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“Welcome to English 101. I’m Professor Winslow,” I announce as I spin away from Rachel, jog toward my desk, and jump up onto the raised platform at the front of the room. “This class is incredibly easy if you do the following three things. Number one, attend the class. Number two, read what I tell you to read. And number three, engage in the discussions,” I decree with a smile, grabbing the clipboard roster and immediately diving into roll call.
It’s a lengthy process I won’t do every class, instead, doing it at random. I like to keep them on their toes and, occasionally, give them the chance to get lucky.
“Winter break reading,” I announce after finishing with the roster and tossing it back onto my desk. I look up into the massive crowd of students. “Who successfully completed all 1000 pages of Anna Karenina?”
About half of the class raises their hands, while the other half looks around bashfully. This is nothing new, truthfully. If anything, it seems like we might be starting with a higher percentage of completion this year.
“Okay. And who avoided the reading?”
More uncertain looks. As if they’re not sure if they should tell the truth or avoid it, though a few brave hearts raise their hands without guilt. The overwhelming majority was bold enough to skip the assignment but scared to admit to their actions.
Kind of like Rachel. I glance over at her to see she’s watching me—or she was, jerking her eyes away as soon as I make contact. I smile and turn back to the class.
“And who in this class is so disorganized they didn’t even know they were supposed to read something?”
Laughter overtakes the crowd, and about three hands go up, one belonging to a freshman with a headful of unbrushed blond hair who is currently eating from a pack of Twinkies in the second row.
A lot of the older professors I work with hate teaching freshmen. But I find an insane amount of enjoyment in it. They are still figuring it all out and haven’t quite broken all their high school habits yet. They’re used to being led around on a leash, and college is about learning to blaze a trail of your own. I love being witness to the shift in mind-set—and you really only ever get that in large proportions with freshmen.
“Have you ever read Tolstoy?” I ask the Twinkie-eating blond kid, and he shakes his head.
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
That makes me chuckle. “Looks like you’re about to learn today, son.”
The kid just shrugs and takes another bite of his Twinkie as the rest of the class laughs.
“May I suggest you put down the snack cakes and take some notes?” I offer with a sly grin. “Or, you know, just keep eating and remain unprepared for the exam this Friday.”
“What?” He groans around a mouthful of cake and cream. “There’s going to be an exam?”
“It’s Landon, right?” I question and he nods.
“That’s me.”
“There isn’t going to be an exam for the rest of the class. But for you? There’s a possibility of an exam.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you have a choice. Either you come to my class ready to engage in discussion, or you can stuff your face with Twinkies, act too cool for school, keep not-so-secretly checking social media shit, and definitely end up with an exam on Friday.”
“Okay. Okay.” Landon smirks and sits up straighter in his seat. “I can dig that.”
“Look,” I state and move my attention to the entire class. “I know, for most of you, this class is just some dumb prerequisite you have to complete. And I know this because I was you once. Actually, I was an asshole like Landon once.”
“What the hell, Prof?” Landon scoffs above the laughter of everyone else.
I just grin at him. “But I know for a fact that if you go through life looking at things like they’re a to-do item on a checklist, you’re setting yourself up for some real misery.” I turn toward the giant whiteboard behind me and grab a black marker. “Life isn’t a checklist. Life is something to experience. It’s something to feel. It’s something to marvel at. So, with that mind-set, let’s talk Tolstoy and Anna Karenina. I know it’s a long book. I know, at times, it can feel boring AF, as the kids say these days. But why is this book a timeless masterpiece? Why is Tolstoy revered as one of the best because of it?”
I write out the words What makes Anna Karenina so fucking great? on the whiteboard.
A titter rolls through the room, and kids look back and forth at one another excitedly.
I glance at Rachel to find her sporting just a hint of a smile, and I can’t stop myself from drawing her into the conversation.
