Misguided Connections

Miss Marple, the famous old spinster of a detective invented by Agatha Christie, had a keen knowledge of human nature. She could understand people's feelings and desires, see through their deception, and, of course, solve all manner of crimes because of her shrewd perception. And it all came because of her life in little St. Mary Mead.

In her little home town in the English countryside, Jane Marple observed the mechanic's hired hand elope with the minister's daughter; she saw her neighbor Gladys's dear niece move to the city to become an actress - which no one expected - and leave behind her job as church organist; she saw the vicar's maid (a very sweet girl) get caught stealing from the church treasury to pay for her nephew's hospital bills. And then, when she was in other parts of the world, her acquaintances would remind her of one or the other the people from home, and she could see right into their hearts.

I feel a little like Miss Marple. Younger, male, and possessing better fashion sense, it's true, but like her nonetheless. You see, here at Hillsdale, everyone (and I scarcely exaggerate) reminds me of someone I've known before. I meet someone, and I think, "Oh, he reminds me of so and so. She is so like Friend X." Like Miss Marple, I think of how Friend X would behave, and expect my new friend to do the same. Unfortunately, it turns out that this practice (in real life, at least) is less likely to solve mysteries than to breed confusion.

Case in point: when I was in line to have my picture taken for my student ID (a wait that lasted 2 hours due to technical difficulties), I was sitting with a guy who reminded me of Alan, an acquaintance from the music school I attended in NH, who was just about the ultimate musician. A quiet kid from a nice large homeschooling family, Alan played the piano for a chamber group, was the principal violist in the school orchestra, and is now getting his degree in organ performance. Well, the kid I was sitting with (I'll call him Marcus) was also quiet, also homeschooled, and also played the piano. He even looked a little like Alan. He must, I reasoned, also be the ultimate musician.

The problem was that he wasn't. Forgetting that my expectations of Marcus's musical knowledge were unfair superimpositions of my knowledge of someone else, I kept trying to make deep, intellectual conversation about classical music.

"What are some of your favorite pieces to play?"

"I like some classical pieces, especially romantic ones."

"Ah, yes, I like romantic, too. Do you know Chopin's Prelude in E Minor?"

"I don't know the name."

(Here I try to hum it, and finding myself unable to convey the feeling of the piece, I describe it.)

"It has a simple melody like that, and the accompaniment in the left hand is a series of chords that are descending chromatically, note by note, creating an impression of deep sorrow, or profound melancholia."

"Yes, well, I like Chopin. I play his stuff, mostly."

"Which of his pieces do you play?"

"I don't know any names."

Stunned silence. Can this be the Alan I know, the musical maestro who practically lived in the music school while he was in high school? Can it be? Oh, wait. No, it can't.

It keeps happening to me. I meet someone, he reminds me of someone else, and suddenly my mind is full of assumptions about his tastes, his abilities, or even his character. Chris reminds me of Richard. Veronica reminds me of Katie. Shannon makes me think of Hillary. Prof. Schlueter makes me think of Dan.

I don't always associate an old acquaintance with each new one. Sometimes I think of celebrities or fictional characters instead. Sometimes I don't think of anyone else at all. Sometimes I can't place my finger on who I'm reminded of; I just know there's some connection in the back of my mind, some bell quietly and indistinctly ringing. But even for the people who most strongly remind me of people I already knew before, the problem isn't permanent. As I get to know people better, their characters take a shape of their own. They become their own person. Sometimes the connections to friends from home remain valid, sometimes they don't. But in the meantime, my dear new Hillsdale friends, if I'm shocked that you don't know about Sarasate's Zapateado, or that you run cross-country instead of swimming, or that you don't already have your Ph.D. in geology your freshman year at a liberal arts school, forgive me. It's just my Marplean view of human nature kicking in. Give me a couple days, and I'll know you for yourself.