Helen teaches section (NFFN version)
[this version and the HSZ need to be integrated.]
Helen stared at the tabletop in front of her. Her mouth hurt because she was clenching it so hard, trying to avoid yawning. The classroom was terribly hot and crowded-a ring of students were seated around the space formed by four tables. Around that inner ring gathered still more, standing or sitting against the walls of the room. The multitude of bodies made the room seem far smaller than it was. Flies buzzed against the windows and occasionally flew around the people in the outer circle before they were shooed away.
Maria Gatellis, a fifth-year senior taking the class because it was the only one she could get into which satisfied her major requirements, was talking about truth in literary texts. She was the oldest woman in the section, older than Helen by about two years. She wore a simple cotton print dress flowing to her ankles, which in a curious way emphasized to Helen her slight advantage in age. Maria wrapped up her point with the statement:
“I think the impulse to fix the meaning of texts in an absolute way is part of a patriarchal system which freezes literary interpretation in order to prevent feminist rereadings.”
Helen looked up. She saw that her section, by their expressions, postures and murmurs of assent, agreed with Maria. Helen decided to try and open up the conversation:
“What do other people think? Is it a good idea if there is one true meaning to a book, or story, or whatever?”
Directly across from her, Helen saw a hand shoot up. The hand belonged to a student who appeared very young, as well as pale and attentive. Several times that quarter, Helen had noticed him, since he always paid attention in section. She knew his name was Michael Sullivan, and he wrote very good papers. Helen didn't remember him speaking in class before. Relieved that someone other than Maria and herself was going to speak, Helen acknowledged him.
“I think ultimately there must be a truth in what we read, else the act of reading would be pointless-an endless circle of people interpreting and re-interpreting, with no end, ever.”
“Maybe that's what it is,” said one student.
He gained an appreciative laugh from many of the other literature students in the section.
“But if that's so, said Michael, how can literature ever actually do something? Like educate, or...”
Several students nodded in agreement.
“That's true,” one murmured.
“Good point,” another said.
Helen nodded as well. She liked the sound of Michael's well-phrased words. Before section she had consumed a huge double mocha espresso and Michael's measured and reasonable tones distracted her from her caffeine jitters. She hoped someone other than Maria would respond, but then she saw Maria lift her finger.
-:'m not sure that's what education should be,” said Maria.
Helen looked around the room. Most of the students were paying attention, which was unusual, but none of them added anything. They merely followed the conversation between Michael and Maria by turning their heads back and forth. Helen found Michael very appealing because she knew he was being absolutely honest-which was rare in her section. He wasn't trying to please anyone with what he said. She hoped it didn't get him in trouble. She was about to say something, to unite the two sides harmoniously, because she thought it was silly for people to disagree about something like literature, when a good-looking upperclassman raised his hand slightly. Helen smiled at him, and he started speaking:
“Like, I think a lot of writers do have a total truth they want us to get. Like, Melville was really showing how, like, society totally forces people into a certain, you know, mold and stuff-Bartleby's totally oppressed by his boss... “
Again the students sitting at the table nodded and murmured agreement. Michael, though, frowned and blurted out, “But you have to be careful about the truth, and make sure you have the right one. I think Melville was demonstrating the degree to which everyone is intellectually responsible for their own salvation or damnation.”
Helen's eyes widened. She knew Michael's statement would get a negative reaction. What's more, she knew that he wouldn't expect such a personal response in an intellectual argument. She felt hot, in her face and the lower middle of her chest, hearing the rustle of bodies as the students tried to release the accumulated tension. Maria Gatellis rolled her eyes at Michael's statement. Helen heard murmurs, giggles and a whispered mockery, aimed against this obvious freshman who had violated the unwritten laws of the UCSC section.
Maria looked into Helen's eyes, narrowing her eyes slightly. Helen felt a little intimidated by her direct gaze, but she could not allow the upper-class-woman to usurp her position. Helen decided to deflect Maria, and the rest of the section who had set themselves firmly against Michael, by stating their judgment in a more gentle way.
“Well, Michael, I think you're right to a degree. But you know, there are many things beyond Bartleby's control. To place all the blame on the individual removes any responsibility from society. And I definitely think that Melville intended a critique of the situation in America at the time.”
Maria stared hard at Helen. Helen looked back with what she hoped was a pleasantly neutral expression. She wiped her hand on her pants. Her hand felt sweaty and scummy because of all the coffee she had drunk and her left temple ached, whether from too much or too little coffee Helen didn't know. She remembered as she was wiping her hand that she had worn her white jeans that day, and realized with annoyance that there now a faint brown stain on her leg. She leveled her head and smiled to her section as a whole, hoping the crisis had passed.
Helen saw a tall guy lift his hand. He wore two sweatshirts, one which read in faded black letters: 'Guatemala.' Beneath that he wore another with a deep beige-colored hood, enveloping his head like a cowl. All that could be seen of his face was a trim goatee, a ring of short black hairs encircling his mouth and chin. He couldn't let Michael's statement pass without giving it what it he thought it deserved.
“I think that saying someone's responsible for everything that happens to them is just a way of blaming the victim. Here we have Bartleby totally screwed over, and then you're saying it's his fault? I think that's way out of line.”
Helen stood and watched this exchange, trying to think of a way to steer her section away from the argument, since no good was going to come of further discussion. She looked at the faces of the students and sighed inwardly. They seemed set on judgment.
“But the question isn't society, the question is the individual's response to society,” Michael responded, his voice breaking at the end.
Nobody said anything. It was as if Michael had ceased to exist. He slumped, and seemed, to Helen, to withdraw from the world. Helen shrugged, and decided it was time to move on. Forgetting again, she wiped her hand again on her pants several times. She looked across the room to Michael. He looked at her, eyes sad but still wide open-his gaze clear and direct. She realized he liked her. He adored her. That's what his eyes were saying to her.
Helen broke her gaze away and did not look back in Michael's direction for the rest of the section. There were only about five minutes left, so Helen decided to wrap things up. She asked her class:
“Does anyone have any questions on the papers?”
Helen stared at the tabletop in front of her. Her mouth hurt because she was clenching it so hard, trying to avoid yawning. The classroom was terribly hot and crowded-a ring of students were seated around the space formed by four tables. Around that inner ring gathered still more, standing or sitting against the walls of the room. The multitude of bodies made the room seem far smaller than it was. Flies buzzed against the windows and occasionally flew around the people in the outer circle before they were shooed away.
Maria Gatellis, a fifth-year senior taking the class because it was the only one she could get into which satisfied her major requirements, was talking about truth in literary texts. She was the oldest woman in the section, older than Helen by about two years. She wore a simple cotton print dress flowing to her ankles, which in a curious way emphasized to Helen her slight advantage in age. Maria wrapped up her point with the statement:
“I think the impulse to fix the meaning of texts in an absolute way is part of a patriarchal system which freezes literary interpretation in order to prevent feminist rereadings.”
Helen looked up. She saw that her section, by their expressions, postures and murmurs of assent, agreed with Maria. Helen decided to try and open up the conversation:
“What do other people think? Is it a good idea if there is one true meaning to a book, or story, or whatever?”
Directly across from her, Helen saw a hand shoot up. The hand belonged to a student who appeared very young, as well as pale and attentive. Several times that quarter, Helen had noticed him, since he always paid attention in section. She knew his name was Michael Sullivan, and he wrote very good papers. Helen didn't remember him speaking in class before. Relieved that someone other than Maria and herself was going to speak, Helen acknowledged him.
“I think ultimately there must be a truth in what we read, else the act of reading would be pointless-an endless circle of people interpreting and re-interpreting, with no end, ever.”
“Maybe that's what it is,” said one student.
He gained an appreciative laugh from many of the other literature students in the section.
“But if that's so, said Michael, how can literature ever actually do something? Like educate, or...”
Several students nodded in agreement.
“That's true,” one murmured.
“Good point,” another said.
Helen nodded as well. She liked the sound of Michael's well-phrased words. Before section she had consumed a huge double mocha espresso and Michael's measured and reasonable tones distracted her from her caffeine jitters. She hoped someone other than Maria would respond, but then she saw Maria lift her finger.
-:'m not sure that's what education should be,” said Maria.
Helen looked around the room. Most of the students were paying attention, which was unusual, but none of them added anything. They merely followed the conversation between Michael and Maria by turning their heads back and forth. Helen found Michael very appealing because she knew he was being absolutely honest-which was rare in her section. He wasn't trying to please anyone with what he said. She hoped it didn't get him in trouble. She was about to say something, to unite the two sides harmoniously, because she thought it was silly for people to disagree about something like literature, when a good-looking upperclassman raised his hand slightly. Helen smiled at him, and he started speaking:
“Like, I think a lot of writers do have a total truth they want us to get. Like, Melville was really showing how, like, society totally forces people into a certain, you know, mold and stuff-Bartleby's totally oppressed by his boss... “
Again the students sitting at the table nodded and murmured agreement. Michael, though, frowned and blurted out, “But you have to be careful about the truth, and make sure you have the right one. I think Melville was demonstrating the degree to which everyone is intellectually responsible for their own salvation or damnation.”
Helen's eyes widened. She knew Michael's statement would get a negative reaction. What's more, she knew that he wouldn't expect such a personal response in an intellectual argument. She felt hot, in her face and the lower middle of her chest, hearing the rustle of bodies as the students tried to release the accumulated tension. Maria Gatellis rolled her eyes at Michael's statement. Helen heard murmurs, giggles and a whispered mockery, aimed against this obvious freshman who had violated the unwritten laws of the UCSC section.
Maria looked into Helen's eyes, narrowing her eyes slightly. Helen felt a little intimidated by her direct gaze, but she could not allow the upper-class-woman to usurp her position. Helen decided to deflect Maria, and the rest of the section who had set themselves firmly against Michael, by stating their judgment in a more gentle way.
“Well, Michael, I think you're right to a degree. But you know, there are many things beyond Bartleby's control. To place all the blame on the individual removes any responsibility from society. And I definitely think that Melville intended a critique of the situation in America at the time.”
Maria stared hard at Helen. Helen looked back with what she hoped was a pleasantly neutral expression. She wiped her hand on her pants. Her hand felt sweaty and scummy because of all the coffee she had drunk and her left temple ached, whether from too much or too little coffee Helen didn't know. She remembered as she was wiping her hand that she had worn her white jeans that day, and realized with annoyance that there now a faint brown stain on her leg. She leveled her head and smiled to her section as a whole, hoping the crisis had passed.
Helen saw a tall guy lift his hand. He wore two sweatshirts, one which read in faded black letters: 'Guatemala.' Beneath that he wore another with a deep beige-colored hood, enveloping his head like a cowl. All that could be seen of his face was a trim goatee, a ring of short black hairs encircling his mouth and chin. He couldn't let Michael's statement pass without giving it what it he thought it deserved.
“I think that saying someone's responsible for everything that happens to them is just a way of blaming the victim. Here we have Bartleby totally screwed over, and then you're saying it's his fault? I think that's way out of line.”
Helen stood and watched this exchange, trying to think of a way to steer her section away from the argument, since no good was going to come of further discussion. She looked at the faces of the students and sighed inwardly. They seemed set on judgment.
“But the question isn't society, the question is the individual's response to society,” Michael responded, his voice breaking at the end.
Nobody said anything. It was as if Michael had ceased to exist. He slumped, and seemed, to Helen, to withdraw from the world. Helen shrugged, and decided it was time to move on. Forgetting again, she wiped her hand again on her pants several times. She looked across the room to Michael. He looked at her, eyes sad but still wide open-his gaze clear and direct. She realized he liked her. He adored her. That's what his eyes were saying to her.
Helen broke her gaze away and did not look back in Michael's direction for the rest of the section. There were only about five minutes left, so Helen decided to wrap things up. She asked her class:
“Does anyone have any questions on the papers?”
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and April walk to the liquor store
- Volume III: Helen meets Roxy for coffee at the Fremont College coffee shop
- Volume III: Tim walks back from Contemporary American Fiction
- Volume III: Helen conducts section, can’t prevent Michael from being dissed
- Volume III: Helen conducts section (HSZ version)