How The Word “We” Morphed My Perspective— And Refocusing On The Self

Small words had a big impact on my choices. This is what I (un)learned recalling a moment with my college English professor.

A Royal Mistake

It was right before the pandemic in Spring 2020. I believe I was a sophomore in college at the time. Little did we know of the trials and tribulations that would soon come.

That’s not the point though. I was in an English course, reviewing my latest essay with my professor for feedback. There was something she said in particular that’s stuck with me since.

She asked me if my use of the word “we” was a royal we. I wasn’t sure what that meant at the time, but I assumed it meant when “we” solely referred to me and not a plurality of people.

And so I said yes. It was indeed.

I have to paraphrase as I don’t remember her exact words. But it was something along the lines of this.

“I know in high school you were taught to use ‘we,’ but in college, we use ‘I.’
You want to own your thoughts.”

This idea made me reflect on everything I ever learned in school, how I utilized that knowledge, and the ramifications they had on my thoughts, actions, and perspective.

Turns out, the effect’s been more significant than one’d expect.

School’s Out

As noted by my professor, I was taught differently in high school. Using the word “I” supposedly made you sound too casual. Enough so that points were deducted from your paper if you used it in most essays.

But there aren’t many pronouns that “I” can be substituted with. Nowadays I like “one” as an alternative. It can sound spiritual and a bit pretentious, but it fits the contemplative feelings I write with. It doesn’t sound right in a school essay though.

I needed a word that referred to myself and was grammatically correct. Me couldn’t sound like a caveman. Nor could Justin speak like a character with a third-person speech quirk.

I could only think of one word that fit — “We.”

And so “we” became integrated with my writing assignments.

I didn’t believe. We believed.
We should do this. We are.
None of us. All of us.

But as aforementioned, I had no idea what the “royal we” was before my professor mentioned it. When I first heard the term, I thought it was called royal sardonically to ridicule its pretentiousness.

But it turns out, actual royals used it to refer to themselves as a singular person. Either way, I was always under the notion “we” was an all-encompassing term to strengthen our persuasion.

When I wrote an argument “we” thought back then, there was an implication that everyone else was (or should be) in accord with the idea presented.

There was no “I think,” because that made you exude uncertainty. You had to be assertive to change people’s minds. Show your authority and unfaltering resolve in your ideas. You have the answer and the solution. And you already knew it was right.

We think this.
We do this.
We are this.

One could guess how this could affect my perspective over time. Maybe this was a reason why younger me struggled to understand ideas that differed vastly from my own.

Perhaps I’d subconciously conditioned myself not to even consider the possibility of their existence.

The world was binary. There was only good and evil — right and wrong. The right ideas garnered an A+. The wrong ones were marked with point deductions.

This isn’t to say school was completely wrong. But I’ve reflected on what I learned in academia. Now free from the judgment of grades, I have to ask myself — was everything I took away from there truly right?

Or perhaps I should rephrase that.

Was everything right for me? Or were some ideas not so helpful?

The concept of debate was another tricky influence. The event was something to be won by outwitting your opponent. My memories might be false, or perhaps this actually happened, but I remember this.

We were told that in debate, we must consider the other side’s ideas and perspectives…

…In order to come up with a rebuttal for them.

That was the sole purpose. To consider the opposition’s argument, just to explain why it was wrong. Even if you were convinced they were right, you had to keep refuting their points. Because that was the game.

I realize, to quite some embarrassment, that many thoughts I had as a teenager closely followed this influence. Seeing the other side wasn’t to gain understanding, it was to discover an exploit or weakness and shut them down.

Lest I bore the shame of being wrong — the loser.

Consciousness And Ego

School was a significant influence on the way I thought and wrote, but I can’t attribute my choices solely to them. I had my own decisions and reasons for avoiding ownership of my words.

I was hesitant to use the dreaded 9th letter of the alphabet even when I began writing these reflections. It sounded so self-centered and egotistical to talk about “my experiences” and what “I did.”

All about me. Me, me, me.

Every choice had its problems though. Nothing felt right to write. As discussed, “we” is discomforting to me now. It feels like assumptions are being made to drag one into a group. “Who’s we?” one could say.

Then there was the option of addressing the reader directly with “you.” But that word makes me uneasy too. It’s like when a teacher asks a question, and there are 30 other students in the class.

You think there’s no possible way you’ll be called on. But deep down, the anxiety is building rapidly as you think of what you’re going to say in case it happens and —

“YOU”

And then all panic ensues.
For my socially anxious self, at least.

No words seem to be without discomfort to me. Everything has a risk of conveying myself in an unintended way. But I had to choose if I was to convey anything at all.

“I” was by far the least egregious option.

I have authority on the topic by default. Even if I don’t fully comprehend I myself, no one can understand me more than I do. And so I can be confident in my words without forcing it.

I speak from what I actually know. My honest thoughts on my experiences — free from external influences, and written for me. No perceived need to prove or gain affirmation, but simply to reflect and gain insight.

My words may sound less confident when I say “I believe.” But that conveys my feelings more truthfully. I‘m not perpetually confident and unfaltering. I still have my doubts and insecurities.

To present otherwise would be a fabrication.

I may not be as assertive, but why would I want to be forceful anyway? I’ve always found there’s more significance when I take ideas for myself. Because I know it’s a decision I make for my benefit because I feel it’s right. Not out of pressure, guilt, or concession.

I can hardly go wrong when I write in terms of I. If I were incorrect with my notions, the only person really affected is me. I can take greater risks, and delve into deeper topics about myself.

Being incorrect in my self-directed ideas only serves to help me. Even in the past few months, many notions I’ve had have become dated. But each misconception only uncovers more. It’s one step closer toward understanding, and finding what’s right for me.

That couldn’t be said if I hadn’t focused on introspection.

The Paradox

Ironically, my beliefs were most volatile when I was least willing to consider other ideas. Perhaps my age, and the insanity of my earlier youth, were a factor. But the fear of being wrong was likely the main culprit.

I was constantly terrified during my teenage years. There was pressure everywhere, from school to social media. To think something, be something, do something. To remain silent meant I was a complacent devil.

And so despite my lack of knowledge, insensitive to what I was truly saying, I asserted my ideas on everything. I feigned absolute knowledge and morality, vehemently refuting the opposition.

I “had to” do it to prove myself.

But little true confidence came with such a weak basis for my beliefs. The assertion of my values had bark, but not bite. Not to mention, many were plain absurd (though hindsight is 20–20).

As soon as another idea conflicted, and it was insinuated my own notions may be the pinnacle of evil, I panickedly rushed to change them. Even if I had reservations, to not adhere was to be a demon.

I scampered to reclaim my perceived status of righteousness by following these demands. That’s what I told myself I had to do and had to think. Regardless of the ramifications.

Yet I also did what many, including my present self, would consider unrighteous. Perhaps subconsciously, I became fed up with this fear of judgment and viciously rebelled against every notion I heard. That was my middle finger, “screw everything” moment to the world. The moment I snapped.

But through this, I developed and held onto my most heinous, destructive habits for years. And I’d become the very thing I opposed. But no matter what came from it, the alternative was more terrifying to me.

I couldn’t be wrong. To be so was worse than murder, and deserved only death.

The other side to that realization is this. I gained a larger understanding of differing ideas in my present. Even those I once deemed insane. It’s not so black-and-white anymore. Yet at the same time, I have many beliefs I refuse to budge on either.

This unwillingness is different though. Rather than rejection for the sake of refutation, my beliefs stem from what I know has harmed me, and what harm I’ve caused with such ideas.

In the same vein, I know what’s helped me, and what I can foster with certain notions. I still have much to learn, but I’ve gained many experiences and insights since my high school days. Because I’m confident in what I do know, I’ve become content with what I don’t.

I may be wrong again, but my failures can now only affect me. With a present focus on the “I,” they can only better myself. I become slightly less wrong, and perhaps eventually, I’ll find my “right.”

As a result, I’m more comfortable with my beliefs. And naturally so.

The need to prove my values and viciously combat others, was because I couldn’t believe in them myself. And so I desperately fought to preserve these fragile morals. Giving way to a dark phase, and some of my greatest misdeeds.

To say the urge has fully dissipated in the present is a lie. Resistance is not an easy task. I was writing another article before this, reflecting on how certain notions had affected me. But I felt uncomfortable deep down.

Then I realized why.

I was focusing not on introspection, but rebutting. This was an idea from the “other,” and this was why it was wrong. While there’s a place to refute ideas that have affected me personally, I had to question the intent.

Did I do so to heal and move forward from harmful notions, or was I prematurely considering every opposing idea as an easy target? To reaffirm what I already believed, for the sake of faux righteousness?

I deleted what I wrote. I have to find a way to reframe my words when I redo it. A way that shows I’m confident in my values — not weak.

My ideas are for me, first and foremost. They serve to guide and help me. And that’s all that should matter — at least to me. Perhaps they may serve some purpose elsewhere. But that’s not an outcome I can, or want to influence.

It’s an endeavor that’s futile, and in my past, has shown to easily become insidious. That’s a mistake from my adolescence I hope not to repeat.

An idea cannot change, let alone force one’s mind. Only I can change mine. And my ideas are no different. They can’t, nor should, usurp that credit from others; assuming to conform is even credit-worthy at all.

But they have their reasons for existing — a place and significance somewhere.

My thoughts need only seek for mine.