Wednesday, September 01, 2004
On "Magical"
The thing about having six years of liberal arts experience, is just that: all that (monetarily useless) experience. The knowledge that never makes it to the resume or daily phone call. Useless, you say? Ah, but what of self-definition?
Therefore . . . picture it! Spring, 2003: it's a mucky day outside, but inside the small room of one professor and 14 students, all attention is focused on a poem (as this was a poetry lab). We were discussing a modern poem. When I state "discuss", I mean we moved around the room in a circle, each classmate giving his or her opinion on what worked and what didn't work in the poem we just read.
We were at Jenna. Jenna had arrived late that day, as usual. Her dyed-black hair was especially strung-out. Her sleeve cuffs were pulled especially low around her hands. Her thin face of prominently high cheekbones was especially tortured that day. And when you imagine Jenna don't imagine her as Jenna. Imagine her as Jen-aaaah. Speak it with a Billy Idol sneer.
She hadn't spoken yet, so the professor prompted her: "Jenna, your thoughts?"
Jenna tensed up and held both her hands out in front of her, as if she was walking in the dark. "Ummmmmm." She paused, holding her head up high, but still focusing her eyes down on the page, considering. Finally, her face sank. When her voice came, it was a strangled gargle.
"It's just really magical."
She didn't speak as much as she cried-spoke. Think of it as if she was speaking in the voice of an REM ballad. Every word trembled, like she was on the verge of not just tears, but bawling, snot-running sobs of passionate sadness. "It's just really magical," she repeated in a whisper, shaking her head, her eyes on the table, as they always were. They were on the table, yes -- but her mind was transfixed on this magical, tortured world of hers.
Me? I sat on the other side of the table, on the far end. I bit the insides of my mouth -- hard -- to stifle a laugh. Knowing it was coming anyway, I faked a loud cough. Then I looked up to check everyone else's reaction to Jenna's assessment: nothing. Stoned silence. People just focused in on the text like nothing just happened. The professor cleared her voice.
"What makes the poem so magical, Jenna?"
"What?" I thought. "You're encouraging this?"
On the other end of the table, tears had come to Jenna's eyes. "Just . . . everything!"
Looking at the professor, I thought, "No way. No way you accept that as an intellectual addition to the discussion. Everyone else brought something interesting or important to the table." Everyone else had spoken for three to five minutes about the poem. Jenna? Three to five words.
"Thank you for your contribution, Jenna."
"Mkay," Jenna sobbed.
Magical. The poem was magical. I still don't know how or why it was magical. We never really got that far that day (although I was dangerously tempted to ask Jenna if the poem could sprout wings and fly around the room). Instead, the professor said:
"Let's make that our assignment for next time. Let's have everyone bring in a poem that they find has magical qualities."
At that point, one can only really come to one conclusion, and what I reached was: I'm 25 years old, I'm in a 400-level poetry class, and I am going to have to search for my magical poem. This is what it's come to.
Therefore . . . picture it! Spring, 2003: it's a mucky day outside, but inside the small room of one professor and 14 students, all attention is focused on a poem (as this was a poetry lab). We were discussing a modern poem. When I state "discuss", I mean we moved around the room in a circle, each classmate giving his or her opinion on what worked and what didn't work in the poem we just read.
We were at Jenna. Jenna had arrived late that day, as usual. Her dyed-black hair was especially strung-out. Her sleeve cuffs were pulled especially low around her hands. Her thin face of prominently high cheekbones was especially tortured that day. And when you imagine Jenna don't imagine her as Jenna. Imagine her as Jen-aaaah. Speak it with a Billy Idol sneer.
She hadn't spoken yet, so the professor prompted her: "Jenna, your thoughts?"
Jenna tensed up and held both her hands out in front of her, as if she was walking in the dark. "Ummmmmm." She paused, holding her head up high, but still focusing her eyes down on the page, considering. Finally, her face sank. When her voice came, it was a strangled gargle.
"It's just really magical."
She didn't speak as much as she cried-spoke. Think of it as if she was speaking in the voice of an REM ballad. Every word trembled, like she was on the verge of not just tears, but bawling, snot-running sobs of passionate sadness. "It's just really magical," she repeated in a whisper, shaking her head, her eyes on the table, as they always were. They were on the table, yes -- but her mind was transfixed on this magical, tortured world of hers.
Me? I sat on the other side of the table, on the far end. I bit the insides of my mouth -- hard -- to stifle a laugh. Knowing it was coming anyway, I faked a loud cough. Then I looked up to check everyone else's reaction to Jenna's assessment: nothing. Stoned silence. People just focused in on the text like nothing just happened. The professor cleared her voice.
"What makes the poem so magical, Jenna?"
"What?" I thought. "You're encouraging this?"
On the other end of the table, tears had come to Jenna's eyes. "Just . . . everything!"
Looking at the professor, I thought, "No way. No way you accept that as an intellectual addition to the discussion. Everyone else brought something interesting or important to the table." Everyone else had spoken for three to five minutes about the poem. Jenna? Three to five words.
"Thank you for your contribution, Jenna."
"Mkay," Jenna sobbed.
Magical. The poem was magical. I still don't know how or why it was magical. We never really got that far that day (although I was dangerously tempted to ask Jenna if the poem could sprout wings and fly around the room). Instead, the professor said:
"Let's make that our assignment for next time. Let's have everyone bring in a poem that they find has magical qualities."
At that point, one can only really come to one conclusion, and what I reached was: I'm 25 years old, I'm in a 400-level poetry class, and I am going to have to search for my magical poem. This is what it's come to.
