brazen class skipper

Right now, at this very moment, there is a classroom I belong in and I am missing class. I don't have any good reason. I can't blame it on anything. I woke up on time. And then I rolled over and went back to bed. I slept until someone called me moments ago, and I carefully arose, looked at the clock with a flick of my eyes, as if to verify, Is that really what time it is, and then I went to the bathroom to pee.

I feel brazen.

I have already had it out with this teacher about attendance, on the second day of class, one on one, where I had been duped into thinking all was well and she was merely going to cover syllabus and the things I had missed in the first class.

I missed the first class for no good reason either.

I mean, I thought that my Wednesday class was my Thursday class, and it was the first week and shoot me, but I made a mistake, I got mixed up, I got ready for my class at noon and then looked at my schedule and realized it started at ten.

So I missed the first class, and I am standing in front of this teacher after the second class finished (a lovely gallery tour of the River North Area) and I am thinking this class is pretty cool and I might actually learn a lot firsthand about Chicago Photographers.

--I should say, I happened to be late to the second class. Directions were given to me via email by the teacher and let's just say they were wrong. Let's just say I got off the Brown Line and transferred to the Red Line, even when I knew, I knew, that the Brown Line was a better choice, I transferred anyway, because that's what she said to do in the email, and she knows best because she is the teacher. So I ended up walking five blocks from the Red Line towards the overhead tracks of the Brown Line.

At the second gallery, she came up to me, the teacher, and said in a half whisper, "Are you in this class?"

I figured that was a reasonable question, since, this being the second class, and my having missed the first, she just didn't recognize my face. But I figured since we'd emailed each other she would be expecting me...

"Yes, my name is Christine. I emailed you last week."

"Oh good," she said, with her hand over her mouth, short maroon nails stifling the breath from her nostrils, overly made up face, layers of foundation and blush to hide what I could still see, the pockmarked skin from a terrible childhood filled with pistules and explosive acne, pus and gore, her eyes wide behind her lightweight and almost fashionable glasses, the kind of wide eyes where her pupil and iris swam in twice as much whiteness. She brought down her hand and I could see the elaborate work of lining and layering and blotting she performed that morning with a nearly identical maroon shade. "I was afraid you were just following this class around." I laughed to be polite, but I was thinking, what was this woman talking about? Why would a girl with a notebook in her arms, a pen in hand, a backpack slung over one shoulder, be anything but a student trying to follow along with the class.

She noticed my notebook, maybe for the first time, and said, "Can I have a piece of paper?" I opened it awkwardly, and tore out a sheet from the spiral binding. I tried to offer it to her. "No," she said, "Write your name at the top and pass it around."

Ah, sign in sheet. I see.

For the rest of the class, I avoided her, walking along the back fringes of the class, people who have paired off, people who were smart enough to take a class like this with a friend, rather than go it alone. So smart, I thought, I wish I would have done that. But every opportunity alone is a chance to people watch, so I didn't waste it. And the third gallery was not as pretty as the first two, but it was historically very interesting, and I wandered through the space, peering into smaller pieces and beholding larger prints.

At the end, I hung back to speak with my teacher, to get the syllabus, to get caught up on the first class. And even though we had that weird introduction, well, I guess you could call it something else, since she never actually introduced herself to me, even though I knew she gave me bad directions and I had to walk out of my way because I got off the train I could have stayed on, even though I didn't know a single person in my class, the galleries were cool, and I learned things about photogragpy and the selection process of artists and the inner workings of exhibitions, I actually liked this class and the concept that we were actually going out of the classroom and into the city to find Chicago Photography.

So I'm standing there, in front of her, and she's all discombobulated. I used to think that was a funny word to use to describe someone, but for her, it' s fair. She's always trying to muster or straighten or sort something out. Always distracted. Always breathy.

As she sorted through her things (a bag that she'd forgotten completely and a student found lying in the gallery and brought down to her) she spoke about the things I had missed in the first class. As she brought the syllabus out, I couldn't help but notice that it was one page, the class description and the book title (which I still have not bothered to purchase. I know! Brazen!) and that was all. She explained that we would frequently be making trips outside of class and some were still being arranged, so no schedule on the syllabus. That I could understand.

Then she propped her glasses back onto her face, waved back the loose curls off her face and said, "Listen, you've already missed the first class, and you were late to this one, so I think you may want to consider dropping this class. I know that seems harsh, considering, but at this point, it would be hard for me to give you a passing grade."

I probably looked shocked.

"I understand that you need the class for a education requirement, but I want people in my class who will come to class, on time, and participate. If you're just here for the requirement, then don't bother. Take a different class. This is not the class for you."

"I am really sorry about missing the first class. And about being late for today's class. I am a fiction writing major and I know how valuable class time is. I make it a point to go to every class."

"Oh, you're a fiction writing major? That'll serve you well in this class."

Okay, at least she did hear me speaking, even if she missed my point entirely.

"Well, listen, your excuse for missing the first class was kinda bogus, and you were late for this one and I just want you to know that's not okay here."

I had let the first late mention slide, but I wasn't about to let this one pass. "I agree that my reason for the first class was not an excuse. I was late for class today because the directions you gave me in the email were wrong."

"Oh, well, I don't know about that, but if you had been at the first class with everyone else, you would have got the same directions."

She's got the logic of a five year old. I swear, I've had comversations as frustrating as these with children.

Maybe she felt bad, or knew she was the bogus one, because she took at different approach. "Look, let's put it this way. Don't miss any more classes, don't be late, participate, and I won't give you a bad grade. Okay?"

She then dismissed me and went back up to the gallery to make sure she didn't leave anything else behind.

And, does it surprise any of you that I wake up every Wednesday morning and force myself out of bed and on the train and I can never quite manage to be on time, want to go, and participate?

Today is bad though, because at least when I'm late, I showed up.

Brazen.

Who knows what sort of thing she'll have to say to me now.