The other night, some of us walked a group of students to the huge dock overlooking the bay between our peninsula and the area across the bridge. We were supposed to leave at 7:30 and return around 9:30, but we ended up staying until 11:30, instead, after feeling this great connection with everyone and giving a multitude of chances to leave. Near the end of the night, Rashad suggested we play the ABC game.



It's a cool night in May, and we all come into the library, tense, scratching at mosquito bites from the unsatisfying outdoor debrief about a "simulation" that left some downright hostile, and many others upset, to say the least. Jason asks us to go around in a circle and talk about how we felt, starting to his left and ending with me, directly to his right. These people I held so dear talked about how frustrated they still were, about the injustices of the simulation, about the secrecy behind the point of the whole exercise... All the while, I had time to think. None of this is what's bothering me. What's bothering me, really?

Once again, the psychology came in handy. I settled upon the answer quickly and tried to come up with its matching solution, because that's what orientation interns are trained to do, to the point where a problem without a solution is a major source of stress and frustration.

I knew what it was, and couldn't wait to have my turn to talk. We were all so tense and so low, emotionally, that it was searing through all of us like venom, and I didn't want to feel that way, any longer. I didn't want anyone to feel that way.

"And...Katie?"

I paused, staring at my bare thighs under the soft light of the lamp beside me, collecting myself. My anxiety was rampant, and suddenly this was twenty times harder to get out.

"The point of a debrief," I said, my voice shaking, "is to get your participants back down to their original emotional state. They didn't do that. We haven't debriefed, really. So can we please get back to center and play the ABC game instead of thinking any more about things we might never know?"

I looked up to several surprised pairs of eyes, none more surprised than that of our fearless leader, Jason.

A minute later, we were standing in a circle, shoulders touching tensely against one another's, eyes closed. The energy in the room was palpable and thick, a rubber band stretching to its limits to encase our emotions.

There was a moment of nauseating silence.

"A," Ian started, so loudly that it sent a twisting sensation through my stomach.

"B."

"C."

"...D."

Then, simultaneously: "...E."

We all groaned a little, but Jason had by then figured out what my point was in playing this right away, and with all his intensity demanded, "Again."

Ian, again: "A."

"B."

Together: "...C!"

And so on, every time ending in a more humored groan and Jason's ever-insistent "Again." Eyes closed, we felt the energy in the room return to its normal state, each of us too focused on one another to entertain any more silly thoughts about a stupid simulation that failed to matter either way. When we managed to finish the alphabet without two people saying the same letter at once, we cheered so loudly that it left an etching in my emotional memory bank. The relief that came from such a simple thing--I can still hear our joy, coming from such a small victory and such an enormous connection.

We were the only group to come out of our family session completely at ease.




I smile over at Rashad, and the group we're with makes it to Z much more easily, being three times the size of our tiny family. The four of us--all interns--are surrounded by the potential of these new students, sitting on a dock encased in darkness and swaddled in the sounds of the ocean. Everything is okay. Nothing hurts.

Heat lightning turns the distant sky a beautiful purple and I remember the way the stars looked especially beautiful, that night.

Wow interesting game. Takes a lot of patience huh? Beautifully written by the way.
» dont-see on 2013-06-25 02:33:20

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