The Bored Student Speaks!

My I-Really-Just-Don’t-Care student hands me some of his writing to read.  He’s typed eight single-spaced pages.  I didn’t assign him this project.  He wrote something on his own, and he wants to meet today to talk about writing.

He gives me permission to tell you this:

It’s a personal memoir about watching his brother leave for service in the Marine Corps.  It’s about the first letter he receives from him. 

It’s about the first time he sees his face again. 

At one point, the student recounts the moment when he’s about to see his own brother.  Mid sentence, he includes in parentheses: “I’ve stood to type this section because I can still feel the excitement.”

I can’t put it down.  The writing is so good, the story so profound.  I’m overcome with the fact that a student has to stand up to write because the emotion is that great.

The poet Marianne Moore writes in her poem, “The Student,” a line I’ll never forget.  She claims that a student seems “too reclusive for some things to seem to touch him–not because he has no feeling but because he has so much.” 

I have to remember that.  I have to remember that the reclusive soul sitting before me who doesn’t care about anything might actually care too much.  The silence, the frown, or even the bored comment masks something underneath.  Something so thrilling he has to stand up to write it.

I ask him again if I can write about him today.  He says, “I really just don’t care.”   Now I know what he means. 

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You, the Expert

I know many experts.  I have friends with cooking expertise, exercise expertise, teaching expertise, spiritual expertise, and parenting expertise.

They read, they study, they take classes, they interview others. These folks are wise

I call them all the time.  Just this morning, my sister, an education expert, talked me through my stress about my daughter’s kindergarten assessment.  Yesterday, I called my friend, a cooking expert, to ask the proper technique for storing or freezing my scads of garden basil.   Then I talked to another friend who knows how to counsel me through spiritual questions. 

I even have bug experts in my life.  I place emergency calls when weird looking insects attack my tomatoes.
  
A vibrant mind continues to learn.  Interesting folks, I read, have at least 5 topics they study.  As they age, they continue to grow in these areas, accumulating wisdom.  And then they teach others.  Normally, I think of expertise more narrowly.  But why not journey towards more topics? 

If I had to choose five, I’d pick subject areas like prayer, writing, teaching, parenting, and marriage.  Maybe I could make these more specific and pare down each category into 5 subcategories.  At that rate, I will have things to learn and do even in my 90’s.  Maybe I could assign a decade to each topic so, for the next 50 years, I’d have ways to grow.

My husband does this with his passion for history.  The 30’s? Revolutionary War.  The 40’s?  Civil War.  He spends 10 years reading everything he can on a certain historical topic.

This is why we have so much to talk about on date night. He doesn’t experience that strange land called Boredom. 

Living with flair means I study to become an expert.  Maybe for this year of flair, I could expand my topics beyond semicolons and dashes.  Maybe I could become an expert in Italian cooking or dressmaking.  I’m on my way.

I want to have passion and growth until the day I die.


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