the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

Today was my last teaching day of the semester, and I said goodbye to my 71 "children." 

First, in literature class, we talked about Ann Patchett's Bel Canto, a book that will make you be in love. It's about people who find their passions, find humanity and solace in art, and learn to live in the moment--in an extended hostage situation.  The book is...well, opera in novel form, lyrical and soothing and moving. It was my flex text for the semester. (This means it was the only book I got to pick for the syllabus; the rest are mandated.) It's about individuals who learn to be passionately in love with life and music and art and learning, and I can't teach it without the sort of passion it inspires. I teach it as a book that teaches us how to live. 

Many of my students had actually finished reading it (this close to finals, after their major paper was turned in on Monday? A miracle in itself). A couple told me they'd stayed up until 4am finishing it; not because they thought they had to, but because they were so sucked in. The students wanted to talk about how they didn't like the ending. My response was: "It's opera, though. It's beautiful and moving and ultimately tragic. You were already told up front what would happen." (One of my students had actually complained about the fact that the ending was given away in the first chapter. My response: "Life is not about what happens in the end. It is about how people change over time and learn to live...and that's by far the most interesting part."*)

* Well, yeah. It felt profound at the time. 

We discussed one of the most poignant scenes of the book, in my view, in which one of the Russian hostage finds the translator, Gen, to communicate his love to the world-class soprano, Roxanne, who is being held hostage with them. He has prepared a speech--wherein he explains that how much he and his friends love opera--and practiced it, and a few sentences into it, he realizes that that isn't what he wants to say at all. He begins again, telling her about an amazing picture book his grandmother had had when he and his brothers were children, and how they lived for the moments at the end of the day when she would bring the book out and let them look at the pictures. They were famous paintings, and some nights, they might only get through two pages. She'd taught them that art is not something you glance at but a thing you absorb. He and his brother knew the paintings so well that they knew how many haystacks were in a Van Gogh painting. He ends by telling Roxanne--who has been practicing in the house for months at this point--that he loves her. He follows this by saying that she doesn't need to say anything in return. His love is an all-expansive love, and he has to tell her, while he still has this unique opportunity, what she means to him. He says that it seems to him that the world needs artists, but it also needs those who know how to appreciate art, and he was proud to be one of the latter.

I just wanted to tell the scene, really. I wasn't going anywhere with it--nothing about themes and characterization and symbolism. I wanted only for them to feel the awkwardness, intensity, and beauty of the scene. I finished and they sat gazing at me, rather whimsical looks on their faces. Then I bid them adieu. Thanks for a great semester...they've been a great class. I'm around if they need anything or just want someone to talk to. They could go. 

They just sat there, still looking at me. After a second, I said, "You're dismissed." They still sat there for a while, then a few got up to go. Several came up and shook my hand and told me they'd very much enjoyed the class, and thanks. 

That was powerful enough for me, but around noon, I got an email from a student I've been trying to turn to the dark side all semester (but alas, he's a math man). He wrote:

Maj Black,

I apologize for not conversing in class the past few weeks; with the home situation it has been hard to do much. But I wanted to say thank you for the selection of “Bel Canto” as the last book we read. For a long time I have struggled with the idea of art, particularly music, in my own life. I decided not to go to music school to play the tuba out of high school because of the cost and came to school here. For the past two years I have bottled up my frustration of no longer being an artist, just an appreciator. Reading “Bel Canto” and listening to the class discuss it has in a sense forced to me deal with my issues and for that I am extremely grateful. In addition, thank you for making me a better writer, and helping me appreciate Shakespeare beyond confusing prose."

Wow. Just...wow. It's truly humbling when you occasionally glimpse the profound effect you have on individual lives. 

Then I went to my last classes with my freshmen. I picked up their final papers and their final portfolios and asked them to go online and fill out their end-of-course critiques. A couple of them volunteered what they'd said. Stuff like: 

"Maj Black kept me interested and learning even when I was half-dead." 

"Maj Black should be promoted to lieutenant colonel." 

Aren't they adorable? B)

Then my last class came in. My favorite class. There are only 15 of them. 6th period. The "non-athletes." Two "priors." This class is always engaged and engaging and talkative. They're very bright and funny and they work hard. We have been, in a strange and wonderful way, a family. I had them fill out their end-of-course critiques.

One of my favorites, Ashley, told me, "Maj Black, I didn't tell them about you flipping me off and calling me a bitch. I beg you to remember this kindness when you grade my paper." :D Imma miss her. 

I gave them the "you know where I am if you need me or want to chat" bit, picked up their papers, and told them how wonderful it was having them in a class. I've only had one class like this before; I'm so lucky to have another in the same lifetime. I went around giving high-fives. One student stood up and gave me a double high-five. Then George stood up smiled at me, and shook my hand. By the time I got to the end, Johanna ran around the table and gave me a hug. 

I wished them luck on their finals and dismissed them. They brought the room to attention and reported out. This is perhaps the ultimate gesture of a class's fondness and respect. 

I saluted back and said, "I am not going to cry." 

A few of them hung out with me to talk for a while, Johanna among them. She wanted to tell me that her best and favorite teachers had always been English teachers, and I'd made the list. She was also tickled to learn that she could just come up and visit me if the spirit moved her. 

And Will...he's such an earnest young man, one of my priors. He talked about his major (Aero) which he really wants but how much he loves history and English, and how much he knows both are so important to development of his officership. He wants to go as far as he can in the Air Force, so I suggested he become a rated officer (like a pilot) and that he seek a master's degree in history or English. Etc. I wished him the best of luck on his upcoming marriage proposal, and that if any point he starts having second thoughts or loses focus on the Academy,* come see me and I'll give him a boot to the head. He smiled and said, "Yes Ma'am." :)

* He's the one who, on the first day, told me he really appreciated my introduction to the course, how I was frank about not having gone through college until much later in life, and how it's a different experience for non-traditional students, but worth all the effort. He'd been thinking he didn't really belong in the Academy. He has, incidentally, pulled all A's for his first semester. Do you have any idea how difficult this is at USAFA? 

So. Maybe this reads like a bragging post, but it's not so much that as it is a celebration post. 

I have had a wonderful day. 

Y'all be excellent to one another.  

d