For weeks, he sat at the back of the class, body slumped as far as a body can slump in a chair. Jonah was not one for conversation or eye contact. I often wondered whether he was awake, let alone listening. Like many of the other first generation or undeclared college students who had enrolled in the course, they did not come with eagerness but with instructions from their advisors to explore who they were and develop skills to succeed at college.
The syllabus covered about everything from study skills to time management, career paths to communication, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs to the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), and the goal was not only to equip students with the necessary skills to pick a path, but also to provide them with a place to belong. Classes were kept intentionally small, so that faces became familiar and conversation could flow freely.
But that fall, discussion was anything but easy. It was not my first time teaching the course, and normally midway through the semester, students would settle in and become more engaged in classroom conversation. This time, however, hesitancy hung like humidity in the air. When I asked an open-ended question, the silence was thick. I smiled. I made eye contact. I let the quiet linger. But instead of rustling up the one kid who couldn’t take the silence any longer, the hush remained until I would have to resort to calling out students by name.
I hated it. I could not figure out what was going wrong, because no matter what I tried, invisible walls seemed to exist between us.
We were approaching a unit on family of origin and personal development, so almost on a whim, I decided to try something new. Like any good Midwesterner, I think most things can be solved with a casserole, so I got the idea that we would have a family dinner. Each of us would bring food that reminded us of home. It could be anything from lasagna to dill pickles to a pack of Twizzlers. Nothing needed to be gourmet or elaborate. We were working with college student budgets, so I fully expected bags of pretzels from the dining hall. The only requirement was to bring a food to share and be ready to tell the class how it reminded them of home.
I didn’t know what to expect, so paper plates and napkins in hand, I got to class early the day of the family dinner and moved three long tables for food along the side wall. One by one, students began to arrive bearing not only bags of chips and packs of Oreos, but hot dishes, steam poking out from the aluminum foil. The tables quickly became populated with Tupperware full of chocolate chip cookies, pans of spaghetti, and chicken wings that danced on your tongue before even taking a bite.
The energy in the room had shifted. I invited all the students to fill a plate and sit at the remaining tables I had arranged in a U-shape. Once they all were seated, happily munching away, each student took a turn telling us what they brought and how it reminded them of family or home. It was the most I had heard from them all semester, and while we didn’t crack open a single book or PowerPoint slide, an openness was felt in the room that day.
As the students threw away plates and gathered leftovers, Jonah made his way over to me. Wordlessly, he held out a silver pan, the foil cover now crumbled and peeling back from the edges. I looked at him questioningly, not sure what he wanted me to do.
“My grandmother made it,” he said, inching the pan even closer. I picked up one square of the delicate pastry, still warm to the touch, and carefully took one bite as my other hand caught the fragile crumbs. The baklava nearly melted on my tongue.
“Oh my gosh!” I oohed and ahhed without restraint, letting the layers of honey and pistachio linger on my tongue. I did not want the bite to end, even moreso when I looked up at Jonah and for the first time that semester saw something akin to a smile. Well, maybe not a full-fledged smile, but definitely a half smile with a clear look of pride.
I still dream about that baklava. Yes, it was hands-down one of the best things I have ever tasted, but it was more than that.
In the weeks after family dinner, the class regressed into their not-so-talkative norms for the rest of semester, so long-term I don’t know whether the potluck made much of a dent in the walls or not. But for a moment, looking into Jonah’s dark eyes and seeing the love of his family and his heritage held out before me, I caught a glimpse of how coming to the table can shift the conversation. I saw how something as simple as food can help us return to what we have in common and remind us of the humanity we bring into the room. I saw how silence can melt into softness little by little as we bear witness to one another’s stories and let the icicles of assumption melt away until we begin to see ourselves in the puddles that remain.
So, yes, I still dream about that baklava. And I hope Jonah thinks about it too from time to time.
Because as I look out at the landscape of our current moment, the ways we pull back from what is different and huddle up into our familiar corners, the silence between us is deafening, as if each of us is holding our breath wondering if we are welcome and who will go first. Loneliness surges in the wake of shouting without listening, and narratives run wild in the gaps of what we think we know.
But what might it look like if we come to the communal table willing to sample from each other’s stories? What if we suspended our beliefs and ideas just long enough to set our curiosity free? What if, like Jonah, we took a step closer, offered a piece of who we are, and invited others to do the same?
In the coming weeks, I want to take a deeper look into these questions in a new series called “Alone in Our Corners.” We will look specifically at how polarization (our tendency to let differences create distance between us) may be affecting our increased sense of loneliness—not only in our wider culture, but also within us. The series will include stories, research, and reflections from life and from Scripture, pulled from what I’ve been reading and considering over the last few years.
I recognize this conversation is much more complex than one story, one moment, one classroom in middle Tennessee. It involves systems, identity, values, default narratives, and wounds that have not yet healed along the way. But I hope this deep dive can be a safe space for us to inch closer, ask our questions, reflect on our internal landscape, and consider how we can move toward one another with gentleness, curiosity, and love. And, hopefully, more baklava.
a quick note: Because essay series are more time intensive and niched and not everyone wants to go on that particular rabbit trail, the remaining “Alone in Our Corners” essays will be behind the paywall (quarterly essay series is a new benefit of being a paid subscriber). But (as always), complimentary subscriptions to paid content are always available (just email me at sarah@sarahewestfall.com and we’ll get you set up, no questions asked).
Sarah, I found this to be such a thoughtful reflection. I'm helped by Jonah's risk taking and by your hospitality to host and see. Thank you for sharing.
What a great activity you did. Even if the students retreated after that, at least you got a closer glimpse into their lives.