OTE. Orally Transmitted Education. A disease, in itself.
Yea. Me either.
History has never really been my forte unless it entailed something about my life or that of people that I love. Not even them, really, unless it's something that could be used to hastily taunt or blackmail them down the road. Learning is great, but I have recently come to the conclusion that learning about things that were learned in the past for the sole purpose of teaching them in the future so they could be learned by people of the future to know things about people of the past, really serves no purpose for anyone. That didn't make sense to you? Well. Neither does this class.
Ok, so it kind of makes perfect sense, but being dramatic is kind of my thing. This being a literature class, I sit alongside eager students who are only concerned with filling their heads with information to the point where their necks shatter and they forcibly suffer from idiopathic scoliosis because their brains are so heavy. I'm sorry, but that is not motivation. That is just sad.
Right now we are focusing on several weathered plays of African culture. Discussing the shift in both orality and orature over generations of racism, revolutions and biased rhetoric has become the opening scene for every class lecture. How these changes fit into a myriad of different social, ideological and aesthetic needs in society is actually interesting. Sounds good enough, right?
I thought so too.
However, we are both wrong. Every time we flirt with the idea of finding entertainment or purpose in the pieces we are reading, there is always one student who raises his hand to question the deeper meaning. I'm sorry, sir. The author was a slave. Then she wasn't. She wrote about that extensively. Keep up. Deeper meaning? With the accumulation of wealth came the emasculation of man. That's why the husband kills himself at the end. What part did you miss?
Just in case you wanted to learn more, there is a preliminary section before the introduction to the Introduction that essentially says, 'I was a slave and then I wasn't. I am going to write about this. Money isn't everything in our culture. Honor is more. My husband commits suicide due to this. That is what this entire play is about. Goodbye.'
Luckily, not everyone in class is trying to pay homage to their ancestors by finding the root of the root of the root of every printed work. Thank Amma, right? For the most part, the back half of the room stays pretty quiet. We do the reading, agree to read aloud when called upon and never interject our emotional responses to words in front of us. Where I'm from, we call that "normal," and sometimes even "studious."
The very front of the classroom is proverbially filled with those that are either majoring in Literature or are visually impaired. Although the front section of a classroom typically entails the more spirited students with formidable brain power, there is some serious deviant shit going on in this African studies class. Three overachievers. Middle of the room. Their leader sits in the desk directly in front of me.
They counsel with spirits. They read into other men's souls. They swallow dog's eyes. Jump fires. Drink goat's blood. Sheep milk. Without flinching. Or vomiting. They do not feel, as you or I. They have no shame.
Together, they will be known as the Abiku Children. Historically speaking, reincarnation is a beautiful embodiment of culture and beliefs. Stephanie speaking, the continuous rebirth of my classmates is wholly due to the fact that I keep killing them off in my head during every discussion, yet somehow they keep coming back.
Fourth row, third seat from the right. He occasionally speaks with a British accent. He is from High Point. Every Monday/Wednesday he tries out a new assortment of powerful colors on his flannel shirt display. Cuffed manpris* and bleached hairs that fall over his left eye ever so poetically. None of his notebooks have any lines. Some people would call that a diary or a sketchpad. He uses Sharpee pens because they're his "fave." We will call him Blank Canvas. Ironically enough, I'm pretty sure his parents did the same thing when she was born.
Fourth row, second seat from the right. She lived in Owen our freshman year. Evenings spent taking hundreds of pictures in the large window at the end of the hall, she and my roommate had weekly Facebook album updates. America's Next Top Model was their goal. Since then, she has apparently turned her modeling dreams in for a Japanese inspired shoulder tattoo. Unsure of its meaning, we will call her Chopstick.
Third row, second seat from the right. There is no way that this man has never been arrested. The first day, he told us that every single one of his classes were held in the room we were sitting in, so planned to make it his home. And, that, he has. Oh, and just in case any of you were wondering, classrooms in Tompkins are not bathtub equipped. He openly refers to his "musk" as his "sex venom." I am not lying. He said those words. In that order. Although his venom may work magic on homeless women and unconscious children, it vaguely reminds me of aged dairy. This, matched with my confusion of his race, leads me to his new name of Milkshake.
Seeing as how this is what I have done during class, it will now conclude as my professor just did. Have no fear, the Abiku Children will be back. It's kind of their thing.
* Manpris: Capris for Men