Homesick, Part 1: The Pool & Chronemics

In high school, if one were tardy to gym class too many times, the punishment was to swim laps in the pool during “Excel,” the 20 minute break between classes in the morning. During Excel, most everyone sat in the halls against the lockers in their clicks. Sometimes there were errands to run or that last-minute homework assignment to scribble out before the next period. Usually, this was time for gossip.

I had not been tardy and I had not been punished, but one day, I did not sit down with any friends during Excel, but I walked through the crowded senior hall and through the double doors beyond the lines of maroon lockers leading to the pool. There was something I wanted to do.

By senior year, I finally had enough confidence to be myself, to be 100% (or maybe 95%) myself. I wish this were true now. Then, I felt genuinely loved as a unique, “interesting,” and outspoken individual who quietly walked to the beat of my own drum and could still be respected, even admired by my friends and peers. That year I had a lot going for me because I finally had the guts to go for my dreams. I was president of the National Honor Society, which was more difficult and demanding than expected; I decided to set aside my self-consciousness and preconceived notions about the drama kids and try out for the Shakespeare play, in which I had a great role in The Tempest; I tried out for All State Orchestra for the first time and won first chair; I received other geeky band and music awards that I wasn't embarrassed about; I made friends with people I’d never been friends with before; I changed my hair; I was asked on dates for the first time; I didn't mind dressing up in odd festive outfits on holidays "just for jollies," as my bass teacher would say.

On this particular day I had put my swimsuit in my backpack, and during Excel, I took off my clothes, put on the blue and black suit I’d had since middle school, and stepped across the cold tile of the poolside. The water was perfectly still with not one ripple in it. There was no one there.

I jumped in.

I am a terrible swimmer; I cant’s swim in a straight line, I hold my nose when I make the leap, I keep my head above water, and I have terrible form. I hate swimming because it messes up my fro-ish hair (see former entry Black People Don’t Swim), and I rarely go swimming of my own free will.

But to be alone, to swim alone, in a quiet pool, away from the hoards of jabbering people crowding the hallway—this seemed like heaven. I was just so happy to have an entire pool to myself.

The bell rang, and everyone went to class, but I took my time. I enjoyed that last moment of warmth after your body has acclimated to the chill of the water. I took my time drying off, dressing, and pinning my curly hair up.

I walked to art class and was late.

This is the time in my life when I developed a disregard for rigid schedules, meaningless minutes, and slaps on the hand for tardiness. I resent living by a clock. I am rarely upset when I’m late to something and almost try to be later when someone else’s anxiety is building up because they think the world will end if we are “late”--whatever that means. I don’t think I’m late. I just think it’s a coincidence that a group of people can choose to arrive in one place in the world at one particular time, and maybe they happen to be in that one place before me. I am amazed that bodies of people can congregate within seconds of each other and stare down anyone beyond the minute mark with absolute contempt.

No one can tell a flower when to bloom. I just made that phrase up, and I think I’ll keep it.

For example, in the moment you arrive at class at 7:59am with one minute to spare, I can bet you a hundred dollars that the homeless man asleep on a bench in Central Park at 9:59am Eastern Standard doesn’t give a damn. You can give me that one hundred dollars and I’ll give it to that man, and it won’t matter what time it is when I give it to him--he’ll appreciate it either way, unlike you not appreciating whoever arrives after you do.

This attitude or cultural mindset is one characteristic identified by anthropologist types as polychronicity (versus monochronicity; i.e. anal-about-time-ness).

I hate to quote Wikipedia, but I love this description in the article “Chronemics” and use it to justify my perpetual tardiness: “These [polychronic] cultures are much less focused on the preciseness of accounting for each and every moment. As Raymond Cohen notes, polychronic cultures are deeply steeped in tradition rather than in tasks—a clear difference from their monochronic counterparts [such as in the United States or the UK. Think White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland]. Cohen notes that 'Traditional societies have all the time in the world. The arbitrary divisions of the clock face have little saliency in cultures grounded in the cycle of the seasons, the invariant pattern of rural life, and the calendar of religious festivities' (Cohen, 1997, p. 34).

"Instead, their culture is more focused on relationships, rather than watching the clock. They have no problem being 'late' for an event if they are with family or friends, because the relationship is what really matters [italics added]. As a result, polychronic cultures have a much less formal perception of time. They are not ruled by precise calendars and schedules. Rather, 'cultures that use the polychronic time system often schedule multiple appointments simultaneously so keeping on schedule is an impossibility.'"

My former roommate Angel, valedictorian of the Anthropology students, might I add, noticed that I seem to be polychronic (and proud of it!) after studying chronemics in a class. I really struggled at BYU because of this; I was surrounded by individuals who associated punctuality with the worth of one's soul: tardiness is the devil, it is laziness, it is idleness, it is sin.

Towards the end of my student career, I admit to sleeping through classes, coming and going to lectures and events on my own schedule, even sleeping through a midterm and my own presentation--I was even embarrassed by that. All I can say is thank heavens for the empathetic professors in the world. But my perception of time, in this minute-by-minute society (which has roots in the Industrial Revolution, might I add), is part of the reason why 9 to 5 work, especially office work, is . . . well . . . repulsive to me.*

P.S. This is not what I planned to talk about when I began this entry.

*Future employers who don't want to hire me on this point and friends/family who work 9 to 5 in swivel chairs and may or may not be offended, please disregard this statement.