The Scariest Halloween

I am not sure how I am going to write this blog-piece. I suppose jumping in and typing away is the best beginning.

Yesterday I had a meeting with my long time professor. We had scheduled this meeting because I had had enough. I was so sickened with the idea of attending any more Human Service courses requiring my compassion to exceed the limit with which I was born. I wanted to jump ship; I was willing to tread water for the duration so that my soul could feel the freedom of words splashing inside my mind once again. The seas had been treacherous for some time now and I knew I needed rescued. The s.o.s. I sent out was well received. I can almost visualize the grin as my distress signal was deciphered. The appointment was then made and after the hour or so long meeting completed I was sent grasping my metaphorical lifesaver downstairs to sign the request of change paperwork. My heart was in my throat as I walked down that long curved flight. I wanted to bolt, out the door and into my car to pretend this never happened. I have accomplished some of what I had originally started; things would be simpler to finish the voyage as it is. The thought of drowning crossed my mind as I landed at the bottom of the stairs. I knew that if I did not cross over to the desk and sign that paper I would inevitably perish. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pushed the feeling of escaping back, as anyone would the grasping tendrils of a terrifying oceanic monster attempting to grip their body in hopes of taking them under. I signed my paper and ascended those curved stairs to leave feeling as though I had just walked through the most intense haunted house of my life.

The forty-five minute drive home was a moment worthy of documentation. I drove with a satisfied smile on my face and the look of fret in my eyes. I turned the radio up to cover my thoughts, which was pointless because the louder the music the louder my thoughts screamed. How was I to explain to my husband that I would no longer be studying to work with the elderly? So frequently he had asked (prompted by those lovely homework deadlines which turned a normally jovial wife into a raging maniac) when I would complete my work and obtain my degree. I reflected on the conversation about how teaching can be so rewarding, with moments of aggravation as my mind trailed off onto a road I had not taken in many years.

One day during junior high I sat in English class after those of us who had done their homework had turned in their assignment. I huddled in my seat with the realization that not as many papers as students were passed forward. Mr. Robinson was beginning to turn colors. His eyes began to change; a crazed look took over his face. I was about to be witness to the first literary tantrum of my scholastic career. Mr. Robinson said a few choice words then lowered his head, walked to the back of the room to rest on the edge of an empty desk. As the silence quivered every soul in the room; he lifted his head and began to recite poetry. His delivery was spoken with a passion I had never known or would I see for years. His recited words resounded the barbaric yawp I learned about a few years later, but I knew I liked what I heard. 

Classes with Mr. Ed Robinson continued without any further outbursts. Christmas break came and went. Upon returning in the New Year we were assigned to write a paper. We all groaned silently, fore the fear of another tantrum was always lingering. We were to write a paper about our favorite present we had received. 

As I came to the stop sign at Highways 16 & 17 I smiled. I remember exactly what I wrote about. The day the assignment was due we all filed into class. The bell rang and as we prepared to pass our papers forward we were informed that we would be reading them aloud. In later years I would recall this moment when I watched Dead Poets Society. The paralyzing dread of speaking in front of the class could cause instant illness. You see, I was a red headed freckled face kid with a gap between my two front teeth like David Letterman. I already had attention drawn because I was different; little did I know each student in their own way felt the same ailment. My turn came to read my carefully scripted piece about the simple coloring book I had opened Christmas morning. Alas, this was no ordinary coloring book. The booked contained poetry along with black and white illustrations. Pages of fun printed in so many forms. I felt the pangs of attention fall upon me. I stood up as requested. As I read a few giggles came from the class and words about being poor must "suck." I attempted to defend my gift with the fact that I indeed had received other things only to be interrupted as Mr. Robinson quickly hushed the hecklers with something about the value of a gift "is not always in monetary units." I survived that moment only to be challenged of others.

As I drove, I realized that I had just encountered another one of those survival moments. I had made it through an episode momentarily weakened; however, triumphant. I drove home a student of Liberal Arts with a focus on English. A place in which, I should have been nineteen and a half years ago. (Thanks Mr. Frost, I took your road less traveled and got terribly lost for nearly two decades!)

The irony is that the road I traveled at that moment was one I had traveled so many times on my way to and from classes. I know every lump and bump, each deer crossing. I know which houses grow daffodils in spring and where every Christmas tree will be displayed in each window. The huge brick Victorian style house I have loved since I was a little girl stands as a reminder of how old the need for more than the basics of survival permeates my soul.

The reality is that I now must find a way to “make a living” with this ever so scoffed Liberal Arts degree. I have often felt alone in my impending decision. After voicing my compulsion toward English I found more encouragement than I expected. And a special thanks to one particular Ed Robinson. (Not to be confused with Edwin Arlington Robinson. No relation, I asked him once.) Thank you kind sir for giving me the idea that teaching 7^th and 8^th graders may not be the route to take once I obtain my degree. Although, I am certain my tantrum would be much more entertaining.

For all of you Liberal Art majors I am sharing the link below. I am also sharing the link below to all of you non-Liberal Art majors, in case you do jeer at such a major and the employment outlook. 

Liberal Arts and the Advantages of Being Useless

You should be warned that to ridicule any Liberal Arts major will merely cause a “write and reason” response because in the end they will find the words to twist your jab back around. It is one of those known factors in life, much like arguing with your parent when you are a child. They will always have the final word. Always...