He spoke slowly, selecting his words from the shelf space created by our silence. His collar rested slightly askew, as if he had left his home in a rush and had since forgotten he was wearing one at all. The desk in front of me exhaled deeply, scribbling notes as he carefully strolled through each open-ended lecture point. My pen rested stagnant, hovering over my notebook. It was as mesmerized as I had become, listening to Thoreau's lines read aloud: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I could feel that anciently familiar stirring deep within my chest, opening me to this author who just minutes before I had considered "too transcendentalist for my taste." The professor continued to trill that Thoreau had been a brilliant naturalist, and could have become a scientist but had declined. At this my pen seized, and fell.
I wanted to be a doctor. Truly. Yet, there were times that my mind would longingly drift from anatomy to literature. At particularly difficult junctions, my mind would pencil the words behind the back of the eyes, pressing against the inside of my face, simply to give it texture. I watched my pen roll from my desk onto the titled tile, fleeing my scratched notepad. I didn't follow it.
My moment of epiphany quickly turned on its side, weeping broken brakes headed for a guardrail. All I wanted to do was write. I just wanted to write so I could breathe, so I could think. If I could just fucking think for a minute, just get a second. I had been studying science. Science. I could do that for the rest of my life...
At that moment, just for an instant, I watched myself packing a duffel bag. I watched myself purchase a one-way ticket. I watched myself run.
The classroom suffocated me. The walls were lifting me at my wrists and ankles, wringing the fluids from me like a sweaty towel. I placed my face in my palms, pressing the full weight of my head against them. I wasn't going to be a doctor.
I wasn't going to be a doctor.
I finally reached for my wayward pen. "Just because I can do something, does not mean I should." Yes. I wasn't going to be doctor. But, I was going to trek the globe. I was going to hold dozens of tiny faces in my arms and teach them how to read. I was going to fall asleep on a train in India and come back from an Australian beach inevitably sunburnt. I wasn't going to be a doctor. I was going be happy.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Response to the Question: Why Would Anyone Study English?
I watched her squirm in her chair, steadily stumbling along each line of words with the acceleration of an unmanned, downhill freight train. Excitement pressed itself against her skin, testing the strength of its elasticity, building with each syllable that formed at the front of her down-turned mouth. Her eyes flittered upward to mine, occasionally testing her correctness against my reaction. She turned the final page without hesitation, screeching to an abrupt halt with the words, "The End". My eyes welled momentarily as she sprang from her seat and wrapped her tiny arms around my neck. "You did it", I whispered against the hush of the library, "You finished your first book."
We walked to her mother's van just a few minutes later, bubbling with anticipation. "We have some big news!", I couldn't help but well up a second time. She ran from me to her mother's side, and beckoned her mother to bend her ear downward. "Not now", the mother brushed the girl away, as she walked around to the driver's door. "But", my face flushed with a disbelieving anger, "She finished her first book today!". The van pulled from the parking lot with little regard, leaving behind it a trail of dark oil. The tears that had welled for the cause of pride now flowed for bitter disappointment. I could only read with this girl one afternoon a week, and her mother had her every day.
--
"Why don't you go outside today?", my mother yelled over the whir of the vacuum cleaner." I shrugged, continuing to stare out the window. At the age of twelve I didn't say much, or do much for that matter. Most afternoons I simply sat and thought. "Are you sad?", my mother turned off the screaming machine. "Are the kids at school nice to you?" It wasn't that anyone was cordial or not, but that I was indifferent to them. I had things to say, ideas to contribute, but they were blocked somehow, locked behind a dam that kept words from flowing through my open mouth. I often heard my parents quietly discuss my "confidence issues", wondering between themselves if I was socially stunted. Some weeks into summer vacation, my mother was cleaning out her closet when she came across a dusty relic; her typewriter. She placed it in front of me, letting me run my fingers along the keys. For the first time I felt a tug deep within myself. I had found my translator. I spent the next couple days fixed in front of it, feeding it page after page of blank paper until I had typed out my very first short story. It was the story of a girl who had been born without a voice, and cried every day because she had so much to say, but no one could hear her.
--
The little girl ran to greet me the following week, thudding against my knees as she linked her arms around me. "Well, hello to you too!", I smiled down at her, "Why don't you go pick out a book for us today?" She made her way through the library shelves, checking over each brightly decorated cover. Books spilled from her arms as she made her way back to our couch. I knew we would be lucky to make it through one of her fifteen selections, which was exactly what we did. When our session had finished, I slowly pulled a wrapped package from my purse. I watched her face reflect the grave expression of my own. "This is very important", I handed her the glinting package, "You probably won't use this right now, but make sure to keep it in a safe place for later, ok?" Her forehead furrowed as she leafed through the blank pages of the notebook. "What does this say?", she held up the cover to me. "It is a note to you, for later.", a sad smile crept along the corners of her mouth. "But, what does it say?" I traced my finger along the words as I read them aloud:
"Write. No matter what you think or feel, write it all down. Even if no one listens to you, your words are safe between the covers of this book."
We walked to her mother's van just a few minutes later, bubbling with anticipation. "We have some big news!", I couldn't help but well up a second time. She ran from me to her mother's side, and beckoned her mother to bend her ear downward. "Not now", the mother brushed the girl away, as she walked around to the driver's door. "But", my face flushed with a disbelieving anger, "She finished her first book today!". The van pulled from the parking lot with little regard, leaving behind it a trail of dark oil. The tears that had welled for the cause of pride now flowed for bitter disappointment. I could only read with this girl one afternoon a week, and her mother had her every day.
--
"Why don't you go outside today?", my mother yelled over the whir of the vacuum cleaner." I shrugged, continuing to stare out the window. At the age of twelve I didn't say much, or do much for that matter. Most afternoons I simply sat and thought. "Are you sad?", my mother turned off the screaming machine. "Are the kids at school nice to you?" It wasn't that anyone was cordial or not, but that I was indifferent to them. I had things to say, ideas to contribute, but they were blocked somehow, locked behind a dam that kept words from flowing through my open mouth. I often heard my parents quietly discuss my "confidence issues", wondering between themselves if I was socially stunted. Some weeks into summer vacation, my mother was cleaning out her closet when she came across a dusty relic; her typewriter. She placed it in front of me, letting me run my fingers along the keys. For the first time I felt a tug deep within myself. I had found my translator. I spent the next couple days fixed in front of it, feeding it page after page of blank paper until I had typed out my very first short story. It was the story of a girl who had been born without a voice, and cried every day because she had so much to say, but no one could hear her.
--
The little girl ran to greet me the following week, thudding against my knees as she linked her arms around me. "Well, hello to you too!", I smiled down at her, "Why don't you go pick out a book for us today?" She made her way through the library shelves, checking over each brightly decorated cover. Books spilled from her arms as she made her way back to our couch. I knew we would be lucky to make it through one of her fifteen selections, which was exactly what we did. When our session had finished, I slowly pulled a wrapped package from my purse. I watched her face reflect the grave expression of my own. "This is very important", I handed her the glinting package, "You probably won't use this right now, but make sure to keep it in a safe place for later, ok?" Her forehead furrowed as she leafed through the blank pages of the notebook. "What does this say?", she held up the cover to me. "It is a note to you, for later.", a sad smile crept along the corners of her mouth. "But, what does it say?" I traced my finger along the words as I read them aloud:
"Write. No matter what you think or feel, write it all down. Even if no one listens to you, your words are safe between the covers of this book."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)