I was in a college or high school history class, listening to the teacher; I think it was a woman, but it could’ve been a man; lecture about what supposedly happened during whatever era it was we were covering that day. It was a typical day as far as the class went, but it was different for me because, instead of drifting off into Daydream Land or semi-sleep, I was actually paying attention and taking notes.
I was sleepy for sure. I had my head down, wrapped in my arms, but I had a pencil or pen in my right hand as I messily paraphrased the teacher’s words in a way I and probably only I would be able to glance over in preparation for a future assignment or exam. I must’ve fallen behind with my grades because I was determined to take notes, figuring it was something I had to do to pass the class.
I should’ve sat up. I should’ve wrote neater and in more detail. But I was proud of myself nonetheless, especially when the teacher glanced over at me without pause. That she, or he, saw I was paying attention and taking notes for a change gave me the motivation to continue; from that day on, I hoped. “This part doesn’t start until Chapter 21”, I abbreviated as the teacher began to wrap-up for the day.
2015 ( September 07 )