A river is perpetually in motion, always changing, yet remaining the same, simultaneously at its beginning and its end. A river runs where it does, it does not favor a curve nor avoid a bend, but takes each as they come. Like the protagonist in Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, I’ve struggled to find my way through the river. No matter where I went or from whom I sought answers, I found no satisfaction, no connection. I was swimming in the rapids, barely keeping my head above water when all of a sudden I was pulled aboard a ferry. With my aunt, like Siddhartha’s ferryman, I found a place to which I could escape, where I could play, think, and ask questions without fear of judgment. It was my refuge.
At the start of ninth grade, the water calmed. I felt like I was emerging from an endless and violent storm. It seemed to me that I had conquered the mighty river, that from here on out it would be smooth sailing. In my eagerness, I held so tightly to my new relationships that I brought about their end. And all of a sudden, the current quickened. I had almost drowned when my ferryman returned. She helped me up, let me move in, and showed me the tools with which I could build my own ferry: she introduced me to her friend, a French teacher. Under her tutoring, I felt proud of myself for the first time. I learned that in French there are two verbs for our “to know.” In English, we claim to “know” people and places like they’re facts, depriving them of their complexity and nuance. Perhaps, there was more to me than how I was “known” by others?
More ferry-building opportunities soon came. A French class trip to Québec, a chance to feel what it might be like once I could escape the river. But as it drew closer, my fear grew. I was terrified at the prospect of swimming out so far, far from my ferryman, far from my refuge. Ashamed, I withdrew from the trip, and feeling like I’d given up an opportunity to show my ferryman what I’d learned, I dove off her ferry and swam back home.
Thanks to my ferryman guiding me to French and the wisdom therein, I decided to take a philosophy class. I was doing what I could to prepare my future while avoiding my present. But the river curved in a new direction. Another opportunity to simulate the escape came with a trip to Greece. I was certain I would find nothing but isolation among my peers but nonetheless I was determined to go. Then, within the pages of Huis Clos by Jean-Paul Sartre, I found an explanation as to why I felt trapped by others’ perceptions of me: I was constantly changing, but in their eyes I was fixed. Knowing this, and remembering the nuance French taught me, I found anything but isolation. Despite my expectations, I felt at home with my peers. And when I returned to my actual home, it was different. No longer did I feel I needed to seek refuge with my ferryman, I wanted to swim about with my new friends. I was having such a good time, I forgot I was still in the river.
The following summer, I read Siddhartha, and I realized that it was the river that had brought me to where I was and that I needed to trust it despite not knowing where it would take me. And I realized that’s what my ferryman had been subtly teaching me all along. There’s no leaving the river and there’s no point in fighting its current. When my ferryman offered me shelter, she wasn’t giving me an escape or an answer, she was giving me the space I needed to understand the river for myself.
