Hello! I don’t really have anyone that knows this blog exists so I don’t know who i’m saying hello to; it’s better to write as if someone is going to read it, though. I’ve strung together enough words to bore you to sleep; but the past week of my life has been so much more like living than I’ve ever experienced before, and I can’t keep it to myself.
Tuesday morning: 8AM, this is my English 1310 class. Arguably, I took this course in high school and did very well, but the scores didn’t transfer so i’m just taking the opportunity to absorb what I discarded the first time around. Fast forward to 10:40, I’m running around the part of the campus that doesn’t quite make sense yet and looking for a building that seems to be invisible, (jokes on me, I was standing on it’s steps the whole time.) 10:50, i’m sitting in a cramped class room with 60 kids. The class has windows all around and the tables are shallow. It feels like it should be a lecture hall, but who am I to make that decision.
I’m sitting next to this “girl”, she’s a real “girl”, you know? Shes beautiful, undoubtedly, i’m not saying she isn’t. She has long blonde hair and has put a lot of thought into her outfit for this two and half-hour class. I look at her, then look back at myself. I don’t get it, I thought people didn’t “care as much” in college. I’m me, me doesn’t take much effort on most days anyway; i’m short, I wear some sort of hoodie or long-sleeve shirt everyday, (I’ve never been comfortable without sleeves. In fifth grade I had a group of friends that made me feel like I was a worthy target for their pre-pubescent rage; When I was tired of being called “gorilla arms” I shaved all of the little hairs off of my 10-year-old arms. I still don’t feel comfortable without sleeves, unless i’m feeling really very confident.) I wear skinny jeans and some variety of Vans shoes. And i’m looking at this girl, and I get so annoyed. I thought, “God, this is fucking high school.” I don’t have any sort of right to be pissed off at this doll of a girl, just because she woke up and decided to love herself, why am I so angry? I’ve always felt resentment towards outwardly glamorous people, I feel like they don’t work as hard to have something else to offer, you know? Am I making sense?
It’s 11:30, 13 more kids have wandered their way, aimlessly, into the class. The class is GPS1010, it’s a navigational course for the University, the topic is Homicide. When Mr. Martinez brings up the topic of the class for the third time, about a quarter of the class is downright confused, “I didn’t know this was the topic.” Which makes me, an apparent fatalist, pissed off, because you’re paying hundreds of dollars to sit next to barbie dolls and girls like me, and you don’t even know why? Why didn’t you read the course? Mr. Martinez is in his early 60’s, I presume, he used to do important police-work in relation to murder. He talks very slow, not to help us understand really, more to absorb every dauntless minute on the clock. Two and a half hours is a long time to go over a syllabus, most professors would plan something to do post-syllabus talk, but as I am learning, this is Mr. Martinez’s way. “This class will show you disturbing images of real homicide victims,” he says more than once. Barbie on my left, she is unsure that she is “cut-out” for this class, after explaining to everyone that she is a Nursing major that graduated high-school early, she decides that blood and guts are gross. Irony. We’re let out of his class around 12:15 instead of 1:30, I think Mr. Martinez just realized that he has to prepare more for our class next week.
I head home, I had to work at 2:00. Work was work, work always feels the same.
Wednesday I have this theatre class, (Theatre has been a large aspect of my life since my mother passed away. I hate being bored and more than that I hated being alone, so- theatre.) My professor is nearly 70, she’s got very caring eyes, she very obviously was not wearing a bra to class, but that’s not my business. It’s obvious that she was beautiful when she was younger; she is beautiful, but she’s a different beautiful. She’s got more wisdom in her eyes than sparkle on her skin, which proves much more to me than a woman in a short skirt. Her name is Leah, not Mrs. Chandler, not Professor, but Leah. Leah went to Julliard, (for those of you who are unaware of Julliard, it’s an incredibly well accredited preforming arts institution, their acceptance rate is 6.7%) Leah walked the same halls as Robin Williams and Pat Benatar, now Leah is sitting in front of me, eyes glimmering, staring at the ceiling telling me about how she has lived an amazing life. Her “favorite part of her life” has been teaching, I don’t know how true that is and i’m not supposed to know. It’s obvious that in this class, nobody here has taken a theatre course. I feel slightly out of place, and slightly self-assured. Leah goes on to explain, “the biz” she calls it, which I find really adorable because I never thought I would her someone say “the biz” in real life. My theatre class is in University Hall, University Hall is isolated from the rest of the campus. It feels safe; more preserved and less erratic. After class, I head over to the large clock-tower library in an attempt to commit myself to the assignments that are already piling-up. I found a table in a corner with windows that are slim lines, there’s a woman sitting in a recliner in the corner. After vaguely studying her instead of Lennie Irvin’s writing, I find that she is an Education major, she looks like she’d be good at it, too. She’s shorter and has obviously dyed maroon hair. She’s listening to Pandora on her laptop, which I believe encompassed Carrie Underwood; classic teach’.
Thursday is like Tuesday, except I find the spot that I should have been reading in. It’s a large semi-circle room with lounge chairs. Three boys are sitting at far-away tables gazing outside of the clock-towers eyes at the mountainous escape just miles away. I got enough work done to be merely satisfied with; later that evening, I stumbled upon an event invite to a poetry-slam. (Poetry has always seemed self-indulgent to me, probably because I have never successfully strung words together to create a quaint statement. All I know is elaboration and dedication to analytical paragraphs upon rhetorical statements.) This poetry-slam was filled with the souls of kids younger-than, but similar to me. Kids that probably feel like shitty-writers, kids that look around at the girls in class and feel vainly insignificant. God, were they beautiful. Talking about the scars on their arms and their distaste in the society that has been bred around them, it’s empowering. The young girls and boys with the deadbeat parents and their survivor-standpoint on every situation that the birds would cower in fear of, it was incredible. I applaud anyone that is strong enough to share their writing.
Thursday, you opened my eyes to who I am, and who so many others are.