the Infamous poem

Now Playing: Beethoven's 7th Symphony (as always!), first movement.

Today was Honors class, and time to show Dr. G my ridiculous poem.

I was the first to enter the room. The class meets in the Dean's "conference room", around a long wooden table shaped like the body of a paramecium. The room attempts to be warmly imposing, Oxfordian, but fails somewhat, because it also attempts to be modern and avant-garde. The severe modern style makes the room feel cold and sterile instead of warm and welcoming.

Anyhow, I was first in. As I sat down, I planted my bit of poetry at the head of the table, where Dr. G usually sits (except, of course, when a student usurps his place). I had to leave the room for a bit, and when I returned, the table was almost full. People were chatting and arguing about classes. Rachel came in and sat down beside me. She glanced at the sheet of paper lying innocently at Dr. G's place and gave me a conspiratorial grin.

A few moments later, Dr. G entered the room. He strolled down the table until he came to his seat. Noticing the paper, he picked it up and scanned the first couple of lines. "Does anyone know who left this?" he inquired. The other students turned from their conversations. "I think it was someone in the last class," Morgan ventured. Dr. G shook his head. The students returned to their talk. Dr. G settled down in his chair, delicately unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them back as he always does. Then he lifted the paper with my poem on it and began to read carefully. I glanced at him, keeping a straight face, then glanced at Rachel, who smiled a little. Then I stared at my lap, toying with my pen.

Slowly, the rest of the class realized that Dr. G hadn't begun class. Conversation tapered off. "What're you reading, Dr. G?" one of the boys, named Russ, asked. Dr. G was silent. Russ put his question several times, but still Dr. G was silent. Covertly looking up, I saw a smile hovering on his face, but he was quiet.

The whole class was hushed until he had finished reading--the minutes crawled by as slowly as this past week has done. I sat, twisting the cap of my pen around, anticipating what he would say, the same way I've spent this week, waiting anxiously for the break.

At last, Dr. G looked up, his face blank.. "Will anyone confess to this?" he inquired. Silence. "No one wants to own up? Who wrote this?" he asked again, his voice level, empty of sentiment. Russ waved his hand jokingly. "I wrote it!" he volunteered. Dr. G shook his head. "No one?" he said. I stared at my hands. They were chapped, the knuckles red, the skin between my thumb and forefinger peeling.

"Read it!" someone commanded. Several people chimed in. "Read it, read it!" they pestered. "I'm reluctant to read it without attributing it," he said. I glanced over cautiously and noticed that the smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I won't read it unless the author confesses. Who wrote this?" he asked again. By now, a smile was broad on his face. I looked up, and caught his eye. I grinned, and he grinned back. He paused, but didn't say anything more than, "C'mon, no one's going to confess?" to the rest of the class.

The students murmured impatiently.

Silence.

"I wrote it," I muttered, half-raising my hand.

Dr. G chuckled. "I had a feeling," he said, "Thanks for owning up." He slid it toward me across the table. "Here, read it." I gasped softly. "It's really good," he encouraged.

I picked it up, my hands shaking, though I hardly noticed them. The white paper stuck to my sweaty fingertips. Everyone was quiet, watching. Still slumped in my chair, I murmured, "This is all in fun."

Then I straightened up, leaned forward, grasped the paper, and began to read.

All the shards of the classroom fell away, the murmuring died down, and I was in control. It's hard to explain, but this has happened before--reading at Quartz Mountain, usually. You can feel the audience's attention immediately yank away from the busy thoughts of classes, food, boys, boredom, and become riveted, for perhaps only a couple of minutes, on you, yourself, your words, your voice. But you aren't the same person anymore. Someone else steps in, fills your body, speaks with another voice through you. An authoritative writer, a storyteller, an artist. The frightened, apologetic child steps back, and Orpheus stands in her place.

People laughed softly at the jokes--class jokes, things we knew about. They probably didn't find it nearly as funny as Rachel and Danielle did, they being my friends (besides, it had no bad words or filthy jokes in it--perhaps I'm rather cynical, but usually only things with that sort of humor are found enjoyable by these people).

When it was over, they clapped. There were broad smiles, polite murmurs, "That's really good," running around the table.

"That was fabulous," Dr. G said as I pushed the poem back to him across the sleek table. "Do you want to be in my poetry class, because you're in," he said--not asking, but stating.

He settled back in his chair. "Now, I have no connection to said Oracle or the Pythia [which I had mentioned in the poem], but I do have some things to say about revising papers..." and he moved on to class business.

After class was over, everyone began noisily to pack up their things. There were the usual cries of, "Have a good break! Get lots of sleep! Drive safely! Thanks! See you in a couple of weeks!" Dr. G, himself busy with his papers, looked over. "Thank you for the poem," he said, "it was really quite good."

I grinned at him, and then at Rachel, standing beside me, the three of us freely enjoying the moment. Then Rachel and I strolled to lunch together.

So that's how it went--probably less dramatic than I'm making it out to be, but a break from routine, certainly.