nascent philosophies

In my junior year of college I took a Moral Philosophy course for fun.  I was already a firmly established English and Communication double major and I didn't need the credit.  I had simply enjoyed the philosophy course I had taken the previous year and was itching for another one.  This was a 200 level course, so the majority of the class were freshmen and sophomores trying to get some general education requirement out of the way.  In a room of thirty students I was the only one interested in the subject matter.  I won't pretend to remember much of the curriculum specifics, but I remember chiming in on most of it.  The rest of the class drowsily doodled and took the occasional note while the professor and I had spirited discussions on normative ethics. 

The only philosopher I remember at all from that class is Immanuel Kant.  I was equal parts enamored of and made livid by his views.  He made me crazy, but he made me think, and every paper I wrote that semester was Kant related.  I doubt I fully understood the nuances of Kantian philosophy back then and I'm under no illusion that I understand or even remember any of it now.  I do remember being utterly exasperated with Kant (or with the professor's interpretation of a Kantian view) on one particular point: it had to do with the idea that feeling happy or satisfied or fulfilled by performing a good work should have no bearing on our decision to perform good works, and in fact, possibly undermined its merit in some way.  Some universal emotionless moral reasoning was supposed to prevail, evidently.  And I agreed that we should choose to do the right thing regardless of personal gains, even those of the harmless feel-good variety.  But it was somehow more noble to be good and decent absent a sense of joy?  I remember throwing my hands up and sputtering, "So Kant would prefer us all to be depressed martyrs, then?"  The professor, with his charming accent that defied placing it geographically, answered, "Yes, I think that is about the size of it."  Again, I don't know if this gets to the heart of Kant in any way, but it is my clearest memory of the class.

At the end of philosophy class one day, a boy with a shaved head who dressed exclusively in black handed me a note.  This fellow Moral Philosophy classmate was also the roommate of the guy I was dating at the time.  I had an inkling that he had a crush on me based on the not-so subtle messages he'd regularly scrawl on the white board above his desk.  One day there was a forest of dark, scraggly trees surrounding the words "The Only Girl Who Talks To Me".  The guy I was dating rolled his eyes when he saw that, which surprised me, because he was generally quite insecure, jealous, and angry.  He clearly didn't see his roommate as a threat.

The note he handed me was a long descriptive account of him trying to buy a soda from a vending machine.  In a nutshell, the soda got stuck and he had to pay an extra dollar to get it to dispense.  He included the wide range of emotions he felt throughout the experience--from mild annoyance to fury to an existential sense of betrayal.  It was an amusing story made hilarious in parts by his faux histrionics.  The letter concluded with a question that was an abrupt non sequitur: "So I'm wondering, do you use your hands to talk, even when you're on the phone?"

It took a few moments before I understood what he was saying.  And I felt my own extreme arc of emotions as it all registered.  I was suddenly hyper-aware of myself gesticulating as I spoke and sparred good-naturedly with the philosophy professor; it was something I'd never really noticed about myself--like the person who doesn't realize how much she says "Um" until it's pointed out.  Self-consciousness gave way to feeling ever-so-slightly flattered--(someone really notices me!)  Then came the all-around unsettled feeling; I felt studied like a specimen under glass.  And as much as I hadn't been aware of my own little mannerisms, I'd been even less aware of the hours I'd been under keen observation.  Only I hadn't, really.  I'd felt the soft burn of someone watching me, but I had ignored  and dismissed it.  Finally there was anger.  This letter was weirdly manipulative, designed to disorient me and force my hand in some way.  Would I tell my boyfriend?  Would I allow myself to feel awkward in his presence?  Would I reciprocate his bizarrely presented feelings.  I opted for none of the above. 

"What do you want me to say to this?  I'm not going to tell him about it, but you know he'd be pissed.  This needs to stop now."

He made a double-edged joke about my boyfriend's temper and about my boyfriend being overweight.

He knew right away that he had done the exact wrong thing.  The first point was fair, but I'd eventually get around to understanding how poisonous it was to date someone with so much self-loathing and jealousy.  I'd end it in time.  But taking such a shallow jab at someone to position yourself as the superior choice showed he hadn't really been paying attention at all.  I was, above all else, a nice person. 

Only he really had been paying attention, I saw, as he shriveled regretfully into himself, knowing that his knee-jerk cruelty had reduced his chance with me from miniscule to zero.

As I walked briskly away I felt the first flutters of being someone who people feel they can take advantage of emotionally.  Being kind to others had always been my moral imperative.  Being kind to myself was a much lower priority.  I felt the burn of tears as I wished I could talk to my professor or to Mr. Kant about the dangers of putting everyone else's happiness and well-being first.