“Does anyone here watch Gossip Girl?”

I was startled back to conciousness in yesterday’s English class by this most unfamiliar inquiry. ‘Unfamiliar’ because we never discuss current television in English class, ‘back to conciousness’ because I was on the verge of dozing off and ’startling’ because the question was posed by my forty-something year old english teacher.

However, that initial shock was dwarfed upon hearing him declare the three words: “Blaire’s a BITCH!”
It was terrific.

I only bring it up because my 1&2 Literature class (Is it any surprise that I enjoy English-based subjects?) went on an excursion today to see a low-budget version of the play ‘Antigone’ performed by a cast of seven in a tiny school room. The play itself was impressive, yes, but it’s the gossip in which I was engaged during the bus ride back home I wanted to discuss.

The conversation started innocently enough. A group of us talked about movies, friends, the goings-on at school and other generic fifteen-year-old subject matter until ‘Penelope’, with a terribly perplexed expression, called out: “Hey, are ‘Bonny’ and ‘Clyde’ going out?”
(In this case, ‘Clyde’ being a friend I’ve spent a considerable amount of time with over the last six months and ‘Bonny’ being one of my best friends since fifth grade.)
The truth of the matter is that they celebrated their one month anniversary last week, but ‘Bonny’ was reluctant to announce the relationship to the whole schoolyard. Still, I was under the mistaken impression that the cat was already out of the bag, since this brand of information doesn’t generally take long for most high school students to uncover, but apparently it’s this month’s best kept secret.
So, I covered up for them brilliantly with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders which fooled everyone into believing that Bonny and Clyde were just close friends. (Yes, it really was one hell of a shrug, but I suppose you had to be there.)

Once that was dealt with, we moved on to reminisce on failed relationships we’d witnessed over the years, from the week-long, hair-flipping hand-holding embarrassments from seventh grade to the more substantial year-long affinities we’ve grown accustomed to.

We talked about the “random hook-ups”, the two girls in our year who “got together” during last year’s formal purely for the shock value, the friends who got smashed (wasted, plastered, buzzed; so many options) at another friend’s sweet sixteenth last weekend and the general drug-culture that covertly exists deep beneath the surface of our year level (or in any case, deep enough to maintain our school’s spotless reputation and warrant half-truths during family conversations).

It got me thinking about how very little I really know about these people; this group of three-hundred-odd kids I’m spending my formative years with, the people whose birthday parties I’ve attended since grade school, the network that forms almost 90% of my Facebook friends list.

Strange as it sounds, I realised that I don’t actually recognise my peers as human beings, because I tend to categorise them according to their predominant interests. I don’t think of them as having complex levels. I don’t consider the possibility that they might be just as deep, if not deeper, than I am. I dismiss them as being just one label. (Except, of course, for my closer group of friends who I speak to on a daily basis. I know them well enough to dismiss them as eight or nine different labels.)

‘Terry’s the athlete. Let’s get him something sporty for his birthday.
‘Mary’s the girly-girl. Let’s get her make-up for her birthday.
‘Lilly’s the drugged-up boozehound who smokes in the bathroom. Let’s steer clear of her on her birthday.

It would never occur to me that while Terry’s athletic, he might not be as interested in sport as he appears to be. Maybe he’s just self-concious and keeping up appearances. Maybe his greatest interest is art. Maybe he’s secretly got a notebook full of intricate sketches and heartfelt poetry that no one will ever see.

It seems impossible to believe that while Mary’s the classic girly-girl, she might dream of joining the military and following her brother’s example. Maybe she spent years learning martial arts on weekends. Maybe the girly-girl personality is a front to cover up a side she’s afraid won’t be accepted.

Perhaps there’s more to Lilly than the inconsiderate rebel. Maybe she’s got problems at home. Maybe her self-destructive behaviour is a cry for help. Maybe she dreams of growing up to be a veterenarian.

I spent the remainder of my day following this realisation trying to imagine everyone – friends, acquaintances, strangers – as complete and whole human beings with lives of their own.
In short, my epiphany of the day was simply that while I’m the center of my own universe, I am not the center of THE universe.

Astonishing revelation, really.

And it appears that this entry has taken a completely unexpected turn. This is not what I set out to write about. Apparently I’ve again turned my blog into an incomprehensibly gratuitous soiree, full of self-obsessed digressions and again, I’m going to use my age as an excuse if you’ll forgive the predictability.

My next post will be about a more consequential topic.
Honest.