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Paine Proffitt
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As I drove up Highway 280
on my way to Alumni Day, the weight of winter semester
began to lift. I teach at a community college in Southern
California, and my patience with student excuses was
running thin. I cringed at stories of emergency hospitalizations
of relatives, which seem to occur with greater frequency
during midterms and finals. I greeted late arrivals
with a glare and scolded the more blatant tardies—those
accompanied by bustle and noise and not the body language
of abject apology—about disrupting the flow of
ideas. As for ringing cell phones, suffice it to say
that if I were tenured, murder might seem the perfect
solution.
The czar of classroom rectitude, I had launched a zero-tolerance
crusade. I would never be late or miss an exam,
I grumped.
Maybe it was in the spirit of re-experiencing studenthood
that I set off for Alumni Day, where I could be the
perfect pupil taught by perfect professors.
I got on the road later than intended that morning,
but with plenty of time, I thought, to get to the 10
a.m. class. When I exited at Page Mill, things looked
vaguely familiar but not familiar enough. After a series
of wrong turns, I somehow made my way to campus. However,
I’d left behind the information on where to register.
For the first time, I understood my students’
refrain, “I don’t know—it just happened.”
I decided to head for the Alumni Center. After getting
lost three more times, I stumbled across it. By then
it was 10:50, and biologist Paul Ehrlich’s lecture
was just ending. As my students say, “I was so
late, it didn’t seem worth going in.”
Feeling sheepish, I joined the other alumni at the
coffee break. “What did he say?” I asked,
the slacker trying to crib notes off the stars. “Nothing
earth-shattering,” a man replied. “Mostly
about overpopulation and how we have about a century
to turn it around.” I mentally filed this away
in case anyone asked me later.
Determined not to be late for Elizabeth Tallent’s
lecture on creative writing, I arrived 10 minutes early.
Seats were filling fast at the long seminar tables.
“Uh-oh,” I thought. “We have to talk
in this one.”
Elizabeth asked us each to write the first sentence
of a novel. “I can do that,” I thought.
Then she added, “...a sentence about the person
to your left, avoiding words like pretty, beautiful,
young—a sentence so irresistible that the reader
is compelled to go on.”
Whew. I looked at my neighbor. An elegant woman with
wavy dark hair, she wore a colorful scarf and comfortable
shoes. I put on my paper, “She is determined.”
Then I read it over, realized it met none of the requirements,
and crossed it out. “She is determined, as though
she had driven...” That sounded too much like
“It was a dark and stormy night.” I started
over. “She gazed around the room as if it were
the first time she had been there, even though she had
been there more times than...”
“Time’s up,” Elizabeth announced.
We reluctantly put down our pens. She asked for volunteers
to read their sentences. I avoided her gaze, as my students
do mine.
A pretty, young woman (sorry, Elizabeth) sitting in
the corner raised her hand: “She woke up this
morning, painted her toenails a bright blue, and debated
whether to apply a second coat.” Applause and
laughter. Another woman read: “This is an account
of Pamela’s dating life as an undergraduate.”
More laughter. Pretty soon, everyone relaxed. A spirit
of generosity filled the room, as if we were all in
this together. I felt exhilarated, and humbled.
The following Monday, as students drifted into my morning
class 10 minutes late, I told them that I had been a
student over the weekend. They became very quiet, unsure
where this was going. I told them that I had mistakenly
missed the first class. I recounted my cheap attempt
to get notes, and my apprehension during the writing
assignment.
They began to laugh. One latecomer raised her hand
and asked why I was telling these stories. I said I
felt—hoped—that the experience had made
me a better teacher. Then I told them to turn off their
cell phones.
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