Sensing

In preparation for writing a narrative, I ask my students to put away their laptops and phones. “Get out your notebook and a pen or pencil,” I say. “Now for the next 10 minutes write down everything you see, hear, smell, taste, or feel.” I ask students to avoid editorializing on these observations right now— “A list is fine,” I emphasize.

After answering a few questions, I sit quietly behind the computer in front of the room and try not to make any noise.

The students look around, deciding what to record. My rule during in-class writing is that students write for the entire given time. Because I let students drift off topic, this often helps them overcome initial feelings of writer’s block. I know, however, that this particular exercise also requires observation.

Soon the students begin scribbling in their notebooks. Their hands move quickly as they try to capture the onslaught of sensory experiences they are experiencing in a seemingly quiet, visually dull room.

In the beginning, students reach for the low hanging fruit: the sights and sounds that they expect. They note the sound of the rattling air conditioner vent, which the class has complained about several times, and the sight of the chalkboard in the front of the room. Their pencils move furiously across the paper, and some of the students begin to note the sounds of writing.

Soon, they’ve exhausted the things they’ve noticed before and start to sense more closely. Peering at the wall, they notice the peeling wallpaper and the paint below, evidence of previous design choices; a broken tile that might cause a shuffling student to trip; the splatter of coffee on the wall, which surely records someone’s bad day.

About 5 minutes in, I encourage them: “Keep observing, keep writing.” Although 10 minutes seemed too long at the beginning of the exercise, they now realize they will never have enough time to record all their observations. The things they notice begin to avalanche. The ticking of the clock—off by two hours—draws attention to a hole to its left. Was there a speaker there previously? Or is that where the old projector screen hung? Inside the hole is dusty. Stay focused. No editorializing, remember? Some students become more self-aware. One records the taste and texture of his gum. Another notes the persistent itching of a mosquito bite. Many focus on the tightening muscles in their hands and wrists. Others focus on things further away: the leaves fluttering in the breeze out the window, the footsteps in the hallway, the sounds of a movie filtering in from another classroom.

Once the 10 minutes are over, most of the students are ready to put down their pencils. Used to typing, they are physically tired from using a pencil and paper. Still, nearly all of them remark that they could have kept going.

We compare observations and I put the students into groups so they can start discussing the stories behind the details they have recorded. In a few minutes, I’ll ask them to write a paragraph about an experience they’ve had in the classroom, using relevant sensory details from their lists.

This exercise helps students develop more grounded narratives. By becoming more aware of their surroundings, they add less obvious and more engaging descriptions. They notice how the sensory details in a space tell a story.

***

And yet, the ability to actively note each aspect of a situation before applying judgment, extends beyond this writing activity.

Those of us who came of age in the era of police procedurals are not strangers to the importance of the seemingly unimportant piece of evidence. And yet, in our own lives we discard the information that contradicts or complicates our assumptions.

Too often we stay in those first few minutes of assessing a situation. Like the students who can’t imagine what they can write about a quiet, drab classroom for 10 minutes, we judge a situation by the first two or three details with which we are presented. We invent answers before we scope out the entire landscape of a problem, and the result is often the answers are for problems that are misunderstood, incorrectly prioritized, or non-existent. The overflowing trash is attributed to a lazy custodial staff when in fact the previous class filled it with donut boxes, the peeling wallpaper is prioritized over the glitchy microphone, and a coffee splatter on the tile (which could easily be wiped up) is mistaken for a stain.

How often do we jump to the same conclusions about intent or situation in political conversations? We assume or misunderstand intent. We assess blame before examining all the aspects of a situation. We do not see or hear or feel or smell or taste because we shut our eyes, plug our ears, and close ourselves off from new situations.

***

Even when presented with the same room, the same time, generally the same sounds and sights, students write different stories about the space. They select and disregard different details. They employ their own perspective and draw on outside context. They tell stories about experiences that are not shared by all. Yet, even when the stories diverge, they always hold truth.

The space of the quiet, drab classroom is more complex than they initially thought. The world is so much more complex than we initially think. And when open ourselves to this truth, we discover that there are so many different truths to acknowledge and consider and respect.