You Deserve Nothing (7 page)

Mr. Silver nodded slowly and said, “They just put you here.”

I
t’s always good at the beginning. You get over the shock of waking up early. You settle into the routine. You’re grateful to be out with the street cleaners. It feels good in the cool morning. You’re one of the first at the boulangerie, the
pain aux raisins
is still warm. Once you drag yourself out of bed, it’s good to be back.

All the plans you have. The changes you’ll make. You’re fresh, you’re brimming with enthusiasm, you’re like the kids with their new notebooks, their promises to be better.

Each September we all make the same promises.

You stand before your classes and tell them what you want. You speak seriously, earnestly, and you believe in what you’re saying. Or I did. It’s September and the year is just beginning.

If you’re soft at the start you’ll drown. So you charm them by being tough, by staring down the talkers, by cutting down the challengers. You give them responsibility and freedom. You show them that you care, that you love what you do. You show them that you love the books, the ideas, learning, philosophy, something. You wonder if the pleasure you feel upon returning to school lies exclusively in the performing, in being adored. You wonder if teaching, the kind of teaching you do, is just celebrity making. You know your audience. You know what you can do. You can’t help yourself.

You always begin the same way. You’re standing on stage presenting yourself, happy to be back. Which is not to say that you don’t believe in teaching, because you do. There are few things you believe in more and you want to do something good. But along with that comes the wonder of standing before a group of people who love you, who imagine that you are strong and wise.

All that attention, it’s hard to resist. And if you’re honest you acknowledge that before you ever became a teacher you imagined your students’ reverence, your ability to seduce, the stories you’d tell, the wisdom you’d impart. You know that teaching is the combination of theater and love, ego and belief. You know that the subject you teach isn’t nearly as important as how you use it.

* * *

It was my third year teaching at ISF, my tenth as a teacher. I was thirty-three years old.

I had four classes—three sections of tenth grade English—
Huckleberry Finn, Macbeth, The Grapes of Wrath, Civil Disobedience
—and one section of Senior Seminar. The class would be, I imagined then, a haven from the repetition of teaching sophomores the difference between Transcendentalism and Romanticism, explaining why Macbeth “talks like that,” trying to convince my students that Thoreau had something to do with their lives.

Not that I didn’t like teaching tenth grade. But the curriculum was the same year after year. I was tired of listening to myself talk. I was tired of the road-weary Joads, of Blake, of Whitman. I never tired of
Macbeth
but the fatigue I felt in teaching that class worried me. I focused my energy on my seminar.

In Greece I had read Sartre for the first time. I ran along the cliffs. I returned to my hotel room dripping with sweat to scribble my plans for the class in a notebook. Field trips and essay topics. It was the first course I’d been able to create from scratch without the influence of an English department.

I believed that this seminar would buoy me, would carry me through my third year at ISF. I’d teach with everything I had, devote myself to it, assign difficult work, learn along with my students, teach as if I were a first year teacher. I would, for the first time since I’d begun at ISF, come to class committed. That is, without plans for escape, for a new career, without the idea of teaching the needy in some unspecified African nation, living cheap in Thailand or any of the other fantasies I used to avoid the apparent permanence of my present life.

GILAD

I
see their faces, their backpacks, their clothes, their notebooks.  
Cara Lee, a quiet, brooding Korean girl who sat across the room from me. Ariel Davis, a strange, aloof, deadly sexy girl with long black hair. Jane Woodhouse who once wore angel wings to class and began all of her statements with “I don’t know what I’m trying to say here.” Abdul Al Mady, nervous and painfully awkward. Hala Bedawi, a graceful and smiling brilliant Lebanese girl who understood things twenty minutes before anyone else. Colin White, a tough, wiry, kid from Dublin who seemed totally out of place at ISF, who carried with him a suppressed violence I’d never seen in expensive international schools. Aldo something, who sat as close as he could to Ariel and always agreed with her. She abused him, bestowing and withdrawing attention as her moods dictated. Rick Tompkins, a strong, cocky soccer player. And there was pretty Lily Brevet with her braids and heavy breasts.

One day early that year he drew a black swirl of lines on the board. I copied it into my notebook, a notebook I still have. I recorded everything I could those months. I imagined I’d make a movie, the camera moving from the trees across the field and gliding into the room. Mr. Silver at his desk. And then he looks up. And then he begins.

I listened. I sketched us. Day after day I wrote dialogue and now it serves as an intricate map.

On the first page there is this:

Then beneath that drawing a few inches down the page I have the same drawing but this time with a grid superimposed on top of it:

What is.

What we insist it is.

“Existentialists, more or less, believe that the human world is like this,” he said, pointing to the scribble. “What does Sartre say about the letter opener?”

It was the first time he’d asked a direct question to the class. I don’t remember if I knew what Sartre had said about the letter opener but I know that I didn’t answer the question.

Colin White raised his hand.

“It’s Colin, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Two things before you answer my question—first, you don’t need to raise your hand and second, please don’t call me sir. It’s creepy.”

We laughed.

“Sartre doesn’t talk about a letter opener, sir, he talks about a paper knife.”

Mr. Silver smiled and nodded his head, “You’re right, Colin. Thanks for being precise. You do realize though that they’re two names for the same thing?”

“I do, sir.”

“So why make the point?”

“You asked us to correct you, sir.”

“Indeed I did. I also asked you not to call me sir and yet you’ve done so three times since I made that request.”

“It’s habit, sir. Sorry.”

I remember their exchange because Mr. Silver indulged Colin. It would have been so much easier to brush him off, to ignore his questions, to tell him to shut up. But he played the game. Teachers, in my experience, didn’t do that kind of thing. They didn’t banter with the class clown. They were always trying to get somewhere before the bell rang. They didn’t have the confidence to risk being outsmarted by one of us.

Mr. Silver didn’t seem to have anywhere to go. He didn’t seem concerned with covering the chapter or even finishing the conversations we’d started.

“What’s with the scribble, Mr. Silver?” Hala asked, exasperated by the conversation.

He smiled at her and turned back to Colin, “Are we finished?”

Colin nodded.

“Before we deal with the scribble let’s deal with the, to be true to the
translated
text, paper knife. Hala, what does Sartre say about the paper knife?”

“He says that a letter opener,” she smiled at him, flirting, “has an essence before it exists.”

“Exactly. Unlike?”

“Unlike me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that according to Sartre we have no essence before we exist. Meaning that we, unlike a letter opener
or
a paper knife are here without some, like, preconceived plan for what we’re here
for.
”

Mr. Silver nodded his head slowly and smiled at Hala.

“Precisely,” he said taking a dramatic pause. “And why is that relevant or interesting at all? Why should we care? What are the implications of that idea? What does it have to do with your lives? Why would Sartre have any reason to defend existentialism? After all, the purpose for giving this lecture in the first place was as a
defense
of existentialism.”

Immediately, Colin answered. “Why should we take for granted that it even
is
interesting? That we
should
care? That there
are
any implications? That it has
anything
to do with our lives?”

Colin leaned back with his thin arms crossed across his chest and his eyebrows raised.

Mr. Silver looked at Colin. We were all watching him. He held Colin’s gaze and then slowly a faint grin appeared.

“Would anyone like to answer Colin’s questions?”

“Because, dude, one thing is that it totally denies the existence of God.”

This was Lily who’d been sitting next to me drawing a looping design in her notebook. Lily, with her long hippie skirts and giant sweaters, her hemp bag and her ever-changing braids, looked down at her drawing and shook her head.

“What’s your name?”

She told him, still looking down at her paper, her cheeks flushed as if embarrassed by her outburst and its passion.

“Go on, Lily,” he said looking at Colin who was staring at the ceiling.

She took a breath and looked, for the first time, directly at Colin. She waited for him to make eye contact and when he did he shrugged his shoulders and widened his eyes aggressively.

“Look, man. If there’s no plan for us before we’re born then either God doesn’t exist or he’s just fucking with us. Sorry.”

Silver shook his head, “Go on. Say what you have to say.”

“O.K., so if God has no plan for us, or doesn’t exist at all then a lot of people are going to be pissed off. So that’s one thing. And the other thing is that if Sartre’s right, if we’re here and there’s no reason then we’re pretty much fucked. Sorry.”

We laughed, thrilling at the novelty of obscenity in the classroom. Silver shrugged his shoulders, “Can anyone add to that? Is Lily right? Let’s assume for the sake of this discussion that Sartre is right, that there is no plan and, even, that there’s no God. Are we, as Lily suggests, ‘pretty much fucked’?”

Sitting in the dead middle of the classroom, Abdul Al Mady, wide-eyed and nervous, nodded his head.

Silver turned to him. “This seems to interest you. Tell me your name.”

“Abdul,” he said quietly. “And, um, I, I don’t know what you’re saying really. God exists and it isn’t right to say He doesn’t. For sure there’s a plan. It’s written. I mean, it’s written.”

“Oh my God,” Hala said to her desk.

“Go on,” Silver encouraged him.

“Well, that’s really it.”

“The only person who’s suggesting that God
doesn’t
exist is Sartre. We’re just using the possibility that he’s right as a way to understand his philosophy.”

“But He does exist.”

“Oh my God.” Hala again.

“Hala?” Silver raised his eyebrows.

“Abdul there
is
the possibility that he
doesn’t
exist,” she insisted.

Abdul repeatedly nodded his head, loudly blew the air out of his mouth and was otherwise silent.

“Abdul,” Mr. Silver said, “I’m not suggesting that God does or does not exist. We’re investigating someone else’s ideas, trying to understand their ramifications, and so on. It’s important to consider the views of other people don’t you think?”

He said nothing. Hala looked like she might explode. Colin smirked. I studied Silver. Ariel played with her hair and rolled her eyes at Aldo. Aldo grinned and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Cara looked sympathetically at Abdul. Jane pretended to read Sartre. Lily moved her pen gracefully across her page as Rick squinted at Abdul.

“Look at the board. This, according to Sartre, is what we’re born into. Remember, I’m not suggesting that he’s right or wrong, only, Abdul, trying to explain his ideas. An orderless, meaningless life. We’re born into this world with no specific purpose. No one said, ‘Hmm, I know what I need for this job, I need a woman and boom a woman was made.’ That’s how a letter opener is born. It is not, according to Sartre, how human beings are born.

“For the record I will not preface each statement I make with ‘according to Sartre.’ You can all assume, unless I specifically tell you otherwise, I’m explaining his views and those of everyone else we’ll discuss. Please don’t go home and tell your parents that I’m a godless heathen who wants to convince you that your respective religions are absurd.”

Everyone laughed except for Abdul, who sat there nodding over and over again. It was a strange way to disagree but it was his.

“So there’s the problem: we’re born and left to determine meaning, that is,
‘L’homme est condamné à être libre.
’ Anyone speak French?”

I raised my hand.

“Gilad. Will you translate for us please?”

“Man is condemned to be free.”

“Good. And what do you think that means?”

I felt my heart beat faster and the blood rise to my face.

“Take a shot, Gilad.”

“Choice is a curse.”

“Bullshit.” Colin again. Silver ignored him.

“Why would it be a curse?” he asked. I remember his eyes on me. I was embarrassed. I wanted to escape but I felt an intense desire to defend Mr. Silver.

“According to Sartre?” I asked.

“To begin with.”

“I guess because if there’s no God and we are free to make decisions then we’re also responsible for those decisions.”

He smiled at me with what I was sure was pride. He nodded.

“Beautifully said.”

He looked at me for a moment and then went on, “So then, if there’s no God and we’re responsible for our decisions why would that be a condemnation?”

“Because everything we do is our fault,” Rick said squinting up at the diagrams on the board.

“Why is it our fault? I don’t really see that,” Ariel said.

“Well, if God doesn’t exist then it isn’t
his
fault,” Rick went on.

“But those aren’t the only options. What about our parents, our environment, our families, where we’re born, diseases, handicaps? Isn’t it ridiculous to say that either it’s God’s fault or just our own?”

“That’s not what he’s saying,” I said.

She turned to me.

“What?” She seemed amazed that I’d contradict her.

I thought how I wanted to touch her.

Silver sat on his desk with his arms folded watching us.