What You Don't Know Can Hurt... Somebody Else! (Reminiscence)

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1

When I was starting as a college English teacher, I taught a section of "Introduction to Literature" in a dismal basement classroom with no windows or pictures on the walls.  Among my 20 or so students, there was especially one - Paul was his name, I think - who was really engaged.  I was glad to have him in the class listening intently, taking notes, asking an occasional question.  To most of the other students, I think he didn't stand out particularly, but as the guy in front looking out at all of them, I could see that intent expression on his face.

In this course, one section of a couple of dozens, the reading list was the same as in all other sections.  But instructors could arrange the readings and set up the schedule as they pleased.  I was real proud of myself for setting aside two whole weeks - six 50-minute classes - to spend on King Lear.  There had to be a Shakespeare piece in such a course, I guess, and probably a tragedy at that.  But Lear was a real challenge for these freshman students, few or none of whom would probably take another literature course in their very lives.

But we were going to do it up right.

2

And it went very well, I have to say.  Just about everyone brought their text to class every day, and seemed to have read the act or scenes I had assigned for discussion that day.  Looking back, I'm embarrassed to realize that I myself talked for at least half our time each class, and not only asking leading questions and commenting on the students' responses.  But I gave myself the impression, at least, that we were doing a good job of observing the structure of the presentation, sensing the human drama of its story and characters, engaging ourselves in questions of meaning... all the right things.

3

The second Friday would be our last day on King Lear.  The key matter to grapple with was the death of Lear's youngest daughter, Cordelia.

Of the old king's three daughters, only Cordelia seemed to care about him - and the wrong he was doing by setting aside his crown, his power, and his duty - than about her own interest.  The other daughters had actually banded together against him - and their country - and had at last been defeated on the battlefield.  Cordelia had remained loyal to him and had suffered at the hands of her evil sisters, but now at last her father seemed ready to make things right for her and to re-establish warm filial relations between them.

But alas we learn that she has been hanged by the defeated enemy after the battle.

4

As I recall this last class that day, I felt good about what we had accomplished so far.  But there was just a chance that some students would end up, not attending to the tragic human suffering so convincingly portrayed in the play, but to a simple kind of "moral tale": King acts irresponsibly, world goes to hell, King is punished, THE END.  So I wanted the students to grapple with the question, "What does Cordelia's death mean?"  And I was going to enjoy showing them, "It doesn't mean anything, being like events in real life sometimes that just happen and don't make sense to us."

I was a little disappointed to note that Paul was not present when the hour came to begin class.  We got started.

After we had rocked along for a good while, 10 or 15 minutes I suppose, Paul showed up.  He silently slouched to his usual seat.  He looked terrible, unshaven, thick black hair unbrushed, dark bags under his eyes, rumply clothes he might have slept in - if he had slept at all.

Naturally, I assumed that he had just had the archetypal freshman experience of spending the night drinking and now being terribly hung-over.  It happens!

But we motored on, through the meaningless suffering and the grief and struggle.  After another 15 minutes or so, Paul - who had not spoken, no questions, no eye contact - abruptly stood and lurched out.  I assumed he'd had the urge to throw up and had gone down the hall to the Mens Room.

We finished class.  Paul's notebook and books were still on his desk, but there was no sign of Paul.

5

I busied myself by gathering up my own things, wondering if I should go down the hall - or ask one of the other guys to do so - to check on Paul.  But then he reappeared, after everyone else had left, looking much the same as he had before.

He apologized for having interrupted the class discussion, but his father had called in the night and was now on the way to our college town to pick Paul up to go home for a few days.  The news was bad.  His sister had died that night.

6

I remember that scene quite well today, from about 50 years ago.  I didn't feel guilty then and don't now.  But I do feel awful about having added to that poor young man's suffering that day.

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