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

0400: Fuzzily awake. Dimly aware that Kalli is leaving to catch a 0630 flight out of DIA. Nuzzle back into my pillow.

0430: Uncomfortably aware that I'm wide awake. Turn on light. Discover that I have one move with which I can checkmate Bill (on Chess.com), so I take the move. Read a scene of I Henry IV. Doze back off.

0645: Awake, but only enough to realize that there seems to be a problem with my alarm, which didn't go off. Quick bath and off to work.

0810: In office and realize I missed a 0730 meeting with my fellow Officers in Charge of the Freethinkers' Club. Ugh. Ok.

0830: In class with my seniors. Low-threat day. I offer to answer any questions they may have about the paper that is due at 1200 hours. Any. Question. At. All. They blink at me and breathe (I think). So I talk about what I'm looking for in a speech, as they deliver their next speeches beginning Thursday.

0930: Second class of seniors. They have many good questions about their papers, which means their papers, in general, will be better (if only because they care enough to ask questions and make corrections—on my time, but whatever). Among other things, I walk them all through the proper citation for an online journal, which is required in this assignment.

1030: Back in my office, answering emails, entering grades, etc. Begin reading a selection of Prometheus Bound, but don't get very far.

1140: In the Heritage Room, where a group of interested faculty (mostly) have a reading group. We're covering certain classics that have insights into sexual assault. Today's selection: Prometheus Bound. (Of course.) Thanks to my having been kinda busy for the past 10 days, I'm under-prepared, but the discussion is still interesting and worthwhile. Among other things, I learn that students sometimes will call Io (fair maiden turned into a cow by Zeus) “Ten.” Overall, though, I learn a lot and resolve to read the entire play this weekend.

1230: I'm back in class, this time with my sophomores, who are reading Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part I. For today, they were to read Acts II and III. I've, erm, sufficiently motivated my cadets with quizzes, so they tend to come prepared. I didn't plan to do anything in particular with Shakespeare today, though, other than answer questions and riff on parts I find interesting or that I just like. Mostly, I planned to return their last graded papers and answer questions pertaining to their grades, my marks, and their upcoming papers. Oh and...one student per class is to “lead class discussion” for about 10 minutes.

In this class, Phil—normally a quiet young man—gives me his discussion questions and plan, so I take a seat in the back and let him go. He provides the timeline of Henry IV's life, the battles he was in, the fights over the crown, and such. Then he asks his discussion questions. His questions turn out to be fantastic. He asks questions like “Why is there so much sarcasm in the first Eastcheap scene? How might this apply to us cadets?” and “Why did Shakespeare even include Falstaff? He didn't need this character to write the history of Henry IV.” And so on.

And the class responds. I let Phil keep going for the whole class. He doesn't need to sit down and I'm not in a hurry, because what I am witnessing is magic.

I finally thank him for his awesome work, the excellence of his research and questions, and return the papers. Class dismissed.

1330: Last class of the day. Another bunch of sophomores. Another student—Mike—is presenting, and I'll be damned if he doesn't do just as good of a job as Phil. Possibly better, but there's no grade above 100. He has thorough notes, which he gave me before he began, and excellent questions. He walks us through the acts we've read for this class meeting, clearly enjoying the Falstaff and gang pranks. And he also easily leads the class in productive, interesting discussion until I have to take over just in time to return papers.

1430: One of my seniors comes by to get help with his speech. Alas...I'll need to read his paper first, so he'll come back tomorrow morning at 0800.

1500: I print out student papers and realize, much to my chagrin, that most of my seniors—despite the time I spent with them this morning and my offers to essentially hold their hands and make sure they got all the “little, insignificant” stuff right, like precisely where I may find a copy of the poem they're writing about—provided little or no detail in their Works Cited list. This is despite my emphasis on including all the required information.

Or perhaps I'm getting so little information because of my harping on this very thing. Seniors aren't above that sort of pushback, I've found. It isn't a problem, though. I'm not above a little pushback myself. They're about to be startled into remembering who holds the power in our relationship, I suppose. 

I send out an email to all of them advising them that I am unable to locate the poems they've written on and will be unable to grade their papers unless they immediately sent me a pdf file of said poem.

Somewhere through there, Betsy—our official Academy historian—pops by to return my copy of In Pharaoh's Army, and we get to discussing our favorite parts. This goes on for a while. We both routinely work later than most everyone else, so we sit down and chat once or twice a week. It's just one of the parts of my job that I love.

1710: I realize what time it is and check my inbox. It is steadily filling up with pdf files.

Yes.

I log off and go in search of Betsy, who is trying to print a copy of a poem for me. I realize that this is “major's night,” and several people are staying late to try to sell our major to the undecided cadets. I normally stick around for this, but I am just too tired (and undernourished, at this point). Woman shall not live by coffee alone. For long, anyway.

I am about to walk out, and say, “Let us go then, you and I....”

Lt Col Pipes is on her way to her office, and says, “When the evening is spread out against the sky....”

I look around, waiting for the next line. It is not forthcoming. (Hey. It isn't everyone's favorite poem. I forget sometimes, in my little world where this poem has its own special altar and everything.) There are a couple of cadets just watching me, so I press on with, “Like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of one-night rooms in one-night cheap hotels, and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells. Streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent that leads you to an overwhelming question. Oh do not ask, 'What is it?' Let us go and make our visit.”

(I'm pretty sure I mangle a bit there, drop word here or there, and perhaps forget entire lines, but I get the gist of it.) When I finish that part, the cadet whose back is to me turns and says, “Did you just make that up?”

Me: It's stunning, isn't it?

Him: Yes!

Me: It's T.S. Eliot. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Check it out. You won't be disappointed.

And that is nice, too. I have just inspired a cadet, if only a little.

And now...pizza and Sleepy Hollow, then bed. It's been a good day. 

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