I seriously wish that school eqauted to going to seven hours of English class. I was kind of down(for a stupid reason, but)and as soon as I enter that room and my teacher opens her mouth, I know things will be okay. I know that even if a tornado was swirling outside of the classroom, we could still be thinking big, deep thoughts about life, love, literature, words, grammar, comics. I know that if I can just take my mind to a place where I think like that, I can be okay. What greater gift exists?
In that one hour, I sit in a cluster of desks with my two best friends and we talk about ambiguities, gray areas of moralities; we study philosophy of characters and listen to our teacher reciting her stuff, unplanned, pulling from her vast source of knowledge and ability to challenge.
Not everyone likes this class, and it’s because it is kind of hard. We write and think, read and think, think, think, and honestly a lot of the people in my class just aren’t used to thinking. Even now, with the end of the year closing in on us, they still don’t know how to think the way our teacher challenges us to think, and for these people I feel sadness. Sadness that they’re letting a person so bright and honest and intelligent slip through their immaculately-manicured, ink-free hands.
I feel so happy when I sink into the quasi-comfortable desk with a pen or highlighter in hand, notebook open and notes forming about our topic. I like when she lets us be free to write the assignments she’s given and think hard about who we are.
The only thing I don’t like is that it’s only an hour long.