combination of sunglasses and long hair.
"Koy?"
"Koy"
"I could see you better without those sunglasses."
She half smiled. "Probably." She didn't move a finger.
Uh-Huh, Deep Voice, and Front-and-Center laughed, but I didn't push it. The first day was not the time to draw lines. I finished the roll, noted the changes and preferred nicknames, and leaned back against the desk. There I was again, in the front of a classroom. Roped in by Maggs and Amos.
"My name is Dylan Styles."
Marvin interrupted. "Professuh, is you a doctuh?"
"I am."
"So, we should call you Doctuh?"
I checked my seating chart, although I already knew his name. "Marvin, my students have called me Mr. Styles, Professor Styles, Professor, or Dr. Styles. Do you have a preference?"
My question surprised him. When he saw that I was serious, he said matter-of-factly, "Professuh."
"Fair enough." I paused. "My wife ..." Bad way to start. . calls ... me Dylan, but school administrators don't usually like students and teachers operating on a first-name basis. So the rest of you can pick from the list. This is English 202: Research and Writing. If you're not supposed to be here, you may leave now, or if you don't want to embarrass yourself, just don't come back after class is over. I suppose if you don't want to be here, you can leave too."
A voice from the back, next to the window, interrupted me. Its owner wore dreadlocks down to his shoulders, and when he had passed my desk on the way in, I was hit by a strong smell of cigarettes and something else. Maybe cloves. Whatever it was, he had been in a lot of it. His eyes were glassy and looked like roadmaps. "Professuh, ain't none us want to be here. Why don't we all leave?"
A wave of laughter spread across the room. Yo high-fived Uh-Huh and then slapped Deep Voice on the knee. I checked my seating chart and started again.
"B.B., I understand. But the fact is that `not wanting to be here' is what landed each of you in this particular class a second time. Do you really want to make that mistake again?" Scanning the room, I said, "Anyone?"
Quiet replaced the laughter. Watching their faces straighten, I thought, Maybe that was too much, too soon. From the far right middle I heard somebody say, "Uh-umm. That's right too." I checked my seating chart. Charlene Grey.
From the middle of the room someone asked, "Professuh, was yo' granddaddy that farmer that everybody used to talk to in the hardware store? The one that raised all the steeples? I think they called him Papa Styles."
"Well, a lot of farmers fit that description, but yes, I called my grandfather Papa, he made a lot of friends in the feed and seed section, and he had a thing for steeples."
Marvin sat back in his chair, tossed his head up, and pointed in the air. "Yo, Dylan, answer me something. Why they send the grandson of a steeple-raising farmer to teach us how to write? I mean"-he looked over each shoulder, garnering support, and then pointed at me-"you don't look like much of a professor. What makes you think you can teach us anything?"
The class got real quiet, as though someone had pressed an invisible pause button. Three minutes in, and we had reached a silent impasse.
What struck me was not that he asked the question. Except for the gold-rim glasses I wear when I'm reading, I look more as though I should be riding or selling a tractor than teaching an English class-cropped blond hair, oxford shirt, Wranglers, and cowboy boots. No, it was a fair question. He could have phrased it differently, but it was fair. Actually, I had already asked it of myself. What surprised me was that Marvin had the guts to express it.
"I don't know. Availability, I suppose. Mr. Winter's probably got an answer." I was losing ground. "Okay, English 20-"
Marvin interrupted again. "But I don't want Mr. Winter's answer. I asked you, Professuh."
Sneers and quiet laughter spread through the room. Marvin sat low in his chair, in control, on stage and loving it.
I
"Koy?"
"Koy"
"I could see you better without those sunglasses."
She half smiled. "Probably." She didn't move a finger.
Uh-Huh, Deep Voice, and Front-and-Center laughed, but I didn't push it. The first day was not the time to draw lines. I finished the roll, noted the changes and preferred nicknames, and leaned back against the desk. There I was again, in the front of a classroom. Roped in by Maggs and Amos.
"My name is Dylan Styles."
Marvin interrupted. "Professuh, is you a doctuh?"
"I am."
"So, we should call you Doctuh?"
I checked my seating chart, although I already knew his name. "Marvin, my students have called me Mr. Styles, Professor Styles, Professor, or Dr. Styles. Do you have a preference?"
My question surprised him. When he saw that I was serious, he said matter-of-factly, "Professuh."
"Fair enough." I paused. "My wife ..." Bad way to start. . calls ... me Dylan, but school administrators don't usually like students and teachers operating on a first-name basis. So the rest of you can pick from the list. This is English 202: Research and Writing. If you're not supposed to be here, you may leave now, or if you don't want to embarrass yourself, just don't come back after class is over. I suppose if you don't want to be here, you can leave too."
A voice from the back, next to the window, interrupted me. Its owner wore dreadlocks down to his shoulders, and when he had passed my desk on the way in, I was hit by a strong smell of cigarettes and something else. Maybe cloves. Whatever it was, he had been in a lot of it. His eyes were glassy and looked like roadmaps. "Professuh, ain't none us want to be here. Why don't we all leave?"
A wave of laughter spread across the room. Yo high-fived Uh-Huh and then slapped Deep Voice on the knee. I checked my seating chart and started again.
"B.B., I understand. But the fact is that `not wanting to be here' is what landed each of you in this particular class a second time. Do you really want to make that mistake again?" Scanning the room, I said, "Anyone?"
Quiet replaced the laughter. Watching their faces straighten, I thought, Maybe that was too much, too soon. From the far right middle I heard somebody say, "Uh-umm. That's right too." I checked my seating chart. Charlene Grey.
From the middle of the room someone asked, "Professuh, was yo' granddaddy that farmer that everybody used to talk to in the hardware store? The one that raised all the steeples? I think they called him Papa Styles."
"Well, a lot of farmers fit that description, but yes, I called my grandfather Papa, he made a lot of friends in the feed and seed section, and he had a thing for steeples."
Marvin sat back in his chair, tossed his head up, and pointed in the air. "Yo, Dylan, answer me something. Why they send the grandson of a steeple-raising farmer to teach us how to write? I mean"-he looked over each shoulder, garnering support, and then pointed at me-"you don't look like much of a professor. What makes you think you can teach us anything?"
The class got real quiet, as though someone had pressed an invisible pause button. Three minutes in, and we had reached a silent impasse.
What struck me was not that he asked the question. Except for the gold-rim glasses I wear when I'm reading, I look more as though I should be riding or selling a tractor than teaching an English class-cropped blond hair, oxford shirt, Wranglers, and cowboy boots. No, it was a fair question. He could have phrased it differently, but it was fair. Actually, I had already asked it of myself. What surprised me was that Marvin had the guts to express it.
"I don't know. Availability, I suppose. Mr. Winter's probably got an answer." I was losing ground. "Okay, English 20-"
Marvin interrupted again. "But I don't want Mr. Winter's answer. I asked you, Professuh."
Sneers and quiet laughter spread through the room. Marvin sat low in his chair, in control, on stage and loving it.
I
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