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January 2096
The History of Psychology 2335
“Good morning, class,” the elderly professor greets us with a calm, commanding voice. Immediately, a wave of silence cascades throughout the seats.
“We’re here to learn about the History of Psychology. If you’re not here for the History of Psychology 2335, sections 4–9, then now is the appropriate time for your walk of shame.” He gestures toward the double doors, hopeful that at least one student will realize their mistake and make a break for it.
A long pause is filled with shuffling papers of students double- and triple-checking their schedules. No one dares to take the walk, but I highly doubt that not a single student is in the wrong place. I’ve made it my entire personality to get to know all of the psychology majors, and there are about four faces in here that don’t belong.
“Excellent, then we shall begin. My name is Mr. Holiday.” Pausing, he waits for a few of the chuckles to cease. “Yes, you heard me correctly, and if I hear a single one of you referring to me as Mr. Christmas, there will be hell to pay in the form of a twenty-page paper. There are plenty of other noteworthy holidays.”
In the front row, a girl shoots her hand in the air. She must be a freshman, all eager and way too excited to be noticed. Despite her excitement, Mr. Holiday stares back blankly.
“What is your favorite holiday, Mr. Holiday?” she asks.
The shoulders of my classmates tense as we wait curiously for his reply. It was bold of her to assume his apathy was an invitation to ask the most insignificant question on the planet, but after pausing for a few seconds of contemplation, he finally answers.
“Groundhog Day.” He smiles, and our eyebrows collectively furrow in judgment. Seriously? The audacity of this man to choose arguably the most forgotten holiday!
“It’s a day that reminds me to look at the light.”
That’s all he offers before diving into the lecture over chapters 1–3 in our textbook, The Historical Accounts of Psychology and the Human Heart.
Like most of the other students in this room, I binge-read all three chapters at midnight, desperately holding on to the last seconds of summer. Whoever altered the universe to allow professors to assign homework before the first day of class deserves a life sentence in prison. The jury finds the defendant guilty of stealing away our freedom and forcing us to think about the inevitable responsibility of growing up. To that, I have to say, eat glass.
The chapters were underwhelming at best, but aren’t most textbooks? It was all introductory, briefly explaining how the semester will be spent—studying The Experiment. Or, as they called it back then, The Gift. My information retention would probably fail a pop quiz, considering the notes I took are a mix of average doodles and frustrated illegible scribbles, but who can blame me? The entire textbook feels like a marketing ploy. The author promises real and honest experiences from people who lived during The Experiment, but nothing was real back then.
How could it have been?
Time was merely a construct created by the government, controlled and orchestrated through a microchip. Once The Gift won the majority vote, there was not much to be done. Civilians were lined up like animals in a shelter, waiting to be chipped. It was carefully inserted into the back of their neck until, with one push of a button on New Year’s Eve, bodies with souls were turned into hollow shells of who they had been. The loss was controlled, leaving behind basic skills and functionality but removing any personal intricacies. What a cruel form of “freedom.” They turned an entire population of humans into machines and forced a master reset on history’s hard drive. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness really ran them down the wrong road.
Psychology is incredibly captivating to me. That’s why I declared it as my major. My performance in history, however, is average at best . Don’t look at me like that. I know it’s important; it’s just hard to grasp the concept of time when you didn’t exist during most of it. If it were up to me, I’d have avoided this class altogether, but it’s a prerequisite for the research lab next semester.
The research lab? Can’t wait.
History? I’d like to leave it in the past.
The remainder of class stays fairly surface level. Mr. Holiday breezes through this semester’s schedule in under twenty minutes before politely kicking us out for the day.
“I know that the majority of you are here because you are forced to be, whether by a parent, guardian, or the university. I am here because I choose to be. By the end of the semester, I hope you will look back and realize that somewhere along the way, you started to choose to be here too. For what is life without choices?” His rhetorical question echoes through his long pause. “This is a lot of information to remember, so if you have any questions, just ask. I value vulnerability.”
Overall, his relaxed vibe makes me feel relaxed too, and that’s not an easy task to accomplish. It feels like an hour passes in the silence before one student decides it’s been long enough and starts the avalanche of students cascading to their next lecture. Crowds are not exactly my comfort zone, so I hold off until the initial rush of traffic slows down by casually gathering my things. That’s my first mistake of the semester. Within seconds, the click of approaching footsteps drops my stomach like a rollercoaster ride.
Meeting the professor on the first day is never my intention; however, it does happen occasionally when I time my exit poorly. Bracing for the common questions about my name, major, and hometown, I spin to face him, but rather than greet me, he reaches down to retrieve a piece of paper.
Shit.
The first impression of my note-taking skills won’t be an impressive one. I remember writing “boring” in all capital letters down the side of—yep. The page he’s holding now. As his eyes land on the writing, his expression shows no change.
“Interesting critique coming from a sophomore. I’ll keep this in mind and make it my goal to be worthy of being remembered,” he declares with his commanding calm.
Before I can explain, or even apologize, he limps out the door. Risking the crowd would’ve been better than that.
Much, much better.