July 11

I hang my camera carefully from the armrest to the right of me. I squish my purse between my thigh and the red -cushioned seat. One foot tucked tightly behind the other’s heel, knees involuntarily kissing, tilted toward the gap between seats in front of me, water bottle in the cup holder, notepad on my knee and I’m ready for the movie to start rolling. This little routine has been my life two to three times a day for the last five days. As cramped as I am in my single, straight-backed seat, when the film flickers on, the seats next to me glow from the light on the screen. They are empty. The next closest person is a few chairs away, snuggled into her significant other, and I realize there is something to be said about the power of solitude.

Being alone is an issue I’ve been dealing with for many years. But instead of feeling insecure when I find myself alone, I always feel more comfortable by myself. Given the choice, I would almost always choose an afternoon reading in my bedroom than calling a friend to do something. And that’s exactly the thinking I’m trying to shake. Maybe the idea of being alone has been on my mind lately, but each film I’ve seen at the Fleadh has spoken about the importance of solidarity and the ways we connect to each other. Although, I suppose it could just be a really popular topic to make movies about. In any case, this film is no exception. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a modern-day Johnny Got His Gun where a former French Elle magazine editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, wakes up to realize he is completely paralyzed from a massive stroke and unable to communicate except through blinking his only working eyelid. As frustrating as the first 45 minutes seeing only out of his perspective—a blurry, disjointed, tilted angled view of the world— it is soon evident that this story is a hopeful one.

The woman two seats away from me sniffles loudly. I scribble notes on my notepad, tilting my knee toward the screen so I can see what I’m writing. Twenty minutes later and I consciously wish she would stop sniffling so audibly. Admittedly my eyes are smeared with tears, but they are silent tears. Can’t this woman control herself? I think.

The walk home was an interesting one. Mostly because I don’t remember walking home at all. My head was entirely engulfed with thoughts about why exactly I was crying, how Jean-Do’s life paralleled Dumas’ Count of Monte Cristo, how someone could painstakingly dictate an entire memoir in 10 months using only their eyes. I thought about how each one of his relationships was strained and how frustrated he was when he couldn’t be who he thought he was anymore. It wasn’t until I ran into Molly on the gravel path behind our dorms that I realized what I was really lamenting: a way to share this. Suddenly I envied the sniffling woman. She clearly was moved by the film, much like I was. But when I opened my mouth to tell Molly everything that was going through my head, no words came out. Sniffling Woman didn’t need to find the words to share how powerful Jean-Do’s story was, the shoulder supporting her was there the whole time, listening to her gasps, feeling her sobs.

There is absolutely something to be said about the power of solitude. But sometimes, I am blown away by the power of solidarity and how much more we can understand just by being with someone.