Dispatches from Barbara's 2008 Honors History Class

1/23—I'm writing this so I can act like I am taking notes. You see, the truth of the matter is that I piss Barb off a lot—like, enough that I'm worried that I'm going to wake up in twelve years or so and realize in a cold sweat that I was the true asshole all along—and so I think I need to take a break if I don't want to fuck myself, academically speaking. Here's the thing—I can control myself most of the time. I was once, many years ago, the model student, and that part of you dies slowly. When I know there's a problem, I can hold back. Barb would flip shit if I went down that D-/F path any farther than I already have. I guess it's the same with drinking. When I know it's too much, I take a break, right? That's what I tell myself. Anyway, I also want to use these stream-of-consciousness freewriting exercises to note what is happening in class, for posterity, so future generations can understand what we went through in Babs' 2007-08 Honors History lecture. We are currently digressing hard. We are taking about Barb's idea for a children's book. Rhetorically, though, since she refuses to tell us the actual idea. She is afraid that it's such a good idea that we will steal it. "No taxation without representation!" That's the next subject (we tend to jump around a lot here). Every history teacher busts a load over that statement. I always try to be the kid who brings it up so I can seem like I'm a history buff. I'm not. I hate history class. Also—I think I'm going to vomit I'm so hungry. Fuck! Barb is talking but I don't hear a word. Her words are like waves. Her gentle southern lilt ebbs and flows. She speeds up and she slows down. She gets louder then softer, seemingly at random. Sometimes statements about post-colonial Europe crash upon my ears like some great cathartic revelation, and sometimes they foam out in a balmy mumble. Punctuating her speech are non-sequiturs and silly anecdotes that reveal a basic mistrust of her students. It's weird, gang. Ten minutes left. We somehow just jumped from the American Revolution to the Holocaust. Russia ties them together, naturally. This lady is obsessed with Russia. The Cold War never ended in this classroom. I'm ready to jump under my desk at the sound of air sirens at any moment. Okay, so now we are talking about the Enlightenment. This can't be Russian too, can it? I hope not. I just made the preposterous claim that I didn't know who Ben Franklin was, just to get a reaction. Barbara is a pro at this point, and has given no reaction whatsoever. Chachi upped the ante by claiming she planned on getting a doctorate in "the subject of Ben Franklin" in graduate school. Barb countered by claiming that it was hot in here. It is hot in here. It must be because Barb herself is so fucking hot. Like, as in sex. If there weren't twelve other people in here I'd be stroking it right now. "You could get away with killing people," Barb says. She was referring to the nobles of Europe, but I saw the glint in her eye. There's a murderous rage deep down in her. I am scared. Oh god, now Barb is attempting a French accent. Not that I could do one either, but man, Ratatouille she is not. If these walls could talk... they wouldn't, because Barb would tell them to stop disrespecting her because she is a teacher. I think she feels threatened because she doesn't have tenure. What's the deal with tenure? Can't we just all agree that we shouldn't fire any teacher for a dumb reason? Don't they deserve fair pay and secure employment? Even Barbara, the worst teacher I've ever had? Well, time is up. I'll start up again on Friday. (Wait, we don't have lecture until next Monday! I'll write again then! Fuck this class!!)

1/28—Damn it, Barb, I wish I didn't have to hide these Poptarts under my desk like I'm committing a felony. We're goddamn college kids, and we're not allowed to eat in class? Not that Poptarts are going to do all that much to soak up this hangover anyway. I hate the no-eating rule but at least there's not a chance that I'm going to vomit Poptarts into the classroom's wastepaper basket again—Barb wasn't a fan last time (jesus fucking christ I'm an asshole). Why the rule though? Maybe she is mistaking us for her son Nicholas, who is like seven years old. Maybe she pictures us as twelve Nicholases, and next thing you know we'll all be in car seats on the way to Olney Avenue. Sorry... that was a deep cut Honors History inside joke. I have no idea what the standards and procedures are for car seats. I would just think that if you're old enough to have your mom read you Russian poetry then maybe you're old enough to ditch the car seat? I digress. Okay, this is a bit creepy—Barbara totally just looked at me sharply when she started talking about the guillotine. An intense, burning stare, directly at me, as the subject of guillotines chopping off hears dripped from her dry lips. What does that mean, you think? Is this a threat on my life? And do I probably deserve to be threatened after my behavior over the past 1.5 semesters? Now she's expounding on the subject of the guillotine... I gotta say, now that I know all about this medieval killing tool, I'd take one thousand guillotines to the neck over enrolling in this class again. It's physically fucking painful to be here. Descartes says pain doesn't exist—ha! He didn't know Barbara. I guess I could have it worse. I mean, Barb is my only bad teacher. Marc (speaking of philosophy) and Steve kick ass, two of the best teachers I've ever had and two of the most intelligent guys I've ever met. Chrissy says I have a "man crush" on them, but that term is derivative. I just truly respect them as teachers. I read (the Sparknotes for) Candide last night. I'm thinking about what the characters would say if they were in this class. Pangloss, with his undying optimism, would be happy; he'd say the boredom and the petty faux-intellectual discussion and the STIFLING HEAT are for the best. He'd say that this class was created—nay, that Barb was born for the simple purpose of boring the living fuck out of me. Right. Martin would nod his head like he saw all this coming. Of course this class sucks, he'd say, that's how the world works. He's just bitter because his family hates him. Freud would say he had problems as a child. Freud—I'm taking an intro psych class too, you see—would analyze Martin's dreams and give him blot and ink tests and word association tests and psychoanalyze every tiny nuance of his pathetic life, but sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I said that to a girl at a party once, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," and she looked at me like I was a fucking slug. Really, it's a terrible idea to quote Freud at a party. The ultimate buzzkill. Not like you can hear what people are even saying at parties these days. You try to have a Freudian discussion about penis night terrors at the Wister House and we'll see what happens. A frat kid will dump a beer on your head, at the very least. Wait, though. How amazing would that be if I could use a pick-up line involving Freud and it actually worked? Oh man, I gotta try that on Thursday. Hypothetically. I have a girlfriend. She's probably reading this now, planning on how she can Freudian slip a knife into my gut. Okay, back to class. So it appears that Barb took the time to set up a projector and hook it up to her computer, all to project images onto the wall to accompany her award-winning lectures. But the SAME FUCKING PICTURE has been up on the wall for the past half hour. A fucking generic picture of Europe. She's talking about bread now. Really, Barb, there's bread in Europe? Because I would've been so confused had it not been for that map of Europe that you are blasting onto the wall right now. How else could I learn about BREAD in EUROPE? In all seriousness though, writing in this journal is actually going to boost my grade a lot. You could read that as sarcasm, but I swear to god it's not. First, she thinks I'm taking notes. That's good class participation. To Barb's eyes, I'm turning a corner, and becoming the docile, well-attuned student that she always knew I could be. Second, writing is a good distraction from that incessant urge to make stupid ignorant declarations out loud that make her livid. For a while there, it was like I was playing that old computer game Minesweeper. In the game, you can click around randomly, but when you hit a mine, you lose. Likewise, in this class, I say whatever I'm thinking, whatever's on the top of my head, and every once in a while, I'd say the wrong thing and Barb would explode. The only difference is that in Minesweeper, I'd occasionally win. In Barb's class, I lose. And lose and lose. We all lose. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9 AM to 9:50, we lose.

1/30—It's Wednesday and I'm bored. I'm also walking the tightrope today with Barb. While I did make her laugh with some pithy comment, I almost followed it up by making a joke about abortion. She would've been livid—maybe rightly so, I'm not known for having a sharp comedic mind about appropriate subjects—and I would've been fucked in my class participation grade. You can tell she's the type of person who checks to make sure her red pens have ink in them before she is forced to spend time with me. Barbara's hair is extra frizzy today. I can't help but think that her hair is the same below the belt. Can we just stop to imagine the spectacle that would be Barb participating in coitus? Oh lordy. Let's try to avoid any further speculation this subject from now on. This class is a fucking joke. The general flow of the discourse can be manipulated pretty easily. We used to do this in grade school in honors math class, where the beginning-of-class prayer intentions could be pumped up to like 25 minutes for a 45-minute class. But the stakes are higher now. I guess. I dunno. I can say the stakes are high but I mostly just doze off here in this college class. I write in this notebook, I joke around, and when it's my turn to say something, I talk off the cuff and hope it sounds insightful enough. Barb mostly eats it up, especially if it seems like I'm even pretending to try—my classmates are all smarter than I am, but man, this class can get deadly silent most of the time. The participation bar is easy to clear. And then after all that I go back to "taking notes." Hello B+. Sorry... I feel like I haven't written much today. I've been dreaming about summer, that oasis of fun and freedom. Oh glorious freedom! That's what I need. Ironic, perhaps, that we are talking about slavery in class today, or, at least, irony in the classic Morrisettian sense. I know this isn't actually irony. I know that slavery was a historical and global atrocity and that being stuck in history class for a cool 50 minutes with a banal lunatic is incomparable. But my point is that I need my summer freedom. And it's... still January?!

2/8—Glorious freedom. Right. Well, a week later, here I am. I got what I asked for. Thanks, monkey paw! I'm free. By that, I mean that I no longer have a girlfriend. Two conclusions stemming from this turn of events. One, I'm emancipated, the metaphorical chains of relationshiphood that once constricted me no longer do so, great, so great, now I can scrape leftovers off the basement floor at the Wister House; two, no one's going to read these insane ramblings anymore because Chrissy was the only one who even pretended to care, and now she won't even look at me. It's been a horrendous week of my own design. One of the worst I've been through in a while. But I've decided now that I'm done complaining. Let's look on the bright side of things, eh? I'm in Barbara's class, that's a good thing, right? ...I wish I could find even a glimmer of optimism in this dreary class. I kinda want to go to a hookah bar tonight. I used to do that in high school when I was down—take a trip to Glenside's The Fig and feel cool and get lost in a haze of non-hallucinatory smoke. Maybe I'll do that instead of drinking. Haha. Here's something distracting: Barbara has indicated that she teaches one of my former high school history teachers in her graduate class. This explains a lot about Mr. Donohue, honestly. I'm trying to picture William "Dolla Dolla Bill" Donohue taking a Barbara history class and studiously taking fake notes to pump up his participation grade. Shaka Zulu. Wait... why did I just write his name? Did I just take a serious note? Am I that tired this morning? I'm out of it. I don't know what to write anymore. I can't write when I'm so sad. I'm sad because this week has beaten me down so much. It's all my fault, but it still is disheartening. Besides breaking up with Chrissy, I got charged with another alcohol violation, I... don't feel like writing about it. But maybe I should, if only to serve as a cautionary tale. You see, there was this black plastic bag filled with four Hurricane forties. And I brazenly believed that all I had to do was put them under my jacket and sneak on through the turnstile at the townhouses. I mean, that's it. That's the story. I am single and sober and sorry for it all.

 

2/18—Oh, Babs. I wonder if she showers in the morning. Perhaps that would explain the perpetual orb of frizzy hair around her head. But then, would a shower or lack of shower cause that? I'll be sure to consult one of my frizzy-haired peers in the near future. All I know is that Barb is... not particularly my cup of tea, physically speaking. Not that she has any obligation to be worthy of sexual objectification, and that's on me for even thinking this way, but I am a young, dumb, and full of semen, and this is a boring class, and my mind wanders. Specifically, I've recently realized that she personifies every physical and behavioral turn-off in women. (Sidenote: maybe she can read my mind, because she just spent about 45 seconds trying to flatten her hair. It had no effect.) Not that sexual proclivities can't change over time—Harry still makes fun of me for watching Asian lesbian porn, and that was like so four years ago—but as of right now, I can't say that there is a single thing about Barb that would make me attracted to her in any sense of the word. She has the frizzy hair, she's short, she has a grating southern accent, she doesn't like to have fun, she's uptight, she's boring. But at the same time, I always feel bad for the teacher who everyone hates... but that's me making an assumption about my classmates. I know anecdotally that my dearest friends among this dirty dozen find Barbara to be droll, but I don't know if the word "hate" is gonna cross any of their lips. There might be a student in here who is going to be around the dinner table at home during Spring Break and is going to be talking about the asshole in her history class, and she isn't going to be talking about the teacher, if you understand what I'm saying. All I know is, for the past few months, I've been seriously considering the possibility of becoming a teacher, like, changing my major and everything. But I've also been nervous that if I do teach, I'd become a teacher like this. A terribly inefficient teacher with no ability to earn the respect of the kids who just want attention. Ah well, fuck it, let's not think about the future that much. Let us concentrate on the present. Well, okay, not the immediate present; concentrating too much on the fact that I gotta spend 50 minutes with Barb makes me want to concentrate then on taking a long walk off a short cliff. So, I'll amend my statement: let's concentrate on this general phase of my life, my teenage years. It's scary to think I won't be a teen in ten months. I'll miss it, I really will. Oh, shit, I almost forgot! Nicholas is here! Barb brought him to work! I guess the babysitter cancelled! Oh man, I can't wait to meet him. What should I ask him? I'll brainstorm now. Percy Jackson is a must. Um... oh! Evil Vikings! And, uh, Pokémon, maybe. Perhaps his religious views. His car seat. Thoughts on Russia!! Oh, that's good. I cannot wait. To be clear, I won't ask him any of this. It's one thing quasi-bullying a terrible teacher who can clearly take it on the chin, but it's another to say stupid agitating bullshit to her seven-year-old child. He didn't ask for any of that. He didn't ask to be bombarded with inside jokes from a class that no one will remember even four months from now. He didn't ask for Barbara as a mother. Let us pray for him, not pester him.

 

3/10—Today, her hair looks like horns. And this got me thinking... am I obsessed with her hair? I'm always writing about it here. It can't be a joke bit because where's the punchline? That she has frizzy hair? I'll never make the improv team. This scares me, this realization that I am obsessed with her frizzy hair. I guess I should try to respect her a little more, really. I mean, aren't I always talking about the power of not caring how you look, it's what's on the inside that counts? People make fun of my beer belly just like I make fun of Barb for her hair. This is a frightening realization as well—that I may be able to relate to Barb on some deeper emotional level. Are we really soul mates? Are we both hurting deep down inside? Can we bond over the mutual hurt? Could we be best friends?  I talk and talk about it's what's on the inside that counts, and yet here I am judging someone on how they look. Maybe I should look deep inside Barb and see what's behind the frizzy hair and grandma turtlenecks. Maybe I'm pissing away a true chance at a human connection. At the same time... I have a finite amount of sympathy for people who waste my time with stories about Russian monarchies, and so maybe I should just shut it all down and not think about Barb at all, good or bad, just leave it be. I'm staring at the window now, and wondering, if I ran at it at top speed, could I smash through it? All the better that we are on the third floor; a longer drop means more time to savor the fresh air before I meet a most welcomed end. Don't think I'm exaggerating when I say a three-story drop looks great in comparison to another lecture from Barb, but... yeah, I know, I know, suicide is not an option. I just really hate this class.

 

3/26—So we started off this class with Barb accusing Bethany of lesbian tendencies...? Where else could this class possibly go? What other boundaries of digression and common decency can we push? I don't even want to write about the context of Barbara's homophobic charge; it's one of those things that I want to fade from my memory, so that if someone is reading this in the far future, they will be equally confused. I will say that I'm not in the mood for this class today—if you'll allow me some of that classic Joe K*** emo bullshit for a moment—since I've felt a creeping sense of malaise in my life lately. Shit just isn't going well. I'm ostensibly in the prime of my youth and yet I'm pissing it away by continuously self-flagellating myself over shit that is clearly not going to matter in ten years. Are my romantic problems really that big of a deal? Am I really getting this upset over a will-they-won't-they? Man, fuck it. I have every right to be upset, I know. My hormones are fucking me up in the head. I acknowledge this. It doesn't make it hurt any less. And you better fucking believe that all this makes me not want to deal with such nonessential realities as Barbara's class. Like, I really don't see how learning about history is helping me in this present moment. (right—I'm a walking millennial cliché, fucking sue me). I will admit, though, that on the rare occasion, something can happen in this class on any given day that cheers me up a minuscule amount. Today, that moment of levity was handed to us when Barb claimed that she "couldn't dance," and yet then attempted a little jig anyway, right there in the middle of class. On the other hand, if the highlight of my day is my gnomish history professor executing the world's worst foxtrot, then my life is pathetic. You know, it got so bad that I considered joining the army for about five minutes the other day. I wouldn't last a day in the army! But the reason I thought about it is that I want to escape, somehow. There was a kid in my English class in high school who, looking back on it now, probably felt like I do now. Without telling anyone, he woke up one morning, got in his car, and proceeded to drive to Florida. Why did he do this? I don’t know for sure. Perhaps there was trouble at home, perhaps he was chasing something, maybe he was bored. It was all hush-hush, besides the solid facts that he left without a word, and the cops tracked him down in Florida. But if I had to guess, I'd say that he too was enamored with the classic idea of the ESCAPE. I won't be driving to Florida anytime soon—too many Natty Lights left unopened here at La Salle—but I do need to find a way to escape from all this soon. Escape from the weary eyes of my ex-girlfriend, escape from the emotions that are packed in my gut like an old sleeping bag, escape from an R.A. who is salivating to write me up just for mentioning him in my fake history notes, escape from an unlimited amount of alcohol that is slowly hollowing me out and turning me into a shell, escape from a Barbara who just did a Mummer's jig. I'm so fed up with hearing about Russia. I know that—

 

[transmission cuts off]