One of my freshman physics labs was led by a couple of
disciplinarian TAs, and in the first session they immediately warned us to take
things seriously because they weren’t going to tolerate any sob stories about
not having adequate time or “not getting it” – either pay attention or suffer
the consequences, like low grades and/or being blinded if you stared directly
into the laser. Of course, unless they’re very rich, nerds make unconvincing
badasses: We were obviously suffering not by any fault of our own but because
of the humiliation inflicted by their TAs of yesteryear, a grand tradition of verbal
spankings endured for generations by aspiring TAs, all while meekly whimpering
through clenched teeth, “Thank you sir, may I have another?”, praying that this
might gain them entry into the brotherhood.
To teach us teamwork and minimize university outlays, we
were to be paired with a partner that we would conduct the experiments with,
and since none of my friends at the time were following the same “scientific”
path as me it was a certainty that I would be paired with a stranger. The lead
TA approached the table I’d sat down at and was all business: “You two – yeah,
you – get to know each other. You’re going to be together for the rest of the
semester,” he said tersely and then went on to repeat this verbatim with the
other students in the class, salving his emotional wounds two freshmen at a
time.
When we’d been addressed, I hadn’t even looked around to see
who my partner was. I’d just checked to see if the TA was talking to me and was
struggling to make sure he knew I was paying attention, which was difficult
because the lab was on a Friday morning and Thursdays were one of the five
weeknights reserved for heavy partying. With
a hazy head, I turned to find the largest Asian person I’d ever seen. This was
well before the 7’6” Yao Ming would become an NBA household name and I’d had a
pretty sheltered upbringing that only included shorter Asian people, so to me
he cut an impressive figure: At about six feet tall and built like the
Pillsbury Doughboy, he wore a faded jean jacket and a sense of disinterest
accentuated by a lock of hair that fell carelessly across his forehead.
I said as politely as I could, “Hi,” but he just looked at
me with a coolness and shook his head and said, “Oh man,” and let out a low
whistle that suggested either minimal confidence in me or extreme fatigue.
Either way, I took this as a call to action, the haze evaporating and my mind switching
to laser-focus. Leaning in with a serious look, I asked just loud enough for
him to hear, “Have you considered becoming an opera singer?” I apparently
caught him by surprise – his face, previously a mask of either fatigue or
despair went deer-in-the-headlights blank, and then regaining control of his facial
muscles and vocal cords said in a surprisingly high pitch, “What are you
talking about? Ohhh geez,” and again let out a low whistle and shook his head.
He contributed little to the lab, remaining perched on a
stool the whole time with his arms folded. If it wasn’t for the occasional
grunt and low whistle I’d have barely known he was there, and I spent most of
the time doing all of the work and narrating the experiment, occasionally interjecting
offhandedly that I’d heard that Pavarotti had a jet and that the opera after-parties
were crazy. The lab eventually ended and we went our separate ways, he perhaps
thinking that he’d just imagined this or that I’d just been feeling ill that
day and that it wouldn’t come up again.
Of course, there was absolutely no chance of that. I had yet
to learn anything but surface trivia about opera but I felt confident that I
had the tools to mold him into a “star,” and he was in luck because I felt
compelled to guide him. And I knew this was no fool’s errand – I’d once heard
about how the owner of an Irish wolfhound had taken the sheddings and made a
sweater out of them, only to find that it was unbearably hot and smelled
terrible when it got wet, and this was completely unlike that – this was The
Right Thing To Do. Like a young Mother Teresa, these were my first glimmerings
of magnanimous social philanthropy.
The next lab, after the TAs had ripped us a new one and we’d
started our task, I asked in him in a casual tone, “So, have you given my
suggestion any more thought?”, and he looked at me and let out a low whistle.
“Oh man,” he said and shook his head and this time I think he even rolled his
eyes a little. Placing the back of my hand to the side of my mouth, I whispered
earnestly, “You should at least consider taking a music appreciation class.
Your voice is magnificent,” and his eyes widened; I sensed an opening and
followed up with, “Those who have heard your gift would be horrified if they
knew you were squandering it!”, and he let out a low whistle and shook his
head. I did all the lab work again, narrating to him and occasionally pointing
out that pursuing his dream would be “like running away with the circus, times ten”
while he sat on his stool with his arms crossed, only opening his eyes to roll
them.
At the third lab, I was still in a fog from the previous
night and wasn’t sharp enough to coach up my partner, and so after the
requisite tongue-lashing by the TAs I began the assignment in silence. We were
performing the Michelson-Morley experiment (which involved the use of a laser
and the associated danger we had been warned about) when suddenly I heard a
high-pitched mellifluous, “La, la, la, la, la,” and I turned and saw my partner
with a big grin on his face – my charge had been rehearsing! Doubling over (but
carefully avoiding the laser beam), I nearly wept, my selflessness rewarded.
