You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [21]
“In the first week I’ll introduce existentialism and so will talk more than usual. Then we’ll read Jean-Paul Sartre’s famous lecture in which he explains and defends existentialism against its critics—something I’ll have to do myself as many of you will yourselves become critics of existentialism. Or at least, I hope so.
“I will depend upon your ability to be critical, sharp, and alert. I will make mistakes. I will say things that are not true. I will make arguments that are unsound. I expect that you will correct me. I expect that you will challenge me, question my logic, and consider my assertions critically.
“So, I have ten copies here of Sartre’s lecture Existentialism is a Humanism. This will be our first text. For those of you who read French I encourage you to read it in the original too. All of you need to read this translated edition by Monday. The first fifty pages should be finished by Thursday.
“Let me end by saying this. Fling yourself into it headfirst. Everything can change, but only with abandon.”
I wrote that down. It was the first note I took. I had one of those black and white marbled composition books. Brand new. I wrote in black pen across the first page, “Everything can change but only with abandon.”
He took the stack of books from his desk and moved slowly through the room handing them out. We were quiet. I’m embarrassed to say it but I had chills.
I watched him—the way he placed the books on our desks, the way he moved through the room, and then the way the girls looked at him. From the beginning I envied him.
“Are there questions?” he asked.
The curly-haired guy on the other side of the room raised his hand again.
“What’s your name?”
“Colin White,” he said in a heavy Dublin accent. “Sir, you said we have a choice to be here but I didn’t sign up for this. They just put me here.”
Mr. Silver nodded slowly and said, “They just put you here.”
WILL
It’s always good at the beginning. You get over the shock of waking up early. You settle into the routine. You’re grateful to be out with the street cleaners. It feels good in the cool morning. You’re one of the first at the boulangerie, the pain aux raisins is still warm. Once you drag yourself out of bed, it’s good to be back.
All the plans you have. The changes you’ll make. You’re fresh, you’re brimming with enthusiasm, you’re like the kids with their new notebooks, their promises to be better.
Each September we all make the same promises.
You stand before your classes and tell them what you want. You speak seriously, earnestly, and you believe in what you’re saying. Or I did. It’s September and the year is just beginning.
If you’re soft at the start you’ll drown. So you charm them by being tough, by staring down the talkers, by cutting down the challengers. You give them responsibility and freedom. You show them that you care, that you love what you do. You show them that you love the books, the ideas, learning, philosophy, something. You wonder if the pleasure you feel upon returning to school lies exclusively in the performing, in being adored. You wonder if teaching, the kind of teaching you do, is just celebrity making. You know your audience. You know what you can do. You can’t help yourself.
You always begin the same way. You’re standing on stage presenting yourself, happy to be back. Which is not to say that you don’t believe in teaching, because you do. There are few things you believe in more and you want to do something good. But along with that comes the wonder of standing before a group of people who love you, who imagine that you are strong and wise.
All that attention, it’s hard to resist. And if you’re honest you acknowledge that before you ever became a teacher you imagined your students’ reverence, your ability to seduce, the stories you’d tell, the wisdom you’d impart. You know that teaching is the combination of theater and love, ego and belief. You know that the subject you teach isn