Let’s talk about ourselves

Because, while some are capable of speaking about themselves without no hesitation or restriction, others can’t even come up with a single thing to say.

I am part of the latter group.

Maybe it’s because I’m shy or because I overthink everything, I just have a hard time thinking of what to say about me.  This was why introductions in college were one of the worst things ever (along with those gosh darn evals).

Every, single, class for four years, you give the same spiel: name, year, major, and why you decided to take the course. Easy, except when you start trying to think of what year you’re even in and why the hell you even decided to take this class.

There was, however, one class that strayed from the familiar formula.

It was a course on the Cold War and War on Terror. As a senior starting my spring semester, I wanted nothing more than for this ordeal to be over. Who knows? The quicker this is done, the quicker we get out, and in a three-hour class, I wanted nothing more than to get out as soon as possible.

My professor, who was also my academic and thesis advisor, began this first lecture by talking about, who else, himself: where he’s from, how long he’s worked here etc. etc. The man, while known for going on and on about a singular topic (which, on a side note, he at least makes interesting, and his New Zealand accent helped a bit), ended his introduction about himself and the course.

It was time for the inevitable.

“Alright, I think it’s best that we all get to know each other a little bit.  Just give us your name, your year, major, and something interesting about yourself.”

Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa whoa whoa WHOA!

That was not a part of the deal, man! Not part of the deal! Something interesting, about me? Oh god…

My professor began to go through the class. One by one, each student spoke, and we got a glimpse as to who these people were:

There were the basic history majors, the geeky history majors, the jockish guys, the requirement seekers, the famous “groupies” (a term I came up with to describe students who take any course by this particular professor), and, quite honestly, the sweetest old couple you will ever meet.

Then it was my turn.

You would think that after all this time, I would have thought of something to say, right?

Wrong.

“Hi, my name is Jaclyn, I’m a senior history major and I honestly don’t have anything interesting to say about myself.”

My professor laughed.

“You know, Jaclyn, she’ll say that and act like she’s not interesting, but then she’ll go up to you one day and tell you that her great-grandfather was an ax-murderer.”

The room filled to the brim with laughter (mainly from the groupies), the next person went, and I was just happy that I was no longer in the spotlight.

 

Some time later, I was telling this story to a friend when we were talking about our classes. She’s had this professor several times, so I figured the story would make her laugh. This was her response:

“Why did you say that!? You never say you’re not interesting in front of him! That’s exactly the sort of answer you’re going to get.”

Looking back, I’ve realized that, she’s right. Not only should you not say that to him, but you should never EVER say that you are not interesting.

Why?

Well, it simply isn’t true. We all have something that makes us different from one another. And while it may be difficult to come up with something to say or you just feel like a bland, basic person, you’re not. You could have the voice of a goddess or can throw a 90 mph curve ball. Maybe you acted in a local commercial at the age of five or can braid someone’s hair with your toes. We all live different lives, and what we experience will always be of interest to others.

So, it is time for me to ask of you what my professor asked of my class;  say something interesting about yourself. It could be absolutely anything! Leave your comment below. And, just to be fair, I will say something about me:

I once lived in a castle for three months while studying abroad in London and my great-grandfather was NOT an ax-murderer.

 

 

 

 

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