Dear diary,
“Teacher of English Literature” is a job that you can get at a Public High School in the Americas. Currently there are so many English Lit Teachers that you can’t even count them; so, if I were to ask you what exactly these teachers teach, you would not be able to answer me. But here’s an idea:
What if you found yourself born as the very first Public High School English Literature Teacher ever! — You wake up in a garden & see, standing before you, God the Creator; who sez:
“Ah, so the idol can breathe, after all! Welcome to MY world, sirrah. You’re the first English Literature Teacher that I molded out of the dirt to be employed in the public sector. The age range of the kids that you shall be instructing will run from twelve to seventeen; that’s the prime of life: thus your students will resent being forced to waste their best years sitting in your classroom. I hope you have fun!”
Now sword-wielding angels escort you to the brown brick building near the mill.
So the good thing about your predicament is that there’s zero precedent for teaching English Literature (since you’re the very first High School English Lit Teacher ever created); therefore you can simply dream up your own curriculum. Now, looking about your room, you note that the desks are currently empty — the children apparently have yet to show up to class — so you deduce that you probably have some spare minutes to finagle a syllabus:
Sitting down at your desk, you take out a blank piece of paper from the top drawer. You then discover that all the tips of the pencils in the utensil cup are dull; but there is no sharpener anywhere in sight. So you write in thick faint graphite the word “SYLLABUS” at the top of the sheet; then you write the numeral “1.”
Just then, an electric alarm screeches and a herd of children shuffle into your classroom. They take their seats and gaze up at you with looks of expectation. You clear your throat and begin to speak:
“Look, kids, I don’t know what you expect from me. I don’t really understand what I’m doing. I was told that it’s my job to teach you a branch of knowledge that I myself don’t even believe in. English literature — what is it? The word ‘literature’ means basically anything that is written. It’s a synonym for ‘scripture’. So let’s consider a hypothetical... What’s your name, miss?” (You point to the girl who is smoking a cigarette in the back row.)
“Teresa” she sez.
“OK, let’s say that Teresa forges a note that claims to be from her parents, stating that their daughter must be excused from my class. At this point, Teresa has contributed to the class of scripture designated as ‘holy’. And if Teresa writes her document in English, she has become a ‘man of letters’. That’s all I can say. Class dismissed.”
The kids rise from their seats, but immediately you shout:
“Wait! I forgot something! Sit back down! — First I have to give you a bunch of homework. Hmm…” (you look down at your mostly blank paper as if you’re reading over your notes) “alright, your assignment for tomorrow is to write one diary entry, and then burn it. Use a stopwatch to record precisely how long it takes for you to compose your entry; and then, time how long it takes for the world to forget that you ever existed. Understand? Good. Now, while you’re doing that,” (here you pull open the lowest drawer of your desk & retrieve an object from within it) “I’ll be using this” (you hold up the object to show that it is a handgun) “to blow my brains out.”
The class remains seated.
“OK, now you can leave, for real.”
The class rises and shuffles out of the room.
*
The next day, while you’re getting out of the taxi, you notice that the bicycle rack outside the school is packed full. You check your wristwatch, and it reads “4:49” — you are ten minutes early, as usual: Why are there bikes here already? The kids usually don’t start showing up until 4:58 at the earliest.
Upon unlocking the door to your room, you are surprised to see that the entire class is present and already seated.
“Well, what do we have here: a well-behaved body of students? What gives? How’d you all get in here? And WHY?—I assumed you hated my boring class.”
“We all have keys” sez Teresa from the back, ashing her cigarette and exhaling a stream of smoke.
You wait a beat before responding to this...
“Um, OK,” you say, insultingly slowly. “But that only answers the question of how you all got in. Didn’t I also ask WHY you would want to come to this hell-hole so early?”
“No reason,” sez a stuffed animal from the far side of the room. It sorta looks like a yellow monkey.
“Eric’s joking,” sez the girl in front of Teresa, whom Teresa keeps blowing smoke at. “We’re here on-time for once, cuz we’re all trying to avoid our parents, cuz they’re all freaking out — they’ve never seen us actually enjoy learning; so they think we’re on drugs. But we just wanted to get back to the source of our inspiration as soon as possible. We simply loved that assignment you gave us. The step of composing a journal post brought us in tune with our creativity, and the step of burning the journal helped us face our mortality. Plus, after setting our work on fire, we then burnt other things as well. The Euphrates is actually up in flames, at the moment.”
“Are you pulling my leg?” you shout.
“No, it was naturally flammable because of the pollution,” sez the same girl. “Haven’t you heard the slogan: ‘Never drink the water in Paradise’—”
“No, I mean, are you pulling my leg about liking my assignment?” you interrupt. “Answer me!!”
“Yeah, we really did like it,” shrugs the girl; “I mean, it was more fun than watching TV.”
“What’s your name,” you ask.
“Molly-Laura.”
“Molly-Laura, you get an ‘A’,” you announce; then you add: “And if any of you other little fools want a good grade in this class, just keep those compliments rolling in.”
“Ooh! I have a compliment for you,” sez a voice from up front.
“Shoot,” you say to the lad raising his hand.
The student stands up & stiffly salutes. “My name is John, and I just wanted to say that your message about burning books made me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before.”
“John, I’m inscribing a grade of ‘B minus’ next to your name. That’s really nice stuff you’re shoveling. Tell me more.”
“What else do you want to know?” asks John.
“Well… anything. Like, tell us where you were working, before you got employed here.”
“I think I was a manager in an office,” sez John.
“Yes, we know that,” you roll your eyes, “but what KIND of office? Be more specific: What type of goods or services did your company produce?”
“Well,” sez John, “it was just a normal scam-house. Grey walls, grey cubicle dividers, gray ceiling. We didn’t make any goods or services. There were old rotary telephones on all the tables…”
“Telephones! I like it!” you shout. “NOW we’re getting somewhere!”
“And there was a lake nearby, which we could see from the office’s window. And there were two young ladies who lived in a house by this lake; and they raised lovebirds,” sez John; “and I bought one of their birds and brought it to the office, and it ended up learning how to sing a popular song that everyone loved. So I received a pay-raise from my boss, becuz the songbird pecked at his heartstrings.”
“Jeez,” you say. “I can’t believe you ever resigned from such a lucrative position. If I could find a good gig, I’d stretch it out for as long as I could manage.”
“I DID!” sez John. “Only problem was that the syndicate’s proprietor couldn’t make ends meet, and the outfit eventually tanked.”
“It took a nosedive?” you say.
“Belly-up.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Cross my heart & hope to die,” sez John, while making the gesture and winking and nodding.
“Ah, that’s a shame,” you say. And you begin to weep. You open the lowest drawer of the desk again & clutch the gun in your hand.
“We should leave the professor alone now—” sez John to his classmates; “he looks pretty sad.”
“Thanks, guys,” you say, thru your tears. “This’ll just take a sec.”
*
Day three on the job. You’ve begun to enjoy teaching. The class has made a habit of showing up extremely early — sometimes you end up chatting with them for hours before the official starting time. You allow them to probe you for wisdom; and they take notes on all that you say. Two of your students have even published collections of your teachings, which currently top the bestseller list. Others in the class have been able to land jobs reporting about you for national newspapers or magazines — they write either gossip columns or paparazzi-style exposé pieces. This has allowed your entire class to earn enough money to move out of their respective parents’ houses. Meanwhile, you still live in your apartment.
*
After just over half a year of teaching, it reaches the point where your students do not even leave the classroom anymore. They are all very wealthy now, because you’ve allowed them to steal your ideas, and they’ve made them into popular movies and video games.
Now your students have all grown up: the youngest is in her mid-forties. One day, you gave your class the assignment of bringing in their birth certificates; & they all said “But why?” and you answered: “Just becuz.” Then you were shocked to realize that you yourself, their longtime teacher, are actually younger than any of them, by at least three years! & apparently it has been this way all along, for people do not age at different rates.
*
So, on the Sabbath, you bring your class outside for a field trip. You take them to the top of the active volcano. At the edge of the rim, you all lie prone and look straight in.
“Are you going to tell us that our next assignment is to write about a family tradition that this boiling lava brings to mind?”
“God forbid!” you say. “You’re all middle-aged now and successful in your careers; you have nothing more to learn. I’ve done my job. I daresay I deserve a ‘Good-Teacher Award’; but I don’t expect to get one. No, dear class, the reason I brought you up here is to show you something that I myself have always found attractive. That is all. You can leap if you like.”
However, nobody takes you up on your offer.
“Alright then, listen up,” you continue: “I made diplomas for you all, to certify that you have graduated from my class.” And you open your satchel and hand out scrolls that have heartfelt, personal messages written on them in gorgeous calligraphy.
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