March 22, 2012

Evening, marking time before the Theater. Almost lost control in poetry class, gushing out enthusiastic illuminations about Romantic poets to a room full of upturned faces no more responsive than photos in an album. Discovery after discovery–I was having a good time, anyway–sown like the bad seed onto stone. When I made a joke, they laughed, so I knew there was some level of consciousness. “Shelley worships the spirit of what? . . . of what?. . . what is it? Of BEAUTY,” I finally answer myself, afraid of my response should the vacancy linger a second longer. We had just read the lines. I had just explained the lines. There was no ambiguity in the question whatever. “Now, do you have any questions about Shelley or his poetry after this one hour introduction?” Silence. No questions. Everything understood. The class is predominantly women, and men are typically more responsive to Romantic poetry, but still, without any disagreeableness or detectable bad attitude, this is the stoniest, least responsive class I’ve had in semesters, and my tolerance is gone. Disengagement is not an option in a learning environment. Be present or go do something else. Should I put that on the syllabus? Their last exam was disastrous, so maybe the NEXT class session will be different. One young lady who never takes her headphones off her head and texts all through class, asked me what I had written on the top of her failing exam. “You have not turned in your term paper. Why is that?” I read in my handwriting. She whispers, “Well. . . I didn’t know what to write. . . so I just didn’t hand it in. . . “ I inquire, “Why didn’t you ask for guidance?” but that too, elicits no response. She looks at the floor. Her lips fall into a pout. Her phone vibrates and she longs to answer it.

Tartuffe at theater UNCA tonight was brilliant, Orgone, Marianne, Dorine, Pernelle, at least were at professional level (all these are my students), and Orgone could have played proudly on any stage in the world. The difficult language was delivered clearly, wittily, almost effortlessly. Marianne re-conceived the roll as broadly physical comedy, an inspiration. The set was perfection. All in all, an uplifting evening of theater, far and away the best I’ve seen at the university in many years. It could be the turning of a new leaf. Everyone connected must be, now, proud as the peacocks they, for two hours, were.

Worked hard not to let the fact that a mere tithe of my students (it was obligatory; I labored mildly to wrangle the tickets) were in attendance mar my pleasure. In the end I was successful.