During my very first college class, in what feels like ages ago, I committed a social blunder that has stuck with me for decades. It was an English seminar, a small group of about twenty students, with desks arranged in a welcoming circle. Our professor, a young, laid-back guy sporting a blond ponytail, sandals, and cargo shorts, told us to call him by his first name. Then came the moment we all secretly dreaded: the icebreaker. Each of us had to introduce ourselves and share one interesting fact about ourselves. Panic set in. My mind raced, desperately searching for an “interesting fact.” But there were none. No exotic birthplace, no hidden talents, no captivating hobbies. I couldn’t juggle, unicycle, or belt out opera. I was drawing a blank.
The professor began on the other side of the circle. As my new classmates started sharing their “interesting facts,” I was only half-listening, preoccupied with my own internal crisis. What kind of facts were they sharing? How impressive did mine need to be? Finally, I landed on what I thought was a clever solution: “My name is Burke, and one interesting fact about me is that there are no interesting facts about me.” I hoped this self-deprecating humor would reveal my personality, maybe even make me seem witty, though a nagging voice whispered it might just sound pathetic.
As the introductions moved closer to me, my anxiety intensified. Then, the young woman beside me spoke. After her name, she announced, “One interesting thing about me is that I skipped a grade when I was younger. I just turned 17.”
The class murmured in appreciation. I paused, ready to deliver my line, but another student jumped in, speaking out of turn.
“I actually just turned 16,” she declared.
A ripple of excitement went through the room.
“Wow,” the ponytailed professor exclaimed.
“You can’t even watch rated R movies!” someone else added.
The class was genuinely captivated. The buzz made it unclear when I was supposed to speak. I felt like I’d have to interrupt the fun with my dull, uninteresting self.
Then, a “genius” idea struck. I could make a joke! On this, the very first day of my college career, I could establish myself as the class clown, the Funny Guy. My new peers would adore me.
When the chatter finally subsided, I said, with a perfectly straight face, “My name is Burke, and one interesting thing about me is that I just turned 12.”
Silence. No laughter. No polite chuckles. Not even a groan. Everyone just stared, including the professor. Then, I heard a whisper from one of my classmates, possibly the 16-year-old, to her neighbor: “Is he really?”
For the record, I definitely did not look 12. If anything, I probably looked older. I’m fairly certain I even had a beard. But to them, it didn’t matter. After another agonizingly long silence, my professor simply said, “Okay…” As my classmates continued sharing their genuinely interesting facts, my face burned crimson.
I became a ghost in that class. I never spoke again. Not a single word. And this pattern extended to most of my classes for the next four years. I’m not exaggerating.
Now, as a college professor myself, teaching mostly first-year students, I have sworn off icebreakers. It’s easy for educators to lose touch with the student experience – I’m guilty of it too often – but one thing I vividly remember is the sheer panic that icebreaker induced. Besides, in my experience, icebreakers rarely break the ice. They mostly just make everyone freeze up.
But the point of this story isn’t to critique icebreakers. I’m sharing it because if you’re starting college soon, I want you to avoid my mistake. And it wasn’t the terrible joke. My real error was entering that first class completely fixated on myself. I responded to the professor’s prompt solely through the lens of my ego: What can I say to avoid sounding dumb or boring? How can I stand out? How can I get people to like me?
These anxieties are perfectly normal, especially at 18 (or 17, or 16) in a new, unfamiliar environment. And, sadly, these self-conscious questions tend to linger even into adulthood. There’s no magic trick to banish those runaway thoughts and fears about how others perceive us. But we don’t have to be passive victims of these thoughts either. We might not have total command over our minds, but we do have some control, right?
I should have paid attention to my classmates’ “interesting facts.” Yes, I was on the verge of hyperventilating, but focusing on what they were saying would likely have calmed my nerves, not amplified them. It never once occurred to me that everyone else in that room might also be feeling anxious, even the professor in his casual attire. Not to mention the two classmates who were younger than everyone else. I could have listened, nodded, smiled, made eye contact, and helped create a slightly less awkward, less isolating atmosphere for everyone.
Instead, I set a disastrous pattern for myself: in every classroom, I retreated inward, maintaining silence to avoid negative judgment. I developed elaborate strategies for arriving early to class. In the pre-smartphone era, I’d bring the student newspaper and pretend to be engrossed in its pages. Or I’d bring my Discman, headphones in until the last moment. Or feign deep study of a textbook. Or scribble random notes. Anything to avoid actual human interaction.
Unsurprisingly, I rarely truly connected with anyone in my classes. It was exhausting living under the false assumption that everyone was constantly scrutinizing and judging me. And it significantly impacted my education. If I was too self-absorbed to learn about my classmates, I certainly couldn’t learn from them either.
Montaigne, in “Of the Education of Children,” astutely observes that “wonderful brilliance” arises from engaging with others. Yet, he notes, most of us do the opposite: “We are all huddled and concentrated in ourselves, and our vision is reduced to the length of our nose.” Getting to know others broadens our perspective. But this is impossible if we remain self-absorbed. And in our digitally distracted age, this lesson is even more critical.
I wish someone had warned me about this back then, so I’m offering you this warning now. I hope you won’t miss out on the opportunities I missed. I hope you won’t become an anonymous, inward-facing presence in your classes. I hope you’ll spend less energy worrying about others’ opinions and more energy genuinely engaging with the people around you.
Walking into a new classroom filled with unfamiliar faces (and a possibly eccentric professor) can be daunting. I understand that. And this might feel especially challenging if you’ve spent the last few years primarily learning online. But here’s a simple challenge for you: whenever you enter a classroom, talk to someone. Put away your phone. Close your laptop. Even if it feels uncomfortable, talk to someone. Say hello. Introduce yourself. Ask questions. Ask about their day, their major, where they are from. Try to uncover their hidden passions. (And if you happen to be the first student to arrive, try this with your professor. You’ll discover we’re human too, and most of us enjoy talking about ourselves.) Resist the urge to hide. Show genuine interest in those around you, and you’ll liberate yourself, at least momentarily, from the draining and often pointless endeavor of worrying about how you’re perceived. This simple act of breaking the ice can transform your college experience, opening doors to connection and learning you never expected. And where to watch this transformation unfold? Right in your classrooms, in your interactions, and in your own newfound confidence.
