Twenty Questions

Hi, everyone. It's been a while. 

I am angry.

I am angry because my English teacher had us play twenty questions over Zoom. "Twenty questions to guess where I am!" she said. "I may or may not be in the country!"

"Belize?"

"Nope!"

"Nicaragua? Also who's that girl in the background?"

"Nope! That's Riley, she's taking pictures."

"Is Riley single?"

"She's hot, right? Keep guessing!"

She's in Costa Rica. She showed us the palm trees, and her friends' vacation home. Her hair is frizzy with humidity. None of the friends she's staying with are wearing masks. In twenty questions, I asked in my most sickly-sweet voice, "Why did you have to travel?" because maybe something happened. Maybe she had to go.

Sickly-sweet because the teacher-student power imbalance is very real. 

My English teacher is in Costa Rica, not because a loved one is dying, or for a medical procedure, or even for a wedding. She went to Costa Rica because she was going stir-crazy. 

I will not be so arrogant as to say I know what she's going through, but I will say this: I'm having a hard time, too. Sleep is a stranger. I'm struggling, too. My great grandma died and my mom didn't get to say goodbye. I haven't left my house since March except to attend school. Winter is coming, my meds aren't working as well, and I'm really, really lonely.

Through all of this, I am in an extremely privileged position. If I am struggling, I can hardly imagine how this year has been and continues to be for those less privileged than me. I'm stuck at home - what would it be to be unhoused? I'm with my mom and my dad and my sister and my dogs. What would it be to live alone? Without Internet? Without good health?

I can't go to Target to get acne medication; she goes to Costa Rica.

I am also angry because we are currently reading Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates in that same teacher's class. She is pronouncing his name wrong, even though she has assigned us videos to watch where he says his name. Twice.

I am angry because I was hoping we'd discuss the contents of this book. Its applications. Its rawness and realness and truth.

Instead, we're SPACECAT-ing it. Subject, purpose, audience, etc. We're treating it like a checklist. This book isn't a checklist. It's a lived reality. Ta-Nehisi Coates didn't write this book for a bunch of apathetic white kids to learn what metaphor is. I can never know his experiences or pain or trauma or hurt, but I'd imagine he wrote this book to try and give voice to that agony. To try and find the hope in tomorrow.

This is a story about the savagery of racism, and how to live as a black person in the United States.

We're talking about logos and diction.

I am angry because this isn't what art is or was meant to be. We (me, my fellow white classmates and my white teacher) are not meant to understand all of this book. We are meant to reflect on our own internalized racism and recognize the systems we benefit from. We are meant to listen, and deeply read, ponder ways to change. Actively pursue that change. This is a book to think, and to feel. 

This book wasn't written for me to get a five on my AP test.

I have been having lots of moments like these, experiencing heart-pounding, almost animalistic dissatisfaction with the way we are taught. School answers 'what' for me, all the time. Occasionally, 'how.' We never get 'why.'

That's a disservice to us. That's a disservice to what we are reading, seeing, feeling.

I am angry. And the worst part is I don't know what to do about it. 

To close out class, my English teacher says to Riley who is taking pictures, "Riley, the boys in my class think you're hot. Just so you know. Okay, who can give me a tone word? Bueller?"

And some Ferris out there in the crowd responds, "somber."

And suddenly, I just feel sad.