For the past few months, I have been struggling with something. Well, quite a few things, but this something is the one that has been on my mind frequently. Mostly because it is connected with old habits I am looking to abandon, new habits I want to develop, and projects I want to complete. Last night I had a dream about it. And, because I did not budget enough time to write a long, thorough post about an important topic, I decided to share this short, but relevant dream.
Around 4 am, after a good, deep sleep, I awoke. The need to use the bathroom drove me from my warm bed. When I was done, I returned with every intention to get in another two hours of uninterrupted sleep. Unfortunately, my mind was not ready, and I lay there conjuring up stories to amuse myself. Eventually, I drifted into a deeper sleep, and transitioned from a world of daydreams into a realm of lucid dreams. And that is when I was exposed to some very interesting unconscious thoughts.
It began with me, at my current age, sitting in a classroom, on one side of a long row of tables. On either side of me sat other students, in their teens. Yes, within the dream, I noticed the age difference. We were getting out an assignment that was due. As people were shuffling about, I noticed the papers in front of me were blank. And that is the very moment my high school art teacher appeared, Mrs. P.
You need to know two things about Mrs. P: she was a kind teacher who cared about her students, and she was way too lenient towards me, far more than I deserved. I have never forgiven myself for taking four years of her art classes, and never completing more than 75% of my work, but still receiving A's and B's each marking period. (Yes, guilt is just one part of this dream).
Well, Mrs. P stood there on one side of the table, I on the other, and a pile of blank papers strewn out like no-man's land between us. Being the pleasant woman that she was, her face carried a smile. But when she spoke, whatever smile there was could not soften the venom surrounding the grade she gave me: a zero. Then she walked away, without another word.
I was hurt. Partly because of receiving a zero, and partly because of her indifference. Because, that is exactly how her response came across: I did not care enough to finish the assignment, then she would not care enough to correct me. An empty grade in exchange for empty papers.
However, I knew I had completed the assignment. It was there, somewhere, in that pile. But she had not looked carefully; I had failed to present it from the start. The desire to find some evidence of my commitment had faded from her mind. I grew frustrated. This time I had finished my art assignment, but it was buried beneath years of incomplete and subpar work.
In addition, I felt as if the younger students around me were looking at me, waiting for MY approval of their own work, despite my not being their teacher. And I was angry with myself that I could not provide support, or justify my status as a mentor.
With these emotions of self-loathing simmering, I looked down at the pile of blank papers on the table, and there it was on top. The completed assignment. (No, I do not remember what it looked like--the content does not matter at this point.) Triumphant, I stood up, the work in my hand. The other students became interested and hopeful again. Excitedly, I tried to bring it to Mrs. P's attention. But she remained indifferent, walking further away from my table. Without saying anything, she had made it clear that my zero still stood as my final grade.
Self-loathing was replaced by anger at what I perceived as an injustice: I had done the assignment, it was just buried under layers of my past incomplete projects. However, it did not matter to Mrs. P, my high school art teacher, who had spent four years keeping me afloat. She was done with me.
Then I woke up.
(To be continued...)
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