On the first day of classes, my first-year students expect me to stride into the classroom with a chivalric gait and a regal bearing. When I roll in, the stunned, vacuous looks on their faces never cease to fill me with the purple, swirling, velvety glee that comes from anticipating and executing the noisy and inevitable dismantling of their expectations. I roll to the table at the front of the class; I put my books and notes on the table, set my bag aside, and roll up to the centre. Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to my class. At this time I’m going to ask that you switch off all your cell phones, pagers, and global positioning devices. I don’t want to be interrupted by hearing the reasons why your boyfriend won’t call you. Chances are the reasons are self-explanatory. Now, my expectations for the term are fairly simple. Show up on time, do the readings, hand in your assignments when I ask for them, and speak regularly in class. If you fail to live up to these expectations, I’m sure that there are many courses in refrigeration and basket weaving that aren’t full yet. Because this is a survey course on British literature, we’ll be moving fairly quickly. Starting in the Romantic period, working our way through Dickens and the Victorians before ending up in the Modernist period. Therefore it is imperative that you complete the readings on time. If there comes a time you have not done the readings, and I’m quite good at spotting those people, I will ask you to leave the classroom, because you are not only wasting your classmates’ time, but you are also wasting my time. Another thing—if you happen to have a disability and you require certain accommodations, please feel free to email me so we can discuss them. You may also contact disability services on campus. They can help you as well. Are there any questions? No? All right. The class looked anxious. Staring at their laptops or playing with their pens. Now, I said, to begin the course, I have a little quiz for you. How many of you are familiar with T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men”?
The students seem to look younger every year. Twenty-year-olds five years ago looked older than twenty-year-olds now. Their expressions carry less weight. Their brains are like tar pits. I can almost hear the goopy little sucking noise when I give them information: it lingers on the surface for a moment before sinking into that clenching black oblivion. The few who do understand the texts usually say little in class, letting their essays do the talking. And by the time they graduate they’ll have forgotten all about Lady Chatterley and William Blake and the dubious morals of the Ancient Mariner. All they want is the piece of paper saying they graduated. Then it’s a lifetime of mortgages, marriages, divorces, child support payments, stomach ulcers, and recreational hockey. Too many of them seek to be merely satisfied, letting the tar harden so that anything else they learn merely skates across the surface. It’d be heartbreaking if I didn’t have my own reasons for teaching. Teaching for me is hardly a public service. I’m not Annie Sullivan. Rather, teaching is a means through which to enjoy my favourite books over and over again. And although they may say otherwise, I’m pretty sure many of my colleagues feel the same way. We all like the sound of our own voices as they hover over the heads of a few dozen pupils. If a student happens to be taken with the subject and decides to make a career out of it, that’s wonderful, but it’s more out of his own initiative than any direction I’ve given. I do not inspire people. I’m much too callous, much too grounded. I merely present ideas. My students can take them or leave them.
No complaints after the first week and a half. Three students dropped my British survey course and four dropped my third-year study on Eliot. I imagine the complaints will come when the students really begin to know me. Our discussion of Lawrence’s frank language should fetch a call or two from McTavish.
They make me think of Randal, these students. They make me think of how far ahead he is intellectually speaking. They make me proud and grateful to have him as my nephew. He sends me emails sometimes. Jokes and musings. I look forward to them.