The Tube

I went to London last summer for three weeks to study Shakespeare and all that English nerdy literature stuff that people like me, people who love libraries and paper that's bound together, love. I actually teared up in Westminster Abbey for shear astonishment at all the greatness surrounding me. Yes, I cried in front of Jane Austen's tomb, and on top of Darwin's. But the point is, that is who I have been for twenty one years.

When I was fifteen, I was considered pretty cool. I had the right friends, wore the right clothes, my current boyfriend claims he was intimidated by my so-called "status." The status that I had no idea about, I thought I just had friends. I didn't party like them, I didn't go to their parties and if I did I drank pop. Alcohol wasn't of any interest to me, neither were drugs, clearly the uncool thing to do is exactly what I chose. The things I put value into were not social climbing and playing the "pass-out" game - a little game where kids force themselves to faint, it was the thing to do, no drugs or illegal substances involved - I was so much more interested in Hemmingway and how he achieved certain effects. I sat in my english class Freshman year of High School with my favorite teacher. She encouraged us to write, allowed us to talk freely and eliminated the boundaries of teacher-student, book-test. To her, there were no right answers and English was not a dead subject due to the dawn of technology. This teacher made us write freely at the beginning of each class, "Put your pen or pencil on the paper, your head down, close your eyes if you want to, but do not take that utensil off the page for fifteen minutes." Those were the most well-spent minutes of my High School career. After the period of time she would ding a bell and we'd raise our heads and she called on us to read our pieces allowed, whatever we wrote, there were no expectations for intelligence or even coherence, just that you wrote for fifteen minutes without stopping. I raised my hand, for the first time, shy me who never wanted to read-aloud in school, raised her hand. I was the first to read my piece. The experience was so absolutely mind-blowing. Here was a teacher, standing in front of me, someone a litte younger than my parents, asking me to be creative, asking me to share it, without bounds, and then commending, praising my work. Unbelievable.

As a creative-writing major in a private, liberal-arts university, that High School Freshman English class was the ONLY time that has ever happened. There are so many rules now, creativity is encouraged but not in any kind of real way. You're told to be creative, rules aren't broken so that you can be creative. Rules are not pushed aside to allow the space to become free and flowing.

The same teacher asked us what books are for? Why do they exist? What is their purpose? I felt that the teacher and I had bonded a bit and I felt free to speak my mind without judgment in this class, so I raised my hand again. Everyone had been offering reasons why books are important. I didn't have anything intelligent to say, just something honest that I felt. "Books are an escape." The teacher looked at me a little strangely, as if to say: "at least she's not doing drugs." I felt like my answer wasn't really right, that I shouldn't feel like I had to escape, but I did, and I loved books for creating that space for me to run through.

Until I met someone who became that escape and who taught me how to create my own escapes within me, books were it. Writers became my best friends, plot lines were my hallways to run through, the characters waved to me as I ran trailing pages behind me, ink drops left instead of footprints.

I've now figured out that it isn't all that normal for a fifteen year-old suburbanite to feel that she needs to escape and that my childhood has been exceptional. I now get why an adult who had been through much much more than I cocked her head to the side in curiosity. Not to dim my experiences, but there is a view of students in suburbia, that they are the image of perfection, they have wonderful houses, homes, dogs, two cars, fences - picket or otherwise. Teachers are only human, but they need to let go of the stereotypes too. We all do. We all need to get out of our own heads sometimes. I have met a lot of people and thought "what an idiot" "I wonder what could be wrong in her life" without thinking "Maybe she had a shitty day." Our heads, as a whole, are so far inside themselves and into their own thoughts and pasts that we can't see to the other side of what's in front of us. We need to be more conscious of the people around us because their energies and lives coincide with ours, so as a selfish nation, we can think selfishly in order to serve others - think of yourself, and how your close mindedness to one person will negatively effect you.

My father came up with an analogy of ducks. He says that some people on the outside are as calm and serene as ducks, but beneath the surface their feet are pedaling furiously to stay afloat. Ducks also have feathers that wick away water. Sticking to this analogy, we need to allow negativity and bad energy to roll off us just like water off duck feathers.

I think the point is that we are all, just ducks. Pedaling furiously under the surface to keep afloat, just wanting to take a break.

We are all just ducks.