notice anything I do. For all I have done to make myself interesting, for everything I have wanted to change and did change, Rejection’s vague promise felt like an objective truth: I am still not good enough.
