I taught my first class at Olive Harvey tonight. (Wonder who Olive Harvey was.) (Assuming she’s dead.) It was so interesting. There are a few handfuls of different personalities in that one. The full range. Black people. Wonderful, creative, unscrupulous, blunt (and some, high!) black people. Old, young, schooled, unschooled, cool, uncouth, and everything in between. Loud. Respectful. Colorful. Most of them stared at me in disbelief pretty solidly throughout the first 40 minutes I taught. Only a few accepted me as their new reality early on. It wasn’t until after I spoke (and wouldn’t quit speaking), or addressed some directly, that they slowly began to accept that I would be their professor this semester. One woman, about 40-45 and fat with tousled hair, lazy clothes, and grandiose expressions, could not wipe the Times Square-bright, dumb(founded)/blank but oh-so-expressive question mark from her face. She stared at me so wide-eyed, so openly, and was so late, I couldn’t help but address her. “Yes. It’s true,” I said to her a little too loudly. Her already dubious & shocked face imploded into exaggerated/mock innocence. This lady was my homegirl, Crisha’s mama, Patty, and my crazy ass Aunt Dot in one, old ass student body. She exclaimed, “What?! I didn’t even say nothin!” “Uh-huh,” I told her, “Your face said it all,” (to which she smiled sheepishly) and went on reviewing the syllabus.
After the last class I taught, I learned that I needed to lay down the law from Day 1, so, in the last 48 hours, I spent a considerable amount of time putting this thing together. My new syllabus, I mean. I was leaving behind the uber-urban, and too-far-to-commute-to, lower income Latino district of Humboldt Park. I will miss and wonder about my little wanna-be boyfriends, Rakím (with his skinny jeans & diamond earrings), Sergio (oh Sergio), and Nelson (the straight shooter), while I look into the sable and charcoal and fudge and yellow and deep brown faces of my new students this semester.
It seems like everyone in my new class is dark-skinned, and the few that are not, stick out. There is Rholonda Chew: solid and slow-moving, thoughtful and late. There is the deaf girl, whose name I still do not know…high-yellow and freckly, thin, silently animated, looking so unlikely to be completely deaf (what was she thinking about while I taught? what can her impression of me be?) (her interpreter failed to show up and her note-taker came late. there was little I could communicate to her short of the notes we exchanged at the beginning of class). There was the older gentleman in the back row, clearly having already lived a life or two worth talking about. He was the color of sautéed pineapple and at one point, he was so persistent about his point that I just allowed him to think he was teaching the class. He wanted to be right about subordinating clauses, but he wasn’t, quite. Or rather…there wasn’t anything to be right about. So we just faded into a somewhat messy Yes war… Suddenly we were both right about something, when clearly there had been an unforeseen friction just prior to. I wanted him to stop talking. He needed the last word. I wonder if he’s an Aries…Leo, maybe even Gemini—he really wanted to keep talking.
There was the guy in my direct line of sight who probably told me his name about 5 times, but I couldn’t even tell you which letter it starts with now. He said he needed something to do…he came to school to get out of the house, to have something to do other than sitting around and getting in trouble. He says he needs to stay busy, so here he is. He’s taking English and Music. (“Music what?” “Just music,” he said. “What KIND of music?” “Music appreciation.” That makes things more clear.) There was the white Jorge (pronounced, I’m guessing, by the Black people this man is clearly around regularly, GEORGE), with thick brown hair pulled into a ponytail, actively listening, eye contact, understanding nods, raised eyebrows and all, and there was the one next to him…The one who’s name I should know, well look at this—I’ve come back to him. He interests me. But the ones to his right, in the back, the three dudes who came in smelling like some quality relaxation, hovering around my desk for direction… I stopped talking to the class, invited them all closer, took their names and gave them each a syllabus, then called on them when I wanted them (all) to open up to me. We talked Parts of Speech and for a while, prepositions. Just tossing words around to get warmed up. Soon, I had even the shyest/highest dude working out his thoughts, out loud—clearly wanting to be called upon and acknowledged. I respected him easily and off-top for trying. He got some shit wrong, but saw it, really saw it, and moved on to think about it. Later, with growing confidence, he tried again. His hair was soft-looking and I guess the plan is to lock, but for now he wore a ponytail on top of his head, with locks or twists falling down the back and sides of his head in soft rows.
There was the chick who told me she was pre-law (really…i thought…at olive harvey, which is much like what I imagine matc to be…) and likes to journal, and the bird-like girl who raised her hand with certainty when I asked them, “Who hates writing? Who just hates to have to write anything? Emails, letters—you?” I asked, scanning the room slowly, encouraging.. “Put ‘em up higher! Ok, ok, I see you…”
The folks in that back corner all kind of hover near the one person in the room who knew the difference between a pronoun and a proper noun (ok, that’s an exaggeration, but it was like being in the land of babblers for a minute (while they all thought out loud, some even writing stuff on paper to think things through), then finding the one person who speaks your language). She looks 39 or 44, and she wears it well. She is mahogany, with deep, dark lipstick, hair pulled back tightly, and a full, womanly smile on a shiny face. I believe it was a proper noun that she gave me: “Olive Harvey.” “Yes,” I agreed. Olive Harvey…
Nonfiction Woman 