2005-01-19
Observe. Wonder.

A college classroom is oh so neatly stereotypical. Certain types of subjects attract people of certain types of looks. The non conformist tries to break free, but even the black sheep is a distinct class all of its own. There, there is the black sheep of the classroom, the rebel, the one trying so desperately not to conform, to rebel against the system. You become part of the system in an attempt to rebel. You will never set yourself apart.

So watch, look from above at the little classroom. The teacher is a short, pleasantly plump woman. She is slightly wrinkled, with squinty eyes and her head holds a short crop of platinum bottle blonde hair neatly curling round her cheeks. The scarf tied about her neck speaks of the scholarly artistic Shakespeare connoisseur she booms herself as being. And in her squinting glimmering eyes you can see the passion and truth of this statement. As she squats to the floor and shoots up into the sky, reaching with her arms, shouting �Plays! Plays!! Plays!!!� you feel how perfectly formed she is for teaching Shakespearean literature. She is so intensely passionate.

The class her eyes rest upon is as perfect for the task of audience as she is for teaching it. For instance, rest your eyes on the young man sitting in the second seat in the second row. The moment I saw him with the Shakespeare text book slung under his arm, my eyes light up with immense delight. He was exactly the figure one should see in this class. He is the inspiration of novels. Long, dark brown hair curls round his neck, his slender neck which leads up to the soft, supple, boyish features of his face, a brow crisscrossed with the distinct maturity of manhood, but a soft sensibility like an artist. Watch his lips, no frown upon them but no smile will grace them for he is above smiling at simple jokes. A light stubble of dark hair lines his round, curved chin, so artisan to be unshaven. His clothes are simple, slim, and fit him well. A white long sleeved shirt with long buttery smooth tan leather jacket, and straight, slim fitting jeans. He carries himself with ease and poise. A slight slouch and a shuffle mark his step. Yes! Yes I like his look very much! He is so distinctly perfect for Shakespearean literature. The grace and ease of his form screams a romantic sensibility. My artist�s eye is very pleased.

And the woman in the second row over. Oh she must be fifty at least, but she is not the homey grandmother kind. She is the haughty, upper class typification of a Shakespeare connoisseur. Watch the graceful moment of her form clothed in blacks as she swivels in her seat to listen to one of the other students talking. The steady, cold gleam in her eye under the heavy, lid cast downwards to view the student. Watch her head pivot again to gaze at the teacher, her deep purpley red spiked hair gleaming in the fluorescent school lighting. Beautiful. You are the stuff of novels, venerable woman.

One more particular figure before we move on to the motley of the class room. Another woman, young, with harsh, yet not unrefined features. She is pretty, but in a firm, almost masculine way. Her head topped in a short, brown, richly colored bob. A non descript black shirt and formless lavender skirt adorn her figure. She has a poise of confidence which allows her to carry off the look well. She speaks eloquently, in a booming, warm, rich tone. That must be the most striking thing about her. Her voice. Her voice bespeaks her infinite well of intelligence and confidence. Imagine that voice spilling Shakespeare through her lips! What a joyous, passionate glory! You feel she would understand and adore Shakespeare so well�

But turn your eyes away; hark to the others, the small assortment of advanced high school students in eclectic clothing, and the typical black sheep college students even more eclectic still. This is just what should be the crowd in so sensible, romantic and artsy a class as Shakespeare bespeaks.


But I, I feel so out of place. I want to shrink against the wall, out of sight, I want to observe and not participate. Pay no heed to my hoarse, trembling voice. It is usually so steady and confident and firm. I� I feel like a little girl lost and out of place here. In the capacity of writer and observer, dark figure ensconced in the shadows in the corner, I feel at home. But wearing my bright clothing, showing off the scars my kitten left on my hands, my bright terrified eyes and expression, I am out of place. I am ill fitted. Or fitted only as the little high school girl lost. I am not good enough. This crowd doesn�t want me.

But across the hall is waiting an English course. Friendlier and bigger. Not half so exclusive as the Shakespeare class, I feel more accepted in this rag tag group of foreigners and teenage freshmen.

The teacher is a woman of undeterminable age. Her entire self could be described by her hair alone. Strawberry blonde, waved to a stiff, unmanageable frazzle, cut shapelessly and tiredly. Her manner is laidback, as is her dress, and she seems uncomfortable and awkward as a teacher. Her eyes are bright blue, darting, searching the classroom. Her voice and slouch and manner seem to impart a woman of attempted and failed genius. She wrote a book once, she says, but it�s already out of print. But she says it without a hint of regret or disappointment. She is more fascinating and full of characteristic appearance in her languid, frazzled appearance and manner than the oozing sprightly Shakespeare teacher, simply because she is so much more non-descript.

Her class is a group of monotonous, predictable college students. Each is unique, but all are generally bland and inartistic. Which is their only redeeming beauty. They create the picture of what this class is. The reluctant unification of people doing something they must do, not something they want to do. Normal people. Normal people in a normal class.

Oh the fluid�the fluid nature of human kind� The waving fronds of epidermal human natures� There is a wonder in the stereotypical monotony�

before & & after