Writing Class

Sitting in writing class....my mind is elsewhere. Pretty sure no one else is listening to our professor. I catch a point here and there. I try to make it look like I'm paying attention. In a room with only 15 kids.... I feel obligated to do that.

There's a painting of this guy. I don't know who he is....but he's staring at me like I'm the worst person on the earth. I don't know why. He doesn't even know me. There he is though, staring at me like I'm a nobody. It's as if he's saying "Why the hell are you here? You don't belong here." *sigh* Jerk.

There's another painting. "F. Scott Fitzgerald" it says. I decide Fitzy is a better name. Fitzy looks down upon the class like he's the greatest guy who ever lived. He says to us "You wish you were ME don't you?". No actually I don't. Then the jerk guy says "Shut up little girl you don't know anything".

I hear something about the book "The Things They Carried" mentioned. My professor talks about the lieutenant who had his mind elsewhere.

My mind goes elsewhere again. I think of you. I want to write all over the blackboard how much I love you and how much you mean to me still. I want to take a picture of that blackboard and send it to you. You probably wouldn't like that too much.

Fitzy looks at me like I'm the most pathetic person ever. "haha!" he says. "Oh poor child! I bet you wish you were ME! Look how wonderful I am!".

I ignore Fitzy and think about my blackboard plan. I ditch the idea. It does sound a little pathetic.

I look over at my professor but the jerk guy painting is right behind her. I try to listen to what she is saying....but he's staring at me. Judging my every move. Judging my every thought. I want him to stop looking at me. I focus my eyes on the professor. She's still talking on and on about the stories we had to read. I'm not sure what she's getting at. I understand the concept of non-fiction and how it can sorta be made up and blah blah blah.

But that GUY. That PAINTING. It's right behind her. "Pay attention to your studies you worthless girl!" he tells me. I try. He keeps staring at me in that judging way. Condescending.

I look down at my notes and pretend to be writing things down. Anything to avoid his judgmental gaze.

My friend (I think) sitting next to me brushes his arm against mine accidentally as he starts to write something down. For that brief second I felt like I was going to be ok...I had people who cared. Fitzy started to laugh at me. "oh silly child! No one cares about you! You're not important like ME!".

I stare hard at my notes. There's nothing written down really. Maybe a couple of words here and there. There are more dinosaurs on the page. I start to draw a cat eye. That doesn't work out.

I hear something about the story we read and what certain symbols might mean and how we will get to meet the author and that we should ask him questions when we meet him next week.

While listening, I saw that I was still drawing. I drew a roadrunner.

Blackboard.

I stare at my professor and ignore the jerk guy staring from behind her. I try to think about what her life might have been like. She seemed like the type who was a total hippie. I think she still is.

I look back down at the roadrunner I drew. Out of the corner of my eye I see another painting. There's just a guy....reading a book. Couldn't care less about me or anyone else. He just cares about that old book he's reading. He's got a whole stack of books in front of him to read next. He's occupied. He won't bother me.

The professor starts telling us about how she wrote an essay about when she played a guitar on a train for people. She's a hippie.

She finishes the story....it's time for us to go. The jerk looks at me and says "You didn't learn a thing about writing today. You were too busy not paying attention.".

I hate that painting.

I grab my stuff and walk quickly away from him. His cold and uncaring eyes follow me out the door.

~AM