Going Back

Do you sometimes go back to re-read your very own “great works” - essays you penned, papers you wrote for classes, etc? And when you do that, are you frequently let down by them when you discover that they are not as wonderful as you remember them to be? Usually I am. But there is one exception.

Well yesterday was one of those Long Nights. I had nothing much to do. So I decided to post excerpts of this paper that I am very proud of. I wrote this paper for an English class (American Myth and Oral Tradition) in my sophomore year at Rice. This class was taught by Dr XX, who is notorious for being measely about giving ‘A’s (gives an 'A' once every two years to one or two students). After not being successful for two semesters, I took his class (you basically have to kill to get into his class).

To say the very least, you could say, I slogged for this class. I used to take long walks around the campus loop at 1 am to agonise over the next word in the sentence. And I wrote like the Devil was behind me. I even requested books from a Canadian library on Prince Edward Island (via our Rice’s Interlibrary Loan … an awesome service for research). I slept in the library. I hounded him at his office hours, and thought out loud my muddled thoughts, he would patiently, sarcastically put up with me, and dismiss me when I began to blubber like an idiot. He didn’t think very much about him, cuz he knew I was an Elec and an Econs Major. He rather nurture someone who was an English major, than one who was taking his class just for the heck of it.

And finally I typed the last sentence about 5minutes before the deadline, and emailed it to him. In a week, the paper was in my hands – marked. In the first page, right next to my introduction, he scribbled in red “Ambitious beginning. Too grand.” I knew he would crush me by the time he was through with the last page. So I turned to the last page, lacking the courage to bear his acerbic remarks. I saw a red ‘A’.
And beside this unbelievable sight, he scribbled
"Are you sure you are not an English major? See me."

I wept. I danced.
I hopped,
I skipped.

Yesterday night was a Long Night. I re-read that paper. I couldnt believe that I wrote something as insightful, as precise, as ambitious. I had forgotten what I learnt in his class. I remember his tweeds, his sarcasm, him bullying us to perform better. I don’t remember his words, but I remember the effect they had on me. But, reading the paper, I couldn’t believe that he inspired me to achieve something as ambitious as this paper. Mark you, it wasn’t interesting – the paper is a dull affair. A dreadful bore, frankly. But scholastically speaking, it was good.

When I went to see him, I explained to him why I couldn’t be an English major – I simply didn’t trust myself to be one.

I told him in the lines of “I am inspired today, this moment - by you. I cannot trust myself that I will continue to be inspired. English could just be a new toy. A new affair. I cannot afford to walk the path to find out. I rather be safe and choose something that will pay me even if I am not passionate about it.”

When I walked out of his office that day, he knew as well as I did that neither of us was convinced. But there is free will. And there is foolish rationality. I exercised both.