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May 2096
The History of Psychology 2335
Never underestimate the power of a symbol is written on the board behind Andrew, our eager teaching assistant. His greeting smile is bordering on I’ll hold you hostage territory, so as usual, I climb the stairs as fast as possible.
Seeing a new face at the end of my row so close to finals week breaks my confident stride. For the most part, maintaining student attendance isn’t an issue for Mr. Holiday. His lectures are entertaining, and the lack of control isn’t my favorite but it is intriguing.
My interest in the content probably points me toward the path of pursuing psychology rather than psychiatry, but every time I finally make a decision, doubt creeps in and confuses the logic I worked so hard to find. My guidance counselor insists that deep down I know what I want, but I’m only nineteen. Choosing your life path feels like quite the tall order.
It’s not for lack of trying. I’ve lain awake imagining my life a thousand different ways, and nine hundred and ninety-nine of them make me happy. The one scenario that didn’t ended with me homeless and freezing in the heart of winter.
“What gives you a sense of purpose?” my advisor repeatedly asks.
My high school advisors asked me too, and every time, my answer was the same. Still is.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that all I want is to make people happy, but sharing joy doesn’t exactly put a roof over your head and food on the table. The more I focus on that vaguely cloudy goal, the more confused I become, because there are countless ways to make people happy, yet one career will not make everyone happy, so none of them are good enough for me.
The medical field, how prestigious! But remember, there’s a chance I wouldn’t get into medical school. The arts, how important! But only the greats make it far. Do I really think I’m one of them? Nonprofit, how generous! But how will I pay my bills?
There’s always an angel saying go for it and a devil saying you’ll fail miserably, and apparently after college your life goes down the shitter anyway, so I better enjoy it. It isn’t exactly encouraging to be reminded by every adult who’s made it out alive that these are the best days of my life. The days that feel like my very worst might actually be the best I’ll ever have? What a bleak thing to tell someone without knowing how deeply they’re struggling. Package that together with my lack of direction, and I’m a gumball spiraling down the chute, destined to be chewed up and spit out by adulthood.
Attempting to command the room as easily as Mr. Holiday, Andrew clears his throat and the stranger a few seats down opens a writing pad stamped with the University’s crest. No wonder he looks like he’ll come unhinged with one more sip of coffee—he’s getting graded on this.
“Hello, class. You’re stuck with me today, as Mr. Holiday has taken . . . well, dare I say . . .”
No way, he’s not about t—
“. . . an extended holiday.”
Yup, there it is.
The freshman offers an overly forced laugh as I grind my teeth together, refraining from dropping my jaw. Andrew’s cheeks blush at the crash and burn of what he’d probably assumed was his most interesting talking point.
“So,” he continues, “you’re stuck with me. Let’s begin by discussing the elderly woman with the balloon. Please open your textbooks to chapter thirteen.”
“Geriatric Psychology is a senior-level class,” one of the smug frat boys calls out. “If you’ll excuse us, we can call this lecture complete.”
What age will he learn that purposefully trying to embarrass someone actually makes you an asshole? Surprisingly, there’s a fierceness to Andrew’s tone as he replies, “I’m well aware of your class requirements, and I suggest you sit down. We’ll be discussing the most useful, or perhaps dangerous , tool of them all.”
The class shuffles at his intriguing word choice, and even the observer sits up a little straighter.
“And what would that be? A balloon?” The frat pack scoffs, but is silenced immediately with one word.
“Hope.”
“Hope?” the freshman questions.
“Yes, hope. You may think you have all of the answers to the perfect plan for your life.”
Actually, no. Literally seconds ago I was thinking the opposite of that exact statement. However, I do believe some people are ignorant enough to think they have control of the reins.
“But you never know what life will throw at you.” Andrew’s shoes click like Mr. Holiday’s when he walks over to the chalkboard.
“Never underestimate the power of a symbol, and never misjudge the power of hope when all seems hopeless.”
His deep sigh rebounds off the walls, only to be soaked up by blank stares.
“Can anyone give me an example of how hope could be a dangerous thing?”
Crickets.
“No one?”
Here we go again. I feel bad for the guy, and we all know what happens when I feel sorry for someone.
My hand is the only one in the air, but I still respect him enough to wait for his acknowledgment. “Rayne! What is your example?”
“The pain of lost hope could be worse than never having it at all. If you set an expectation and are let down, you’ll be sad, but if you never had the expectation at all, you’d probably be satisfied with your circumstances. People do unprecedented things in the pit of despair, but should they find their way out someday, the very things that helped them cope might come back to haunt them, pushing them back into a vicious cycle.”
Andrew throws me a nod of gratitude as hands shoot up all around the room.
“Similarly,” a back row bandit calls, “hope could be used as a tool to maintain control. Plenty of people can endure excruciating circumstances as long as there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but if it goes out, then there’s no reason to push for improvement.”
“In this instance, yes. Hope can be stifling. Does anyone have anything to add before we continue?” He waits approximately ten seconds before continuing on. “Then what are some examples of how it could be powerful?”
“It’s powerful either way,” I mutter.
Unfortunately I wasn’t quiet enough, and the observer took notice of my classmate’s annoyed glares. “A student back here has something to say,” she sternly declares, and Andrew blanches.
“Rayne, I’m sorry. Did you have something to add?”
“No, it’s just—hope is powerful either way. Sometimes the most dangerous things are the most powerful. Asking for examples of how hope could be a wonderful thing might be a more effective question.”
His eyes flare with pride. “Well, you heard her. Does anyone have any examples?”
A sharp gasp comes from the second row, from a student we’ve started to assume is mute. She’s never spoken before, and her words now are barely above a whisper.
“It can change the world, like the woman with the balloon.”
The class’s eyes collectively fall on the chapter we’d forgotten was open in front of us. Chills travel over my entire body as I recall the personal accounts in the textbook regarding the impact that one woman had—all because of the hope of one helium balloon.