Opening Up that Can of Worms

Disclaimer: The waterfowl pictured above has little or nothing to do with the issue you are about to read about. Just say he's cute and we'll move on.

So I talked to my interviewees just now. I can't even say how terrified I was to go into Commons today, and I spent the entire afternoon mulling over it, debating whether I should just call and cancel and suggest talking strictly over the phone.

I know, that's wimping out. It's like my bright idea to write a letter to break up with my boyfriend. No, fortunately some sane, unnamed individual talked me out of that before I executed possibly the most jerk-like faux pas in the book. I dealt with that face-forward, eyes open ... and in the same way, I found myself walking to Commons face-forward, eyes open, as the sun was fading out behind the buildings. No fear.

Well, maybe I should qualify that last statement. There was quite a bit of fear. I just tried to suck it up and repeat to myself the proverbs I had just read. "Better is an open rebuke than hidden love." (Prov 27:5) And then there was "Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses." (verse 6) Not that I was totally convinced that a wound from one of these girls was going to be good for me. But somehow in that seemingly skewed and paradoxical biblical quagmire known as wisdom literature, I knew there had to be some truth. And I had no choice but to obey it and face up to the impending criticism.

My problem isn't that I'm afraid of feedback or criticism. Rather, it's that I'm afraid of myself and my inability to hold back tears when I'm embarrassed or receiving pity. I always end up puffy eyed, choked up, and generally looking far less composed than I feel inside. I hate it that at 19, I still look like a hypersensitive pushover when bad news comes around. I deal with the news well, but my eyes lie and tell everyone, "Back off, this chick's about to have a nervous breakdown."

I can't stand it.

So anyway, besides arriving at the meeting to see a clipping of my article scarred with red pen ink, my interviewee hunched over it with a distant look in her eyes, the meeting went fairly well. Both girls showed up, and we shared some friendly small talk before we finally delved into the discussion.

They didn't come on too strong, but they were clearly upset that the article opened up with a very in-your-face intro. There were also some things they felt were taken out of context, making them look hostile to chapels at our school. They listened as I told them my intent for the article. They shared what they thought was too strong. We discussed civilly. And I was proud of myself, because I was so composed.

But inevitably, though I fought a good fight, the pressure built up and my eyes gave out. As we were talking about how we'd let the issue go, despite our discrepancies, I started to cry. I was mortified, as I expected, and pulled out wads of napkins as the other coffee drinkers around pretended not to notice the mascara streaking under my eyes.

I guess those tears were little expressions of how inadequate I feel to deal with an issue so big. They were tears that betrayed how frustrating it is when you sense hurt and anger and hope in an interview all at the same time, and the words that best spell that pain are shocking and more powerful than you know what to do with. They are tears that tell how frustrating it is when you're sick of using wimpy, watered down, politically correct words that nobody listens to and that will never wake people up to the change that needs to happen. But then when you don't use those words, and while being balanced, you shake things up, you come to find that the only people you've shaken are the ones that you're trying to help in the first place.

I'm glad the girls pointed out that they felt a little misrepresented in the article, because they were holding me accountable in love. Next time, I'll be sure to point out the positives that both girls shared, instead of taking the quotes of one to emphasize the pain of the situation and quotes of the other to emphasize the minority community's happiness with the school and efforts to diversify. It's a technicality, but it could make the piece more accurate.

But I don't want to care so much that I compromise. I don't want to apologize for saying things strongly in that article, because I know I needed to hear those words, however dramatic. I needed to hear how suffocated minorities feel, and if I made the article another soft piece with words so mushy and full of apologies and qualifying that nobody gets their feelings hurt, I would be in the wrong. I would be letting the thousands of students on this campus who think that race issues are no longer a problem continue in their blindness. I would let the majority continue oppressing the minority to the point that diversity on this campus is trampled and killed. And it would be all because Michelle was too scared that someone wouldn't be comfortable, and might confront her about it.

Because Michelle was too afraid to cry.

So the bottom line: I'm still mad at myself for my involuntary lack of composure. But that embarrassment is a price I'm willing to pay if it means I can write stuff that will make people stop and think about uncomfortable issues. I promise I'll strive even harder to get a more accurate picture of big issues and portray them fairly. But I also promise that I won't back down and start filling the Chimes with insultingly petty pieces reviewing cafe food or describing cool GYRADs. I dedicate my writing to advancing the cause of Christ, and I will willingly own it and face any challenges that spring up about it.

Even if it means looking pathetic. Even if it means tears. Even if it means mascara all over the place.