Act of Violence
This spring I enrolled in an English course at a local university - an elective, Violence in Literature. After long discussions with my husband, I had decided that I would pursue the English degree I had not gotten the first time around and, much to my surprise, I only needed a few classes to complete it. Violence in Lit would be a small first step, albeit an extremely important one to me personally.
I approached the classroom on the first day, tentative, scared. There was so much riding on that class, at least in my heart, that I was shaking as I took a seat. I was so excited... it amazes me to look back on it now. There was so much hope in that classroom, in that class, for me.
As the semester unfolded, the class itself became not just the study of violence in literature, but very literally a weekly act of violence against my self. I was horrified to discover that something I had previously enjoyed so much could become such torture. The professor, the other students, the writing assignments. I hated almost everything.
At first I was completely devastated. "What does this mean?!?" I would beg Colin to tell me after yet another miserable Wednesday night class. "Why don't I love this like I used to? Am I different now? Have I lost myself somewhere?" I was absolutely mortified at the idea that I might have somehow lost my love of what I have always held so dear.
But as the final paper and final exam inched closer, during a particularly frustrating class focused around a book and a documentary that both moved and inspired me, I finally learned something from this terrible class.
It wasn't me.
My love of writing, my love of the books and the culture and the questioning, it is all still the same. What was different was the setting. The other students were critical of EVERYTHING and EVERYBODY and there was no room for emotion or personality in their rigid rhetoric. The professor was the leader of their Literazi mentality, he name-dropped like a Masters student as if he were proving to his own class that he was good enough to be there.
And there I was, in the middle of the negativity, wanting merely to talk about the emotion in Toni Morrison's words and the power behind the Weathermen's attempt at political change. I didn't want to pull them apart in comparison to Freud or Hobbes. I wanted to love or hate them but respect them regardless.
My focus is different - this is what I know now. I will never be the typical Literature student that I encountered in that classroom, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. My reason for being there, my reason for writing - it is just different.
I write for the love of it - not for my life. It does not define me and I do not seek to define it. And as such, our relationship is beautiful and focused on love and respect, not literary critique and a flashy show of intelligence.
In the end, fully prepared to take a grade-hit due to my struggle with the class itself, I am surprised to see an A on my transcript. But, in a twisted way, I think I deserve that A. I learned something far more critical to my self than anything the professor attempted to teach me - and it has changed me, it has re-shaped my view of my writing and my purpose here.
I think I will view this grade not so much as an A for academic effort as an A for psychological perseverance. Not so much for learning of violence, as for surviving it.
I approached the classroom on the first day, tentative, scared. There was so much riding on that class, at least in my heart, that I was shaking as I took a seat. I was so excited... it amazes me to look back on it now. There was so much hope in that classroom, in that class, for me.
As the semester unfolded, the class itself became not just the study of violence in literature, but very literally a weekly act of violence against my self. I was horrified to discover that something I had previously enjoyed so much could become such torture. The professor, the other students, the writing assignments. I hated almost everything.
At first I was completely devastated. "What does this mean?!?" I would beg Colin to tell me after yet another miserable Wednesday night class. "Why don't I love this like I used to? Am I different now? Have I lost myself somewhere?" I was absolutely mortified at the idea that I might have somehow lost my love of what I have always held so dear.
But as the final paper and final exam inched closer, during a particularly frustrating class focused around a book and a documentary that both moved and inspired me, I finally learned something from this terrible class.
It wasn't me.
My love of writing, my love of the books and the culture and the questioning, it is all still the same. What was different was the setting. The other students were critical of EVERYTHING and EVERYBODY and there was no room for emotion or personality in their rigid rhetoric. The professor was the leader of their Literazi mentality, he name-dropped like a Masters student as if he were proving to his own class that he was good enough to be there.
And there I was, in the middle of the negativity, wanting merely to talk about the emotion in Toni Morrison's words and the power behind the Weathermen's attempt at political change. I didn't want to pull them apart in comparison to Freud or Hobbes. I wanted to love or hate them but respect them regardless.
My focus is different - this is what I know now. I will never be the typical Literature student that I encountered in that classroom, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. My reason for being there, my reason for writing - it is just different.
I write for the love of it - not for my life. It does not define me and I do not seek to define it. And as such, our relationship is beautiful and focused on love and respect, not literary critique and a flashy show of intelligence.
In the end, fully prepared to take a grade-hit due to my struggle with the class itself, I am surprised to see an A on my transcript. But, in a twisted way, I think I deserve that A. I learned something far more critical to my self than anything the professor attempted to teach me - and it has changed me, it has re-shaped my view of my writing and my purpose here.
I think I will view this grade not so much as an A for academic effort as an A for psychological perseverance. Not so much for learning of violence, as for surviving it.