Snaked from Andrew.

Slow Hands

I haven’t done a very good job of participating in my classes this semester. That is to say, I haven’t participated at all. I’ve gone full days without making a peep, except to tell the guy at the counter what number my hard drive is. I fidget in my rolling chair as my digital editing professor explains where to save project files for the tenth time. I read emails from my Blackberry and listen to the man-child directly in front of me whine about how terrible Macs are. I doze off in the arctic that is my video distribution class, trying my hardest to block out the jokes the guy to the left of me makes, which, by the way, are always in poor taste.

But on Tuesdays, I stay awake. I sit upright, front and center. I listen intently, nod vigorously, and doodle occasionally. For three hours every Tuesday night, my literature class dissects the pieces we’ve been assigned. We delve into specific characters, consider writing styles, and argue over themes of sexuality, gender, race, class, and what it means to be an American. By we, I mean they. As much as I enjoy the class discussions, my articulation comes from carefully crafted sentences, none of which can be created during an ongoing dialogue. Instead, I listen intently, nod vigorously, and doodle occasionally.

Rather than having my professor discuss every work on the syllabus, she assigned each student one short story or poem to analyze, and then that student would lead a discussion on the work. I conferred with my professor a week before my presentation and left her office confident that I would do swimmingly come the following Tuesday. Presentation Day came, bringing waves of nausea with it. The last time I had an oral presentation, I got so nervous that I dropped all of my index cards. I was so edgy that I would only answer my classmates with one-word responses. Finally, it was my turn to present. I looked up just in time to make eye contact with my professor; my eyes screamed sheer terror and desperation. I could feel myself ready to burst into tears.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. I just need to get it over with.”

Several deep breaths later, I braved the podium. My voice wavered as I introduced my poet and gave some cursory background information. Every once in a while, I’d look to my professor for the “nod of approval,” some sign that I was on the right track. I was always greeted with this infectious, “Great Gatsby” smile, both encouraging and gratifying, that acted as an invisible hand to nudge me along. Aside from an especially long, awkward pause where I lost my train of thought, my class discussion went smoothly. Had I not been constantly reassured, I would have stumbled a lot more. It sounds unnecessary and childish to need that kind of steady stream of support. I don’t need to be validated, right?

Wrong! I may not raise my hand to answer every question in class, but I still secretly hope to be noticed for my scholarly efforts. That way of thinking translates into my personal and professional life, too. I stand idly by, letting opportunities pass, hoping people will be able to read my mind and realize how special I am simply by talking to me. I know that’s a load of bullshit. But I continue to live passively, waiting for chance to find me.

Here’s to raising my hand in class.

French Unicorns

The Blake Wright