Mitchell's Story Pt 25

I was in the classroom, more than an hour early, getting ready, my mood, that is. You have to be in a special state to teach. It's like giving a performance, different from the usual frame of mind in which you engage with people. Some of us- I for one- have to ramp up to that- which takes time.

It actually felt good being there, in my work space, having it to myself for now, no pressure. If people only knew how hard we teachers work! The job is more than just showing up for class and doing your thing.

I went out to stop by the library (upstairs)- there was something I had to get; I would be back- and in the hall met some of my students, early at the college for their own reasons, talking together. They were glad to see me and I them, though I somewhat regretted the unexpected encounter. Those students might take it as their cue to go to the classroom immediately and deprive me of the time I still hoped to use for my private meditation- though well-intentioned, they'd bollix things. Rather than relaxing some more, gradually working up to the teaching mood, with their company in the classroom I'd have to jettison myself into that state of mind right away, deal with those people as students. It would be as if my job started an hour early.

They were excited about the class to come and so was I. A guy and a woman, she from Poland he from another part of the world, Bolivia, jet black hair different from her mussed up blond- her free style, intrepidity was winning. I liked her worn jeans, faded denim ripped but fit her well.

I also realized that while a fine thing my excitement about the class was different from the enthusiasm of the students. I was responsible for making the experience worth their looking forward to. I alone had to come with a plan and it had to be comprehensive and specific. What was I going to do with twenty-three or however many people for two hours? The ideas couldn't be vague. In that sense, yes, there was pressure, and every day. It wears on you. Teachers probably age faster than people in most professions.

In the library I picked up the book I wanted, one by Timothy Leary the LSD evangelist. I thought students might find it interesting, the glimpse it offered to an unusual part of American culture. Title was something like "The Red Notes" I don't recall exactly (I couldn't find it that day) and that's what it was, just notes. I remember the cover colors, white (or maybe silver) as well as red.

I thought about Leary's free style, images of him grinning in the days before his death, when he knew he was on the way out. "Just another groovy adventure," he seemed to say. Did nothing ever disturb his bliss?

I decided that whatever else I might do in class I'd probably at some point give the students a "dictation." That's when you read sentences aloud and have them try to write them. It's not a great teaching technique but can be a big help with classroom management. If things are lurching out of control as they sometimes do, I stand up and say, "Okay, dictation!" And the students take out their notebooks with the alacrity of military recruits called for a drill. I always feel a little guilty about doing dictations. It seems undemocratic. A really good teacher should be able to move the class through from start to finish without ever having to impose discipline that way, entrust students to create in freedom. But a funny thing is they seem to like the drill, as people tend to fall in line before dictators. Anyway, I'm not one, just a teacher trying to get through the day. Wish I was better at my job but I do the best I can given my abilities and limitations.

I also planned to give the students some stuff that would require them to think on their feet, yes, to create, invite free expression, provide a structure they'd work within.

It's all about limits and freedom, a balance, is how I see my job and much else. I suppose that's not an original idea but it's genuine, what I really think on the basis of my experience as a teacher, also as a person!

On my way out of the library I decided to take a shortcut, to give myself more time, rather than go the long way around a wall undergoing repairs climbed a grid fence behind a woman student sitting on a bench, almost a couch really, dun-colored- she was reading there, sitting on its surface, probably once bouncy, no longer. As I began the ascent, clambering to gain first footing in the wire mesh of the fence, like a loose fishing net with wood strut supports, it struck me how much I wanted to make a good impression on that unknown young woman just a few feet away absorbed in her book or tablet. I wanted to appear well-coordinated, also energetic. In short, I hoped not to look old, to seem younger than my age. I'm not sure the effort succeeded or, for that matter, whether she even noticed. Keen on her reading, from the start she might not have been aware of my presence so close as I was of hers.

I sometimes wondered: given the demands of work on my time and attention whether I could focus sufficiently on the rest of my life, my marriage in particular. In short, could I give Akemi the sex she needed, the good kind. Was it possible for fucking to become, whatever else it was, a job like any other? To me it felt nothing of the kind, was rejuvenating as ever and I assumed always would be. But people changed. Akemi was younger than me. She needed sex that was energetic, sustained, engine-like, the kind that kept us both grunting. And if I didn't provide that, would she find someone else who could?

No, home like was nothing like my job but for one common feature: pressure to perform, which I tried to keep hidden. If students glimpse a lack of confidence, you're finished. That should not be the case with the person you've married but people are people, each with their own needs.

Anyway, I'm just saying this, not that it's necessarily a problem. The rule is that I can write anything I want here ha ha.