I'm of the school of thought that being a good talker requires one to be a good listener; I'm pretty confident I've always been both, but perception is a very subjective thing.
When my parents convinced me to forego the glory of Ivy League academics--in all fairness, my grades played a part, too--I was left with a single option: City University of New York.
I'd achieved the minimum SAT score to gain entrance to the CUNY school of my choice, a feat unbelieved by the college counselor who told me I'd "be better off aiming for the realistic options offered by trade schools like Chubb Institute and Devry." Not many bigger buzz kills than being told you're only fit to enter the highly intellectual world of the free toolbox mafia.
I settled on Brooklyn College because I was resigned to living at home with my parents until an undetermined date. On the day of my orientation, the incoming freshman were feted by the department chairs, who were all decked out in absurd Hogwartian robes, sashes, and, most ridiculous of all, an organ player fumbling his way through Pomp & Circumstance to an auditorium full of denim-clad post-high schoolers.
Later, we made our way out to the quad to sample the club offerings of BC. Almost without any hesitation, I gravitated to the table for WBCR, the college radio station. A club spokesperson mentioned the need for new blood, so I signed up right away.
The station became my home for the next 3.5 years. I met my first real girlfriend there. I learned how to not be afraid to talk. More importantly, I learned how to listen.
Flash forward to 2004, when I was heartbeat away from homelessness, crashing on the bedbug-infested couch of my former boss, a gay opera singer named Jonathan. One night, during one of many nights of wanton disregard for common decency brought on by consumption of illicit substances, Jonathan said, "You used to be a good listener, but now you're as good as deaf." I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but he was absolutely correct. One of my more prized attributes had been jettisoned from my body, a heavy price for placing faith in Alexei vodka and generic Robitussin.
I think I've changed quite a bit since then. In the course of regaining my sense of self, I realized that I could finally be a good listener again. Stupid, I know. But what some people have to say to me--the good, bad, and ugly--means everything to me. I don't always have the answers, but I always have a pair of ears and an open heart for anyone needing to unburden themselves.
