HEARTS AND STARS
Ram and I met on this day a year ago at Playfair!, one of the orientation activities at CMU. Being the rather memory-driven young woman you know I am, this is bringing on a lot of interesting thoughts for me. I'm really remembering everything about what my dorm smelled like in summer, what it looked like to me, and what the school seemed like before I knew it inside and out. Huge fucking surprise, right? Almost as surprising as my inclination to worry about contracting West Nile virus. Or worrying about a routine dental appointment. Or having a bad dream about my jazz band audition (a dream which, you may note, I did not intend to have.) You can all drop the Vaudeville act; I'm fine.
Tonight we had my high school English teacher over for dinner as a small thanks for everything she's done for all of us. Mrs. Hatfield is the very best kind of teacher: she's intelligent, considerate, and just plain nice to everybody, even if they like televised wrestling or shitty hip hop. She was the newspaper and literary magazine advisor, and for the first time both the newspaper and the literary magazine won the highest award at the PA Scholastic Press Association. I spent the first month of my last four summers in her basement with my friends, working our asses off on the literary magazine and drinking coffee her husband W.F. made for us. People say that teachers should be friends with their students, but it seldom happens like this. But Mrs. Hatfield will always be my friend, and possibly the greatest supporter of my writing. Needless to say, it was an absolutely lovely evening.
Ram and I met on this day a year ago at Playfair!, one of the orientation activities at CMU. Being the rather memory-driven young woman you know I am, this is bringing on a lot of interesting thoughts for me. I'm really remembering everything about what my dorm smelled like in summer, what it looked like to me, and what the school seemed like before I knew it inside and out. Huge fucking surprise, right? Almost as surprising as my inclination to worry about contracting West Nile virus. Or worrying about a routine dental appointment. Or having a bad dream about my jazz band audition (a dream which, you may note, I did not intend to have.) You can all drop the Vaudeville act; I'm fine.
Tonight we had my high school English teacher over for dinner as a small thanks for everything she's done for all of us. Mrs. Hatfield is the very best kind of teacher: she's intelligent, considerate, and just plain nice to everybody, even if they like televised wrestling or shitty hip hop. She was the newspaper and literary magazine advisor, and for the first time both the newspaper and the literary magazine won the highest award at the PA Scholastic Press Association. I spent the first month of my last four summers in her basement with my friends, working our asses off on the literary magazine and drinking coffee her husband W.F. made for us. People say that teachers should be friends with their students, but it seldom happens like this. But Mrs. Hatfield will always be my friend, and possibly the greatest supporter of my writing. Needless to say, it was an absolutely lovely evening.
<< Home