we need to touch base

Who do you think you are?

This is the first thing out of my mouth. It is my lecture covering Alasdair MacIntyre's "The Storytelling Animal." A couple of them shuffle through the lecture notes from last class, presumably looking for some hint indicating the correct way to answer. Others look at me with moon faced expectation, waiting for me to tell them the answer, pens at the ready. I try to hide the inner teacher-trickster, Mwa-ha-ha. I really do love messing with their heads. You won't get answers in my class, just more questions.

I pass out index cards, and ask them to tell me the story of a particular experience they've had that in some way made them who they are today. I give them 5 minutes.

After the five minutes, I begin my lecture; I will come back to the stories; I'm counting on past experience that almost all of them will exemplify the role of relationships in forming self-identity. Usually one or two at most tell a story that doesn't involve another person. We become ourselves though our relationships with others.

This is one of my favorite lecture/discussions. Michael walks in late (20 minutes, at least). He plunks down into a desk, doesn't remove his coat or open his backpack. He sits there looking at me. I continue without comment, but I am thinking that I need to talk to this kid. He comes in late and leaves immediately, so I'll have to say something in front of the class. He seems miserable and disconnected--not just bored.

I get to the part where they tell their stories. I love this part. One student describes her grandfather taking the last bowl of soup to make sure everyone else gets enough to eat first. He taught her to be generous. One student describes getting harassed by the police for having baggy jeans and being a Black fifteen year old on the upper east side. He was getting off the subway for a basketball game with his team. They were stopped, searched, questioned, and held long enough that they missed the game. He is going to be a police commissioner and change things.

I ask Michael for a story, although I know he hasn't written anything down and missed the prompt. I repeat the prompt. He can't think of anything. I try to elicit something. He's stumped. I say I will come back to him. I do. He's still got nothing. Will you stay after class a few minutes, we need to touch base. I'm afraid I've embarrassed him.

After the 5 or 6 students with questions leave, I ask. He pulls out a card and says proudly, I thought of something? He thinks that will get him off the hook. How are you doing? Is everything OK? I hope he sees my concern. He's OK, working two jobs and very tired. You seem unhappy. Is there anything I can help you with? No, but his face softens. He really appreciates me asking him that. He just doesn't want to be in college; he's doing it for his mother. It's just not for him. I'm a good teacher (quickly says, Professor, I mean); he doesn't have time to do the readings and he doesn't have computer access at home to do the blogs. He writes poetry. It would help if he could write the blogs by hand. I am weakened by his desire to be a poet and his respect for his mother. I will allow it.

When he leaves, I read his card. He was jumped by a gang in his neighborhood last year. Since then he's learned to wear a mask, so as not to appear weak. Keep a tough front. Never smile.