A Good Rehearsal

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Two days before the first day of class, I walked to the classroom where Theories and Techniques would be meeting.  I was delighted to find out it was not even five minutes away from my office so the convenience of moving from one role - teacher to student would be easy, almost effortless.  I’d just take off my tie and walk 200 steps, plus or minus an elevator, depending on how ambitious I was feeling.  

On the first day of class, I felt emboldened by my rehearsal and stayed in my “teacher” persona until ten minutes before class.  I had, after all, rehearsed to ensure that the transition of slipping back and forth between identities and realities would be as seamless and simple as possible.  

As I walked over I checked to see if the teacher had updated the course learning management system.  She had! There was a syllabus.  I arrived in Klug Hall.  Still with 8 minutes before class.  Plenty of time.  I walked to the end of the hall and realized that I didn’t remember which room? The one on the left? The one on the right?  Was it more likely to be a room with a raked seating and an ampitheatre vibe? Or the one with the chairs arranged in a circle facing the middle? 

I pulled my laptop out to solve the riddle. 

AND FOUND OUT THAT THE COURSE HAD BEEN MOVED TO A CLASSROOM ON THE OTHER SIDE OF CAMPUS.  IN A BUILDING I HAD NEVER EVEN HEARD OF.  

There are so many twists and turns in the next few minutes that I’ll spare you the details til later, but 20 minutes later I was finally in the correct classroom, late for class on the first day, despite my virtuous rehearsal, feeling embarrassed and suddenly very vulnerable. 

Sometimes a teacher can become delusional about the idea that learning is a cumulative arduous climb to the top of a mountain where, during finals week, the students can survey their toil and see how much they’ve grown, how clearly they’ve changed, how they not only gained the summit, but also mastered the process of climbing on the way (a win win for all!). We teachers clap our newly-formed colleagues on the shoulder with a knowing shared smile: it was tough, but this triumph was always as sure as the outcome of a Rocky Training Montage.  

This fantasy that a teacher accidentally comes to trust is borne not of sadism nor laziness.  It’s simply the way that time winnows away particular memories. It arrives because the more or less tragic wounds of learning are too difficult to fully acknowledge alongside all the natural vulnerabilities of youth.

The semester’s experience for me was full of misunderstanding, guesses, conjucture, repentance, glimmering possibilities, embarrassment, enthusiasm, frustration and bits of hope. The ugly feelings did not ease as the easy emotions arrived. The dialectical push and pull felt weighted toward the difficult and honestly without reprieve.

And I’m honestly glad that sliding between these roles was as uncomfortable and conspicuous and unnerving as it was.  One of the greatest parts of aging is how much more capacity you have for all the variants of discomfort, disillusion and demoralization.  You can hold those feelings alongside of the recurring sunrises and moments of satisfaction and unexpected moments of elation. 

Thanks for the memorie, Krug Hall.