The roles we keep

Recognizing the systems of belonging in an unlikely place.

Each person plays their assigned role perfectly. The students stand. The cheerleaders cheer. The marching band plays. The dancers dance. The players on the field push forward and then retreat. Others are less noticeable. The TV sound engineer holds a microphone to catch the action. The photographers snap pictures while dodging the play to avoid becoming part of the story. An administrator talks to a meteorologist on the phone, while another administrator leaves a voicemail about the same call.

I am watching on television, many states away. The game starts late due to repeated lightning strikes in the area, keeping people in limbo for hours. Yet, when the ball is kicked, everyone remembers their lines. I’m captivated by this dense ecosystem found in an American college football game. Not because it is unfamiliar to me, but because it is intimately familiar.

I was once a child in the same building, nervous about the mass of adults around me when the stands began to shake. I became a student and moved to the far side to sit with friends, then by myself, then with new friends. I stood on the field for student orientation, after a big win, and later as part of a student group. I watched the administrator on their phone and felt like I was part of the action.

I left to pursue something bigger, hoping to make a difference in things I cared about. But now, as I watch, I can’t help but think that the real meaning, the true sense of belonging, is right there on my screen with those people. I recognize some faces, the ones who've stayed. I wonder if they’ve found the belonging I’m still searching for. They kept playing the same roles, while I’ve moved on—quitting three jobs in five years because of mental health struggles tied to my autism. I understand the world and myself far better now, with a deeper grasp of how the machinery of modern life operates. Yet, I miss the ecosystem and community that college football represents, with its clear roles and consistency. Autism and ambition have leading roles in my story, though I’m still unraveling when exactly they take center stage.

As the players run their routes on the screen, my thoughts toggle from the systemic to the interpersonal and back again. The differences in the stadium from my time in school are striking. A modern press box soars over the south stands, and the artificial turf looks sharp and crisp compared to the green grass of my childhood. The broadcast shows players waiting out the pregame delay in strikingly modern facilities. What interests me more is that this place, in a state I worked so hard to leave, keeps getting financial investment. I don’t trace the budget line items myself, but I remember how much of this is funded by massive TV deals the conference makes with broadcasters, which has continued in earnest with the ongoing conference expansion. I wasn’t aware of these forces when I was last in the stadium and thinking about them now leaves me confused and reflective.

When the broadcast returns from a commercial break and focuses on a group of students, I feel a pang of nostalgia. Not for student life exactly, but for the weak ties and clear roles found in campus life. I remember walking around campus and even a few workplaces in a past life and recognizing people. Sometimes we would exchange a few friendly words. I think about my implicit belief that if I stuck to my role, I would continue to feel a sense of community and belonging. Somewhere along the line, adulthood, ambition, and autism pushed me into jobs and social spheres that didn’t quite click, leaving me feeling isolated and disillusioned.

Wiping the glaze from my eyes, I see my team has just scored a touchdown. We are on our way to victory and the systems are working.

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Elsewhere [From Scratch]

I also mentor software engineers in a supportive and sometimes silly environment.

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