Various Thoughts and Observations

It is 10:59 AM. I am sitting in a classroom situated in the atrium of a large building. The room has a rectangular orientation to it; at one end of it (longwise, that is) sits a table with a sort of tabletop podium on it; I resent the idea that any scumbag with an idea can hide behind a symbol of order and spew filth, free from the threat of persecution. Fortunately for me, the lecturer in this class is worthy of my attention, podium or otherwise. The rest of the room is primarily occupied by what one could call a genealogical museum exhibit as performed by desks; there are about three relatively new desks – that is, probably built within the last five years – nestled in the back of the room. In front of these are several desks that, in all likelihood, weathered their first lectures in the late seventies. Some, however, simply appear dated because of the design. These “golden oldies” as I like to call them for the sake of this story, are a tribute to the industrial-strength approach to equipment; that is, ergonomic design is an afterthought. As long as the product can be mass produced and withstand decades of half-asleep asses bearing down on it, there's little room for improvement. These desks are built at an on-campus plant in the same style as the Nixon-era ones. “If it ain't broke, don't fix it,” right?

It's surprisingly simple to detect who hasn't read the assigned material on which the present lecture is based. Several things in particular stick out that give them away, such as maintaining a stern brow and feverishly writing while holding the assigned text open with the other hand. Underlining parts of the text generally satisfies the professor's glance, but to me it says, “If I underline this, I can just quote it in an essay and get points.” The people with laptops are doing one of two possible things: browsing pictures of their friends on Facebook or looking at the SparkNotes for the present book.

As I shift my gaze around the room I begin to notice a trend of unwavering, concentrated glances downward, facing each student's copy of the text. Nobody yields to the inherent desire to familiarize his or herself to the current setting but me. I wonder: what could they be thinking? Are they so desperate for a simplified analysis of an intentionally complex piece of literature? I tend to believe that the way a book can grab each reader differently is just as important an aspect of study as the story the book tells. For instance, if you find yourself identifying with a “stream of consciousness” (SoC) writer, it could be for multiple reasons. In one respect, you may tend to drift into SoC on a regular basis. It's also possible that you may not encounter SoC often (or at all), in which case you may find writing of that style challenging at first, but intriguing. I find it highly likely that, were you to ask a reader fitting the latter description – as well as one fitting the former – their readings of certain characters, themes or concerns in a book, their answers would be fundamentally different. In the spirit of this observation, I listen to what my professor has to say about the book and take to heart his message, but I don't often find satisfaction with just one interpretation.

It is 11:51 AM. This is my favorite part of the class (bear in mind that I find no reason not to frequently interchange “class” and “social experiment” in my writing). After delivering a lecture that ran just short of an hour, the professor now turns to his audience and invites questions about the readings. Like before, almost every head in the room is set at a fixed inclination towards it's respective desk as the deafening silence pervades the room. Finally, somebody reluctantly chokes out a simplistic, open-ended question in the hope that the professor will tangentially explain his perception of what the answer is. At these interludes, the collective gaze of the class shifts to the professor, protected by the thought that they can safely score eye contact-associated participation points. Sometimes, someone will make a loose association between the current readings and a pop culture item, such as a contemporary film. The professor, whom I can only assume is, at this point, just as dumbfounded as I am, attempts to quickly strengthen the connection with a one or two-sentence analysis of the movie. I am not so benevolent, particularly when they say, “Oh, wow! This book is just like that movie!” Some of the best literature ever written is not “like” any movie; a movie may have characteristics similar to the book, but not vice-versa. I speak, of course, of classic literature that predates most, if not all, of the idiotically associated movies.

It is 12:21 PM. I think of Rush's album 2112, but inverted to fit our primitive conception of time. I don't have much time left before my next academic endeavor begins. Unfortunately, The teacher of that class will not accommodate my needs and allow me to use my laptop even though she uses one herself. What kind of example does that set? This is America, damnit. I reserve the right to do whatever I want, screaming, “MANIFEST DESTINY!” if I encounter resistance.

It is 1:02 PM. I am demoralized by role call yet again. What is the point of expecting me acknowledge the sound of my own name? Even further, why say the names out loud? Having my life forcibly thrust into someone else's conception of order is traumatic for the reflective counter-culture agent. The boredom is staggering. My eyes desperately survey the classroom for something on which they can settle for more than a fleeting moment. No luck. I am now the object of surveillance. Game over for now.