You can pay for school but you can’t buy class
I’m on time today. I reach my seat, sit and think, my mind taking in everything it missed last week. A few minutes go by. A few men start to enter the room. All of them have very familiar book covers, but they’re all different stories. What I would call complicated reads. We exchange pleasantries in an unpleasant kind of way. It’s a way of swallowing pride with a coke and a smile. Little by little we all settle in. Our teacher walks in. Maybe teacher’s not the correct title…maybe something like a creative spark plug or…institutional inspiration, or…wait, my mind wanders and I catch it before it jumps the fence.
Class begins. Our weekly introductions are up for discussion. Words are exchanged. Peek-a-boo feelings are revealed. Hide-n-go-seek thoughts are found. Auras glow like mood rings throughout class. It reminds me of a childhood bard game that made you chase colorful lights in sequence, “Simon Says.”
The intros work their way around the room, a mental spin-the-bottle. It’s on me now, so I have to find my voice and speak. So I speak quickly. Why, I don’t know, I just do. It’s like ice breaking ice, if you let me tell it. Mrs. Teacher slash picture-the-possibilities asks me a question and I answer. She moves on to the next individual .Whew, I’m glad that went smoothly. I can stop fidgeting now. I look around and wonder, do any of these men feel like I do? All introductions are accomplished. How’s that for a weekly accomplishment, just getting pass the intro.
Class in session. “Mrs. You Can Do It” encourages a young man to share his work. Encouragement can be very persuasive. She feeds it to him like a spoonful of courage, so he shares his words. He reads a poem he’s written. One of a territorial war between sun and moon. “Mrs. Be Proud of Your Work” says: “Read it again and read it slow.” The young man recites it again. This time with authority. While he’s speaking of a blue battlefield I think how ironic as I stare at the painted scenery on the wall behind him. It fits his words. They tie together like shoelaces. It sparks a conversation between my ears and my imagination. He’s done, the class gives comments and moves on to the next man. An elder, a veteran of time, he speaks, his voice shakes the ether. He sounds like Morgan Freeman, so I listen…we all listen. It’s a reflective composition in progress. Everyone’s comfortable. Good teachers make classes comfortable. The door opens. The enemy comes in, and with a venomous smile says “I need all the copies I made you earlier. I need them now.” No apologetic tone whatsoever.
Class has been interrupted. I look around the room. Frowns rise from their graves, spider senses tingle. The vibe dies. But this is a creative writing class so we create a new one, and as that one start to gain momentum, class is interrupted again. Another one that is against us and our creativity has entered with no excuses, no pardons. With a condescending look she rudely says to our partner in creativity: “Come with me, now. They want to talk to you…get your stuff.” Time slows for a fraction and I think, we’re living in Rome. They both exit, the tension thicker than cold grits. The aura, all the unique spiritual mood rings, they glow fierce, they burn hot. They all mesh together and combine a color of conceptualization, a conglomeration of emotions. These men, these different stories with similar book covers. These difficult reads are now all on the same page. Time ticks, alone with the feeling of them taking something else from us again. A pen, a paper and a creative mind.
Our teacher walks back in, parting the sea of tension. With the composure of a soldier, she’s wearing her dignity with a cloak of despair. Colors change again, and pages flip. Our eyes listen to unspoken words. We get the message loud and clear…there is no message, or like one of the men to my left said earlier, “I don’t recall.” “Mrs. My pen is Might” gathers herself and like the good teacher she strives to be, she says, “Let’s get back to class.” And once again, creativity begins.