This piece was originally an assignment. It turned into a piece of my writing. This is my "mentor paper".
I was a freshman in high school and he was a senior. He had style. He was dark and wore the same chain around his neck everyday. He had a pocket watch. He was tall, much taller than me. And his teeth glistened because of their pearl perfection, not the bands of metal straightening them like my own. When I saw him I couldn’t speak. Even if I was mid conversation with another person I would stop and just look at him. My eyes could speak for me. I bet my pupils would get small the way they do now when my heart beats fast and I can only see one thing. His name was A.J and I thought I loved him.
The first time I saw him he was getting a breakfast burrito at the schools cafeteria. He looked glorious smearing hot sauce and ketchup onto that burrito and smashing it into his freshly stoned mouth. He drank coffee and I can remember thinking to myself about how mature and how handsome that was.
I was always early to my classes the first few weeks of school. I was nervous that I would get lost between one classroom and another, as if the school wasn’t composed of three buildings. I made my way to my Creative Writing class. So I sat in Sunny Wright’s classroom, which looked out into the courtyard. I could see some of my team mates from my JV Gold soccer team; the stoners were playing hacky-sack and casually recalling the previous nights joint sessions; the senior girls in their matching white tank tops with neon bras sticking out getting lectured about school dress code by the Dean of Students; and then there was him. He sat alone on a bench. But, he didn’t look alone. He had a book and it was his company. Him and his book. The bell rang. I looked toward the front of the room and when I looked back he was gone. My heart sank.
Then it rose, straight into my throat. There he was, looking around the room I sat in for an open seat. I watched him brush the hair out of his face and he brushed my eyes aside.
Sunny asked us to write. We could write about anything. I wrote about him. I wrote about how I wanted to read the time from his pocket watch only and sweep the hairs from his eyes so he could look into mine and see that I was in love.
I could hear a chair slide back and he cleared his throat as I looked up. He began to read:
“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent, starving I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disquiets me,
I search the liquid sound of your steps all day.”
It was this poem that gave me courage. When he finished his words my mouth made its openness worth it and I asked him, “What did you just read?” I created it in my mind that he would tell me he wrote it about me when he saw me in the cafeteria that morning.
He didn’t, though. He sat down, scooted his char in, looked at me, and replied, “Neruda.”
At that point, I didn’t know what I longed more for—his eye contact or Neruda. I copied that name down in my notebook and changed my free write topic from the boy in my classroom to the man in his book.
***
I ended up being good friends with A.J. and consider Pablo Neruda to be a good friend of mine as well. I told A.J. about my infatuation with his dreaminess one night over a beer after one of his shows. Our conversation turned into comparing favorite poems and deciding you couldn’t consider only one poet your favorite. However, if I were to consider one poet, one writer, one passionate communicator to consider my mentor it would be my precious Pablo.
Pablo Neruda has encouraged me to inspire my poems to dance. The thing that grasped me about Neruda’s work is that each poem has a specific dance. Sometimes, like in “I Crave Your Mouth”, the poem grabs you lightly around your tailbone with one arm and locks its fingers with your other hand. And with each verb like want, hunger, and search it holds you a little lighter. And when it comes to the end of the song, and the poem reads “like a puma in the barren wilderness”, you are dipped and your hair sweeps the ground you feel you float on. At that point you wish for a kiss just behind the ear.
Then there are the times where you’re dancing and before you know it your holding on so tight you’re standing still. You eyes are shut and your heart is fluttering and you think, you know, that at that point in time nothing more could create such perfection. It is the feeling of being confined to one area but that area is so large you could get lost and that person would still be there to find you. Neruda and I danced like this when I read “In My Sky At Twilight”. He spoke to me and whispered truth in my ears, he said to me:
“You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.”
And when he was finished I opened my eyes and all I could see was the depth of an imaginary neck and my body felt held.
***
I remember not using my headphones on the walk to town from my high school the day A.J. introduced me to Pablo Neruda. I kept repeating Neruda’s words in my head and even spoke them out loud as I walked past things that were beautiful: Autumn outside the Orvis fishing store, someone unhooking a trout in the Batenkill river behind The Jelly Mill.
I was late for work that day at Ben & Jerry’s. My co-workers were pissed when I showed up and had a “lame” excuse.
I looked at my boss and said, “Jon, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I had to go to the bookstore and get this book.” I held onto my first collection of poetry: The Essential Neruda: selected poems. And it was essential, and I had selected it to be mine. My boss, Jon, laughed at me, called me Slacker like usual and threw me an ice cream scoop.
That book dealt with a lot of my bullshit. It moved out of my Mom’s house with me and caught all the tears no one else would reach out for. It got addicted with me when I had surgery and ate and breathed nothing but Percocets. We broke up with my pig-farming-cop-running-good-girl-heart-breaking first love together. I wrote in this book the way the words made me feel and when. It documented how my emotions changed throughout years and different addictions ranging from drugs, to people, and adrenaline rushes.
I have never had many girl friends. But, I have always had one. Her name is Hannah. She is the friend I lied for in high school when her mom asked if she spent the night when in reality she was at deer camp with a 22-year-old, the one whose arms I cried in when I moved two hours north for college, and the one I drove across the country when she ran from that 22-year-old at deer camp. I have always been the one who gets pleasure from things that aren’t only physically beautiful. I am the one who can cry to the melody of a song or dance to the words of a poem. I wanted to share this with her.
I knew I wouldn’t be with her on her 20th birthday, and it would be the first birthday she didn’t have me to light her candles since we were six. I wanted her to have something special. I made her a card and wrote to her about how I knew that distance wouldn’t hurt us and we would always be holding hands. I tucked the card into the pages of special Neruda book.
She took the card out and handed the book back to me.
I smiled, laughed, and looked up at the sky. I knew, at that point, that the book I held in my hands could not dance with another. And we would dance till our feet were tired. We were to stay together through the rest of my story. The smile on my face is for all eternity; just as my collection of Neruda will be everlasting company.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Arizona
A stranger tells me I am beautiful,
As I discover soft hands
Playing with my fingers.
My easy going lips;
The soft caress of his tounge.
In a place where they don’t recycle,
Not even for the extra few dollars,
My eyes wander
Around streets and parking lots
Filled with Beamers and the newest Volkswagens.
Discussions about the green buds from California,
And the eighty-degree difference between the town that turns red when the sun sets
And the white valleys
Where I find my home.
Background noise of traffic and music unlike my own,
Heavy with strong voices.
I smile in hundreds of photos,
With the people from conversations at 3 in the morning.
My face subtly glows,
In a crown of overused eye shadow, new breasts, fake teeth,
And acne hidden with a week’s work of make-up.
I question why I don’t want to leave.
***
He rests under a sweating sun,
As it trips over the red rocks,
It bleeds through a city,
Full of clay houses and hungry nocturnal beasts.
***
I sat an wondered who
Tossed the snow globe I lived in,
As feathers fell and coated
The valleys full of freeze stricken maples and uncovered hands.
I found myself,
In a photo with a familiar stranger.
The temptation overflowing between out noses,
Brushing lips brought locked eyes.
Caught in a moment of curiosity,
He can see romance
Distantly standing still and alone in my eyes.
As I discover soft hands
Playing with my fingers.
My easy going lips;
The soft caress of his tounge.
In a place where they don’t recycle,
Not even for the extra few dollars,
My eyes wander
Around streets and parking lots
Filled with Beamers and the newest Volkswagens.
Discussions about the green buds from California,
And the eighty-degree difference between the town that turns red when the sun sets
And the white valleys
Where I find my home.
Background noise of traffic and music unlike my own,
Heavy with strong voices.
I smile in hundreds of photos,
With the people from conversations at 3 in the morning.
My face subtly glows,
In a crown of overused eye shadow, new breasts, fake teeth,
And acne hidden with a week’s work of make-up.
I question why I don’t want to leave.
***
He rests under a sweating sun,
As it trips over the red rocks,
It bleeds through a city,
Full of clay houses and hungry nocturnal beasts.
***
I sat an wondered who
Tossed the snow globe I lived in,
As feathers fell and coated
The valleys full of freeze stricken maples and uncovered hands.
I found myself,
In a photo with a familiar stranger.
The temptation overflowing between out noses,
Brushing lips brought locked eyes.
Caught in a moment of curiosity,
He can see romance
Distantly standing still and alone in my eyes.
Halloween
I yelled
in your wide eyes
and confused smile
about your stupid friend.
You tell me,
“He’s a druggie,
Babe.”
“I do drugs
and I’m not an asshole,”
I tell you.
I continued to yell
in our good friends bathroom.
I saw the two
of us in a toothpaste
splattered window.
I try
to get out, wrapping
one of my little hands
around the knob and one
against your high shoulder.
You hold me back
and bring my face up,
grasping my head in your hands
to tell me you love me.
“You’re finally mine.”
I left you
in that bathroom
sitting on the edge
of the scummy tub.
Halloween night
turned into the first
of November while I waited
in a blunt smoke thick
living room
of laser beams, solo cups,
glow sticks, and two kegs
for you to come
find me and my
Michael Jackson inspired shoulders
hips and lips.
“Where’s my beautiful
girlfriend?” I heard
you yell from the porch in distress.
You picked me up off my feet
and kissed me.
As you lowered me
to the ground. My feet
were at the ceiling.
I opened my eyes and you squeezed me
tight
with your arms around my size 4 waist
reaching your pointer fingers to my belly
button.
You slumped
your tall, still body
in a chair in a bedroom.
You saw me
through little cracks
It was time to go and
we left together into
a damp night of costumes
and acid soaked candied lips.
You lifted me up off my bed
and carried me
out of my bedroom.
I saw the reflection
of my tattoo on my naked
hip
in the bathroom mirror.
You threw me
down onto the leather
couch
and we filled its cushions.
We stuck to the leather
with alcohol filled sweat
so I led you
off that couch
to take advantage
of the wide plain of my living room
floor
surrounded by photos
of my roommates family and
the friends we’ve shared
since high school.
Their eyes watched you
follow me
on your knees.
My knees press into the carpet
as I pulled my hair
nothing else was in reach.
in your wide eyes
and confused smile
about your stupid friend.
You tell me,
“He’s a druggie,
Babe.”
“I do drugs
and I’m not an asshole,”
I tell you.
I continued to yell
in our good friends bathroom.
I saw the two
of us in a toothpaste
splattered window.
I try
to get out, wrapping
one of my little hands
around the knob and one
against your high shoulder.
You hold me back
and bring my face up,
grasping my head in your hands
to tell me you love me.
“You’re finally mine.”
I left you
in that bathroom
sitting on the edge
of the scummy tub.
Halloween night
turned into the first
of November while I waited
in a blunt smoke thick
living room
of laser beams, solo cups,
glow sticks, and two kegs
for you to come
find me and my
Michael Jackson inspired shoulders
hips and lips.
“Where’s my beautiful
girlfriend?” I heard
you yell from the porch in distress.
You picked me up off my feet
and kissed me.
As you lowered me
to the ground. My feet
were at the ceiling.
I opened my eyes and you squeezed me
tight
with your arms around my size 4 waist
reaching your pointer fingers to my belly
button.
You slumped
your tall, still body
in a chair in a bedroom.
You saw me
through little cracks
It was time to go and
we left together into
a damp night of costumes
and acid soaked candied lips.
You lifted me up off my bed
and carried me
out of my bedroom.
I saw the reflection
of my tattoo on my naked
hip
in the bathroom mirror.
You threw me
down onto the leather
couch
and we filled its cushions.
We stuck to the leather
with alcohol filled sweat
so I led you
off that couch
to take advantage
of the wide plain of my living room
floor
surrounded by photos
of my roommates family and
the friends we’ve shared
since high school.
Their eyes watched you
follow me
on your knees.
My knees press into the carpet
as I pulled my hair
nothing else was in reach.
Determined Intoxication
We only spend
a few hours together a day
during the work week.
You’ll pick me up
from dinners when I’ve had too much to drink
or show up while I’m writing
a pointless essay
or a poem about you.
When you showed up
in my bedroom tonight
you knew you’d done something wrong
and asked me to get up
out of my desk chair and put down
my pen to join you on my bed.
In my mind, I asked you
to leave. I told you
you could try again tomorrow.
We talked about the weekend
when we could spend
your drug money
and the majority of your time
recuperating from the late night
and early morning hours.
I asked you the date and
you told me, “October 15th, love.”
I dug into the curve of your shoulder
and your long thick neck
and did not speak
until you kissed my hair
for a long five seconds (I wish
it lasted longer).
“I’m going to get really drunk,”
I told you.
Still deep in your shoulder
I told you I was going to drink
all day and
get completely wasted.
You told me
we would get a big bottle of liquor,
but I knew
it wouldn’t be enough.
You were so used
to spending your weekends
getting trashed and progressively closer
to my naked body
in the bed we lay in
you didn’t bother to ask
the reasoning for my
determination to get drunk;
my expecting an
intoxicated entanglement.
I looked
at the frame on my bedside table
with the picture of a young me
with a man I didn’t know.
I told you
that Saturday was my fathers birthday.
a few hours together a day
during the work week.
You’ll pick me up
from dinners when I’ve had too much to drink
or show up while I’m writing
a pointless essay
or a poem about you.
When you showed up
in my bedroom tonight
you knew you’d done something wrong
and asked me to get up
out of my desk chair and put down
my pen to join you on my bed.
In my mind, I asked you
to leave. I told you
you could try again tomorrow.
We talked about the weekend
when we could spend
your drug money
and the majority of your time
recuperating from the late night
and early morning hours.
I asked you the date and
you told me, “October 15th, love.”
I dug into the curve of your shoulder
and your long thick neck
and did not speak
until you kissed my hair
for a long five seconds (I wish
it lasted longer).
“I’m going to get really drunk,”
I told you.
Still deep in your shoulder
I told you I was going to drink
all day and
get completely wasted.
You told me
we would get a big bottle of liquor,
but I knew
it wouldn’t be enough.
You were so used
to spending your weekends
getting trashed and progressively closer
to my naked body
in the bed we lay in
you didn’t bother to ask
the reasoning for my
determination to get drunk;
my expecting an
intoxicated entanglement.
I looked
at the frame on my bedside table
with the picture of a young me
with a man I didn’t know.
I told you
that Saturday was my fathers birthday.
Dear Molly
Speak out loud. Yell
at the people around you; yell
at the open air.
Tell everyone
how you feel hate
for your solid skin, hard boned limbs.
How you hurt
when you think of his body
tangled in the dashboard;
how you find yourself
crying
when you’re alone.
Tell them how you can feel
the hair on the back of your neck rise
and how you crack your knuckles
when eyes that sink into wrinkled faces
sympathize.
Be embarrassed
For those who can not
Express the pain.
Be unimpressed with those
Who do not attend
The final farewell
and sit among the photos
of fifteen years at deer camp in Dorset
at the church where you watch
a mother clutch and stain
her sons football jersey with tears.
Be ecstatic
When you see the faces
Of those who do.
Do not shy away
From car rides
To smoke joints,
To go to Burr and Burton for class,
To go to dinner.
Do not restrict
Yourself
From thinking of his body
Between the seat and the dashboard;
Of his sister
Still breathing
Next to him.
Restrict yourself
From not considering
Your own young body
In that car;
From those adult eyes
On someone else’s
Breathing, hunting, woodworking
Body.
And restrict yourself
From the windshield
With your seatbelt.
at the people around you; yell
at the open air.
Tell everyone
how you feel hate
for your solid skin, hard boned limbs.
How you hurt
when you think of his body
tangled in the dashboard;
how you find yourself
crying
when you’re alone.
Tell them how you can feel
the hair on the back of your neck rise
and how you crack your knuckles
when eyes that sink into wrinkled faces
sympathize.
Be embarrassed
For those who can not
Express the pain.
Be unimpressed with those
Who do not attend
The final farewell
and sit among the photos
of fifteen years at deer camp in Dorset
at the church where you watch
a mother clutch and stain
her sons football jersey with tears.
Be ecstatic
When you see the faces
Of those who do.
Do not shy away
From car rides
To smoke joints,
To go to Burr and Burton for class,
To go to dinner.
Do not restrict
Yourself
From thinking of his body
Between the seat and the dashboard;
Of his sister
Still breathing
Next to him.
Restrict yourself
From not considering
Your own young body
In that car;
From those adult eyes
On someone else’s
Breathing, hunting, woodworking
Body.
And restrict yourself
From the windshield
With your seatbelt.
Is It Because You Love Fall?
I can’t help
but think that timing has everything
to do with what happens
in this life.
What if your parents
hadn’t moved north before
you were born? What if
they hadn’t sold the house
they built in the neighborhood
where my mother raised me?
Would you have thrown snowballs at me
on days they cancelled class
at what would have been
our elementary school?
Would you have been the boy
next door who I rejected
when he asked me to the prom?
We’ve been friends
for three years and I’ve loved
you for at least two.
You’ve loved me back, now,
for several months,
and you’ve let me see you
without your hat
for thirty nine days.
Why now? Why are we
waking up together now instead
of six months ago or six months
from now?
Is it because you love fall?
You told me of your admiration
the other day with arms
around each other. Yours draped
across my shoulders and mine wrapped
around your waist. We walked
around North Hero on streets
decorated with dead leaves and bright
un-carved pumpkins.
We noticed all the gorgeous dogs—
Boxers, Pit Bulls, and a Great Dane
who licked a toddler’s face.
Children bundled
in one piece fleece suits,
strawberry hats, and mittens
rolled in piles of leaves.
You kissed
my chilly forehead.
You left me
in my bed one Sunday night.
You had to work and my classes
were canceled
for Columbus Day the following morning.
“I won’t be able to leave you
in this bed tomorrow morning,
if I stay,” you said.
So I watched a girly movie
and had to write you
a letter because I can’t help
but see the reflection
of our relationship
in a movie like P.S. I Love You.
I find it ironic
and it makes me burn
that as this season you love dies for the year
and winter is born again,
I am leaving.
I ask myself,
why will I have
to read
this poem to people
drinking
pints of Guinness in a pub
in Dublin
who have never seen you
And never will?
but think that timing has everything
to do with what happens
in this life.
What if your parents
hadn’t moved north before
you were born? What if
they hadn’t sold the house
they built in the neighborhood
where my mother raised me?
Would you have thrown snowballs at me
on days they cancelled class
at what would have been
our elementary school?
Would you have been the boy
next door who I rejected
when he asked me to the prom?
We’ve been friends
for three years and I’ve loved
you for at least two.
You’ve loved me back, now,
for several months,
and you’ve let me see you
without your hat
for thirty nine days.
Why now? Why are we
waking up together now instead
of six months ago or six months
from now?
Is it because you love fall?
You told me of your admiration
the other day with arms
around each other. Yours draped
across my shoulders and mine wrapped
around your waist. We walked
around North Hero on streets
decorated with dead leaves and bright
un-carved pumpkins.
We noticed all the gorgeous dogs—
Boxers, Pit Bulls, and a Great Dane
who licked a toddler’s face.
Children bundled
in one piece fleece suits,
strawberry hats, and mittens
rolled in piles of leaves.
You kissed
my chilly forehead.
You left me
in my bed one Sunday night.
You had to work and my classes
were canceled
for Columbus Day the following morning.
“I won’t be able to leave you
in this bed tomorrow morning,
if I stay,” you said.
So I watched a girly movie
and had to write you
a letter because I can’t help
but see the reflection
of our relationship
in a movie like P.S. I Love You.
I find it ironic
and it makes me burn
that as this season you love dies for the year
and winter is born again,
I am leaving.
I ask myself,
why will I have
to read
this poem to people
drinking
pints of Guinness in a pub
in Dublin
who have never seen you
And never will?
Come On Now, Let's Be Civilized!
Advice Column for the November issue of The Champlain Current
I mumbled comments to myself that I wished I had just said aloud this morning in my Human Rights & Responsibilities course. Of course, these comments weren’t concerning the origins of Islam or the Cairo Declaration of Independence. No, my comments were concerning my fellow students and I. To be exact, it was concerning my fellow students and I being criticized for being young, being of a new generation.
I am going to guess that I am not the only twenty-year-old young adult at Champlain College who grew up without going to church every Sunday. I don’t know the Bible like the back of my hand. And, it’s this characteristic, being uninformed about Christianity, that qualifies me to be called a “heathen”. That’s right! We were referred to as “heathens” by a professor.
As a third year COR student, I attend the Human Rights & Responsibilities class. Our professor was referring to the Bible and asked the class if someone could tell the class one of the biblical stories. The room fell silent. He asked us, “Come on guys, didn’t any of you attend Sunday school?” The room stayed silent.
From the far corner of the room, an observing professor made his statement.
He said, “They are a bunch of heathens!”
Whether he thought he was being funny, or trying to be an ass, his comment was simply inappropriate, offensive, and obviously uncalled for.
Let me lay down the word “heathen” for you with the help of the Merriam-Webster dictionary. The noun has two parts to its definition. The first part states that a heathen is “an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible.” Okay, I agree. I do not acknowledge the big guy in the sky. However, the second part of the definition is where the burn in my chest, my muttered comments, and my feelings of being disrespected come from. The second part of the definition regards a “heathen” as “uncivilized”.
Really?...Really!?
Because I don’t I clothe myself before entering the streets of Burlington. I don’t shower on a regular basis to keep myself feeling (and smelling) clean. I didn’t graduate from high school and make my way into Champlain College.
NOT.
I do the things that a civilized human being does. And, I can guarantee if you didn’t spend your Sundays at church and in Sunday school, you do these CIVILIZED things as well.
I grew up without religious beliefs. However, I do consider myself spiritual. I faced tragedy at the early age of eight and created my own opinions how to live my life and where I would “go” when my life ended. It is topics like one’s religiousness that should be left out of one’s professor’s mouth.
To my main point, when you feel you are being disrespected, you need to stand up for yourself. Whether it be that your professor calls you a “heathen” because you are of the second millennium or if your professor tells you that you aren’t capable of writing a paper when you clearly are—stand up for yourself! Chances are, you aren’t the only one who feels the burning sensation deep down inside your stomach that makes you want to yell, to curse the college you spend so much money on your education at. And if you’re scared to say something to your professor seeing how he or she has clearly already denounced you, then hell, go to their superior.
But don’t just run, jump, and skip to their office. I mean, come on, now, let’s be civilized. Make a plan for yourself, an outline of outrage! Make a list of the things you want to say. Make sure to include the course you are in, the professor (of course), the issue at hand, and why it upsets you the most. Also, don’t show up looking like a bed creature. Make sure you jump out of your jammies and into your professional pants. You can’t point a finger without your whole arm behind it. Make sure you give your reasons for you pure and utter distaste in the way this human being has treated you.
I had an issue with a professor my sophomore year. In between telling the details of an assignment and giving us a due date she said, “You guys don’t know how to write papers.” Even if I wasn’t Professional Writing major, I would have been offended. I felt degraded and had no desire to write her the paper. If she thought we couldn’t write papers, why would I write her one? Finally, after I had cooled down, I went to her office and told her how I was offended and felt discouraged when doing the assignment. She apologized, and admitted she had used the wrong words. It can be effective to politely approach your professor and say something like, “You said something in class that I wanted to talk more about,” or, “I didn’t get the grade I was expecting, could we discuss how I could improve my work?”
However, there are many ways to communicate whatever issue is at hand. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to someone in person, you can send an e-mail or type up a letter and put it in their on campus mailbox.
So, I’m going to give you a little inspiration. And, believe me, I am not encouraging you to complain about getting a C on a paper when you think you should have gotten a B and in reality you wrote it ten minutes before class and deserve a D. I’m talking real disappointment in the relationship between student and professor. I am going to provide you with some contacts that may be useful if the problem is beyond a conversation with a demeaning professor. Listed below are the Deans of divisions on campus who can be found in the “Contacts” area on your MyMail account:
o Communications & Creative Media: Jeff Rutenbeck
o Business: Renee Florsheim
o Education & Human Studies: Sue Rowley
o Information Technology & Sciences: Ali Rafieymehr
o COR: Betsy Beaulieu
Well, good luck, young-fresh-minded-new-age-knowing-future-experiencer. And lastly, get on YouTube and get yourself fired up with some Michael Franti. You can find some inspiration in his song “Hey World”. So, in the words of Franti, “Don't ever doubt the power of just one mind.”
I mumbled comments to myself that I wished I had just said aloud this morning in my Human Rights & Responsibilities course. Of course, these comments weren’t concerning the origins of Islam or the Cairo Declaration of Independence. No, my comments were concerning my fellow students and I. To be exact, it was concerning my fellow students and I being criticized for being young, being of a new generation.
I am going to guess that I am not the only twenty-year-old young adult at Champlain College who grew up without going to church every Sunday. I don’t know the Bible like the back of my hand. And, it’s this characteristic, being uninformed about Christianity, that qualifies me to be called a “heathen”. That’s right! We were referred to as “heathens” by a professor.
As a third year COR student, I attend the Human Rights & Responsibilities class. Our professor was referring to the Bible and asked the class if someone could tell the class one of the biblical stories. The room fell silent. He asked us, “Come on guys, didn’t any of you attend Sunday school?” The room stayed silent.
From the far corner of the room, an observing professor made his statement.
He said, “They are a bunch of heathens!”
Whether he thought he was being funny, or trying to be an ass, his comment was simply inappropriate, offensive, and obviously uncalled for.
Let me lay down the word “heathen” for you with the help of the Merriam-Webster dictionary. The noun has two parts to its definition. The first part states that a heathen is “an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible.” Okay, I agree. I do not acknowledge the big guy in the sky. However, the second part of the definition is where the burn in my chest, my muttered comments, and my feelings of being disrespected come from. The second part of the definition regards a “heathen” as “uncivilized”.
Really?...Really!?
Because I don’t I clothe myself before entering the streets of Burlington. I don’t shower on a regular basis to keep myself feeling (and smelling) clean. I didn’t graduate from high school and make my way into Champlain College.
NOT.
I do the things that a civilized human being does. And, I can guarantee if you didn’t spend your Sundays at church and in Sunday school, you do these CIVILIZED things as well.
I grew up without religious beliefs. However, I do consider myself spiritual. I faced tragedy at the early age of eight and created my own opinions how to live my life and where I would “go” when my life ended. It is topics like one’s religiousness that should be left out of one’s professor’s mouth.
To my main point, when you feel you are being disrespected, you need to stand up for yourself. Whether it be that your professor calls you a “heathen” because you are of the second millennium or if your professor tells you that you aren’t capable of writing a paper when you clearly are—stand up for yourself! Chances are, you aren’t the only one who feels the burning sensation deep down inside your stomach that makes you want to yell, to curse the college you spend so much money on your education at. And if you’re scared to say something to your professor seeing how he or she has clearly already denounced you, then hell, go to their superior.
But don’t just run, jump, and skip to their office. I mean, come on, now, let’s be civilized. Make a plan for yourself, an outline of outrage! Make a list of the things you want to say. Make sure to include the course you are in, the professor (of course), the issue at hand, and why it upsets you the most. Also, don’t show up looking like a bed creature. Make sure you jump out of your jammies and into your professional pants. You can’t point a finger without your whole arm behind it. Make sure you give your reasons for you pure and utter distaste in the way this human being has treated you.
I had an issue with a professor my sophomore year. In between telling the details of an assignment and giving us a due date she said, “You guys don’t know how to write papers.” Even if I wasn’t Professional Writing major, I would have been offended. I felt degraded and had no desire to write her the paper. If she thought we couldn’t write papers, why would I write her one? Finally, after I had cooled down, I went to her office and told her how I was offended and felt discouraged when doing the assignment. She apologized, and admitted she had used the wrong words. It can be effective to politely approach your professor and say something like, “You said something in class that I wanted to talk more about,” or, “I didn’t get the grade I was expecting, could we discuss how I could improve my work?”
However, there are many ways to communicate whatever issue is at hand. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to someone in person, you can send an e-mail or type up a letter and put it in their on campus mailbox.
So, I’m going to give you a little inspiration. And, believe me, I am not encouraging you to complain about getting a C on a paper when you think you should have gotten a B and in reality you wrote it ten minutes before class and deserve a D. I’m talking real disappointment in the relationship between student and professor. I am going to provide you with some contacts that may be useful if the problem is beyond a conversation with a demeaning professor. Listed below are the Deans of divisions on campus who can be found in the “Contacts” area on your MyMail account:
o Communications & Creative Media: Jeff Rutenbeck
o Business: Renee Florsheim
o Education & Human Studies: Sue Rowley
o Information Technology & Sciences: Ali Rafieymehr
o COR: Betsy Beaulieu
Well, good luck, young-fresh-minded-new-age-knowing-future-experiencer. And lastly, get on YouTube and get yourself fired up with some Michael Franti. You can find some inspiration in his song “Hey World”. So, in the words of Franti, “Don't ever doubt the power of just one mind.”
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