Fusion of Realities

Sep 23, 2008 - 10:20 AM PST

[Note: This was an assignment for my English class last week. ]

I find myself in the library of Quinnipiac University; a building situated in the center of an environment that is still somewhat foreign to me. Glancing around, I soak in my surroundings. There is something about libraries that motivates me to work; the continuous but soothing silence that allows me to feel connected to every other human being: we are all here for the same reason. Quietly, I walk up the green-tinted glass stairs and rest my book bag and laptop on the first open desk in sight. The workspace I choose is located deep within the confines of the library, secluded by tall bookcases shelved with thousands of pages of academia. I open my laptop and unzip my bag, pulling out a medium-sized textbook titled Ways of Reading. I rest the book in my lap and flip to page 750. I begin reading my assignment and soon realize that the words on the page are slowly blurring; I glance upward and stare off at a nearby shelving unit until my eyes lock on a book called Virtual Reality by Howard Rheingold. I get up and take the novel off of the shelf, staring intently at its cover. While I admit that I am entirely disinterested in the revolutionary technology of artificial worlds, the title ignites my thought process. Excitedly, I look down at the page, thoroughly reread the prompt, and begin typing feverishly.

I met Dario seven months after I fell in love with him. Wait, I already know what you want say: “That is totally unconventional of you, Jessica.” Save yourself; my mother has already beaten you to it. Garth Brooks sings an illuminating piece called: “You Can’t Help Who You Love”— needless to say, the idea behind his lyrics rightly describes my feelings for Dario. While unusual, my relationship with Dario became—and still is—crucial to my happiness. In addition, when I began speaking with Dario online, I was a perplexed, self-conscious teenager. I was terrified of confrontation; I hid behind everything and anyone I could find. Similar to Richard Rodriguez in “The Achievement of Desire,” I desired only to refute attention from myself. In addition, Rodriguez states: “From a very early age, I understood enough, just enough about my classroom experiences to keep what I knew repressed, hidden beneath layers of embarrassment” (Rodriguez, 547). Both Rodriguez and I desired to “fit in” as children—not in the sense that we chose to mimic others—but rather, we wished to fall into the shadows, become invisible. Arguably, the beginning of my online relationship with Dario was perfect for my 16-year-old self because my computer served as a buffer between my whole self and him; thus, my “virtual reality” replaced actual reality whenever I sat down to speak with Dario online. The distance between the two of us served as a catalyst for my innermost desires; I was able to shield the pieces of me that I disliked, while emphasizing the parts I wanted to show.
While my experience shares many similarities to Rodriguez’s story, another very applicable text is Kwame Appiah’s “The Ethics of Individuality.” While he speaks of diverse topics in his piece, Appiah comprehensively discusses the condition of an individual leading many paths in his or her life. For instance, a person may be a friend, lover, daughter, sister, or mother. Each of these roles requires certain personality traits and emotional capabilities. While I am in agreement with Appiah’s general principle, I feel that there is a feature of his topic that applies to my circumstance that Appiah neglected to touch upon: when paths in life conflict with one another. For instance, the role I assume when I speak with Dario online is entirely different from the position I accept as a daughter, sister, and friend to the people in my day-to-day life. Interestingly, though, Appiah discusses his inability to live up to his father’s expectations: “Since I always found myself […] in comparison with what my father expected from me” (Appiah, 57). While Appiah’s feelings are similar to my own, they differ in their points of origin. Appiah is mainly distressed because of his incapability of meeting his father’s standards (regarding his mental ability,) while I am entirely conflicted with the ethical role my father—as well as the rest of my family and friends—want me to assume because it is separate from the “fantasy” identity that I began to thoroughly enjoy—the one that included Dario, but made me seclude myself.
Consequently, I began to prefer my “virtual reality” over my genuine reality because the person I wished to be did not coincide with who I was in my day-to-day life. Since Dario was not physically part of my daily routine, I was able to be the person I had always wanted to be during our conversations. Moreover, in “The Achievement of Desire,” the author, Richard Rodriguez, speaks of the distant affiliation that he forms with the scholastic individuals around him. Rodriguez speaks of these relationships: “We did form a union, though one in which we remained distant from one another” (Rodriguez, 561). Similar to Rodriguez’s circumstances, I experienced a feeling of connectedness to Dario while still remaining, what I thought to be, emotionally separate from him. Another important text I found myself in was the classic novel The Handmaid’s Tale written by Margaret Atwood. I believe that my 16-year-old self could truly relate to the main character in The Handmaid’s Tale, Offred, due to the fact that we both reacted in similar ways even though we had entirely diverse situations. Offred, like me, desired another lifestyle, in her case, one from her distant past. In addition, Offred kept her true emotions hidden for what she considered to be her own well being. Offred lives a lifestyle that she certainly did not plan for herself, as she was forced into her circumstances by the officials of the Republic of Gilead, the political group that took over what is currently known as the United States of America. Upon being forcefully governed by the Republic of Gilead, Offred is given the position of a handmaid—an individual who procreates for families who are biologically unable to do so. Offred does this for a prestigious general and his sterile wife in Gilead’s society. Like me, Offred tries to believe in the stories that she creates because they sustain her mental health and allow her to perform her activities in everyday life: “I need to believe it. I must believe it. Those who can believe such stories…they have a better chance. If it's a story I'm telling, then I have control over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it. I can pick up where I left off” (Atwood, 244). Both Offred and I attempted to distance ourselves from our realities at that time by pretending that the roles of our two “realities” were reversed: our actual realities were simply stories that were, as Offred states, eventually going to end. In addition, both Offred and I prefer our manifestations of other “worlds” within our minds: for me, my online relationship with Dario, and for Offred, her past as a common citizen of the United States, with a husband and child. Like Offred, I am well aware of the fact that dreams are lovely things to have, but when it comes to tangible reality, imaginings rarely impact basic survival in a positive manner.

Glancing up from my laptop, I focus my gaze to the right of me and then to the left. Many of the students who were in the library when I began my essay have now retired from their studies. Not surprisingly, though; it is getting close to dinnertime. I stand up and raise my arms over my head in a light stretch. I check my phone in hopes that Dario has text messaged me, and I am pleasantly surprised to find that he has. I respond, smile, and return to my paper.

Similar to Offred’s experience, my outlook on life changed completely due to this other personality that I had formulated for myself. At first, I became bitter, jaded, and unhappier than I had been before. I originally thought that it would only take a change of identity to satisfy me, but I was mistaken. Pretending to be someone else by only presenting certain amiable aspects of myself to Dario did not make me happy. In the moment, perhaps, I was happy with how Dario would respond, similar to how Offred felt whenever she completed a task. Offred was satisfied with following out her ritual, as was I. It was only until I learned to bridge the gap that I became a happier, more fulfilled person. In “The Achievement of Desire,” Richard Rodriguez speaks of finding himself, what he stood for, what he was made of—within a novel. Rodriguez describes a situation, in which his mother questions judgingly, even angrily, about his keen interest in books. Rodriguez’s mother would ask him, “What do you see in your books?” (Rodriguez, 547) Similarly, not many of my loved ones understood the beginnings of my relationship with Dario. Often, they would ask me how I could be comfortable speaking with someone I had never met before in my life: a person who was represented only by a username. Still, to this day, I do not pretend to understand the intricacy of the psychological aspect of my situation with Dario; all I can tell you is that, if experienced with the right person, any type of relationship can truly affect you: in person, online, or otherwise.
Additionally, I have only come to terms with my relationship with Dario—and through that, myself—because I accept life for what it is: imperfect. Appiah delivers an amazing point in his text, “The Ethics of Individuality,” “It can be misleading if we imagine that people stride around with a neatly folded blueprint of their lives tucked in their back pocket” (Appiah, 62). Strangely enough, in hindsight, I do not wish that I could have met Dario in any other way than I did. While the route I took to find love certainly deviated from the norm, I am now sure that being “typical” is overrated. Uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of; imperfection is simply human nature. Relevantly, Hugh Mackay, a prominent Australian psychologist and social researcher, touches on the improbability of relationships in his famous quotation: “Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People, well, they’re irrational.” Realizing this truth, I admitted to my family and friends not only that I was speaking with Dario online, but also that I cared for him deeply. Despite my loved ones’ disapproval at the beginning, I stayed true to myself and pursued my feelings. Not much long after, Dario and I saw one another for the first time; on November 15, 2007, I met Dario at Logan International Airport in Boston, Massachusetts where he flew from Irvine, California to meet me in person. Since that time, we’ve seen one another almost once every month. Unconventional at best, true, but perfect—in a flawed sense, of course—for my 19-year-old self who is far from interested in hiding any longer.

I conclude my last sentence, I breathe a sigh of relief. Not because I am finished with my paper, but because I am proud of myself for telling my story in its entirety. I have never written or talked about it before because I was embarrassed of how I met Dario. Now, Dario and I have been dating for over a year and I honestly feel that it has been the most unusual, beautiful year of my life. What was once confined to technology is now entirely real. I close my laptop and get up, packing my things one by one into my book bag. I grab my phone, check the time, and notice that it’s 9:00PM. I quickly finish packing, zip my bag, grab my phone, and walk down the tinted-green steps of Quinnipiac University’s library. I open the door and begin walking toward the farthest parking lot. I walk hastily, and when I arrive, Dario is waiting there for me. He reaches for an embrace. I extend my arms, smile, and return to my newfound reality: one that has fused my two previous realities to form a better, more universal truth.