About a week ago I experienced a moment of clarity. For just a few seconds, I got a sense – as corny as it sounds – I was special. It was one of those affirming, self-empowering, life-is-OK type of sensations. It happened in Rounds 204 during my composition class. I was sitting atop a table at the front of the room listening to one of my students read a story about an experience he had hunting with his cousin. He was at the point in the story when the main character eyes a young buck he will eventually kill. It was right before this climax that a subtle feeling of elation crept over me. In my mind’s eye I was picturing the world my student was describing, while my actual eyes were scanning the classroom, looking at the students to see they were paying attention. Perhaps it was this dissonance of images that drove me into a state of rare reflection. Regardless of what set it off, it no doubt happened. For a few seconds, the raw emotion of the successes and failures of my life jarred my brain to a point where I thought things were really working out for me. As I sat on that table, the privilege and prestige that comes with teaching a college class soaked in. Wow, I am really in-charge here! For those few seconds, I had the best job in the world. I was at the helm of a creative, expressive machine. I was inspiring students to find meaningful memories that they could share. I was pushing them, helping them classify and categorize what mattered. I had created a raison d’etre for them to document snippets of their lives – anecdotes of their childhood preserved for future readings. In a way, I was serving as a catalyst – the spark necessary for their self-expression. Before I knew it, applause had broken out in the classroom. The student had finished reading his story, and his classmates were giving him “props” for reading aloud. The clapping snapped me out of my daydream. After a brief discussion about the student’s story, someone else volunteered to read, and my mind’s eye was again put to work. I’m not sure I understood the personal investment I would eventually make in each of my students. Even now, as the semester winds down and deadlines draw near, I think of composition students I had fall semester. I think of middle school children I worked with before coming to PSC. I think of the “Y” kids – the kindergartners I spent two afternoons with each week at a central MA YWCA. It seems my students – both present and past – drift in and out of my head at random times. They are not easily forgotten or dismissed. They are real, and constantly evolving, as am I. I find teaching rewarding because I enjoy being a part these people’s lives. I have a genuine interest in others. The more folks I meet, the more I feel connected to this world. In a sense, as I meet others, my grasp on the essence of human nature becomes a little bit tighter. Yet our “essence,” the answer to that existential question, “Why are we here?” is elusive and slippery. Paul Simon once sang, “God only knows, God makes his plan. The information’s unavailable to the mortal man. We’re workin’ our jobs, collect our pay. Believe we’re gliding down the highway, when in fact we’re slip sliding away.” Sometimes I wonder if I suffer from highway delusions – that in reality, I’m no closer to the answers I seek than I was when I began to dedicate my adult life to the pursuit of something greater than myself. In a few weeks, I will be 50 percent closer to the next destination on my highway – a graduate degree. Where the next stop will be is anyone’s guess, although the longer I stay on this road, the more defined it becomes. Sometimes I misplace the directions or misread the map. Yet every once in a while, a bright neon sign appears, telling me where I am, showing me where to go. Such a sign appeared last week during my aforementioned “moment of clarity.” It helped affirm my journey, reminding me where I’ve been and where I’m headed.
Plymouth State University
Sunday, June 29, 2025