A State of Regret

When I first started my job I was eager to help people. In the early morning when I had the most energy and caffeine, I would sit at my desk working, one ear cocked to the foot traffic outside my office, hoping someone would have a question.

My office is tucked between classrooms. Many people come around the corner and pass my door, but almost no one stops. 

I've learned to tell if someone is going to stop at my door by the way their footsteps sound. When I was first honing this skill it was difficult. Many footsteps sounded destination-bound for me, simply because they were going to the classroom next door. So I was constantly looking up, thinking someone needed me.

One day there was a student who really did look lost. He passed my door, examined the classroom next door, then backed out and walked past my door again. 

He looked puzzled. It was my chance!

But I was disappointed. He was merely dithering about entering the classroom.

I went back to my work, tensed for another helping interaction, but it didn't happen that day.

The next week I had the same experience. A figure radiating a questioning air passed through my field of vision. When I turned to speak, I was dismayed to realize it was the same guy. This time he seemed annoyed.

Over the next week or so I had to train myself to not react to this student. He really did seem to look puzzled every time he passed my door. I tried to chalk it up to youth, but it was more than that. He seemed to have a deeply questioning expression on his face, in his posture and walk, that spoke to me. I liked how he seemed to always be looking for something, and that the something he was looking for was going to always be good, like finding a fairy under a mushroom.

But I could tell he didn't want me to notice him anymore, so I worked on it.

One day, weeks later, I ran into him in a different part of the hallway before his class. This time he spoke, and asked me a question.

He started explaining something about his life, which must have made me panic, because I suddenly felt compelled to share my private perceptions of him.

Instead of comforting him, it seemed to offend him. Somehow my comment shut the rest of the conversation down.

After that semester I saw the student rarely, but each time he seemed to recognize me and feel threatened, as if he was preparing for another volley of helpfulness, or like he'd thought of a good verbal defense against my perception of him and was waiting to deliver it. I would try to avoid looking at him or walking near him.

I passed him on the road the other day, driving. It's been a few years since that encounter. In the time since then it looks as if he's tried to methodically wipe all traces of the questioning look from his face and posture. 

This probably saves him from well-meaning people like me, but it still seems like a shame. 

On the one hand, we have to prepare our face for the world. But I can't help worry that my offhand comment made him try to change himself. It seems like we have to hide so much of who we are anyway. I felt like I might have contributed, in some small way, to this muting and changing process.

I still hate helping people.