<\/p>\n\n\n\n
January 22. Monday. The sky is clear and sunny, the air still. At least, that\u2019s how I remember it–campus empty of people at 11am, which actually isn\u2019t very likely. At 7am, yes. Why do I remember it this way? Is that what reflects how I felt as I walked around the 3000s, trying to find 3512? I was late, I was anxious, terrified, swirling with curiosity like nasty ice cream, melted, clinging to the sides, in this case the curiosity I suppose. Anxiety: remembering the large, seething red pen with every paper returned the previous semester: and so on. What if I was just a really bad writer? But also, what was this class going to be like? Who was the professor–not his name, but <\/em>who was he? What was the group project? Where the <\/em>hell is 3512?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Monday, January<\/p>\n\n\n\n 22, 2018: Still air,<\/p>\n\n\n\n sun shining and<\/p>\n\n\n\n warm (that might<\/p>\n\n\n\n be a lie)<\/p>\n\n\n\n I walk to <\/p>\n\n\n\n room 3512, <\/p>\n\n\n\n Terrified and <\/p>\n\n\n\n curious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I enter, ten <\/p>\n\n\n\n minutes late (something <\/p>\n\n\n\n that keeps me up for <\/p>\n\n\n\n years)<\/p>\n\n\n\n The clock says, You\u2019re late, idiot!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I sit. Are you Jade?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Yes<\/em>. Nervous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He has a mellifluous voice, humorous and strict in equal measure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room is dark in <\/p>\n\n\n\n my memory, (this too <\/p>\n\n\n\n might be a lie)<\/p>\n\n\n\n He seems tall, taller than I\u2019ve seen<\/p>\n\n\n\n Big beard like a fisherman–no, a <\/p>\n\n\n\n viking maybe And is, probably what <\/p>\n\n\n\n the kids around me call Swole<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My nervousness and curiosity take<\/p>\n\n\n\n turns shouting As my terror and <\/p>\n\n\n\n excitement build–<\/p>\n\n\n\n All, it turns out, competing <\/p>\n\n\n\n with each other– What\u2019s on the <\/p>\n\n\n\n board is more interesting: <\/p>\n\n\n\n Barely discernible<\/p>\n\n\n\n Syllabus – literacy narrative – NPR – Service Learning – units –<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n These are snippets, broken memories that became<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sheer, inexplicable, unbreakable, scandalous, confusing, undefinable, luminous, <\/p>\n\n\n\n life saving<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n DELIGHT<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou can stay for the supplemental section, if you want.\u201d Ooh, I was excited. An extra hour of class twice a week, the room the same size but the occupancy smaller, more intimate writing occurring. What might seem like torture for some was no where near such for me. No distractions, just writing, and a ten minute break for coffee or food (a habit that\u2019s stayed). Right after, I\u2019d pack up and follow the swole viking to his office. I no longer remember the first time I trekked under the hot sun alongside him, his heavy bag filled with volumes of books, including often three copies of the same book, and bottomless coffee, my heavy bag and cooled coffee in my hand. Then I\u2019d sit on the chair by the bookshelf humorously weighed down by what seemed like a<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n million books and journals, and we\u2019d talk, or I would do my homework while he graded or did what professors do in their offices, thirty or so browser tabs open, Outlook pinging. Sometimes I would select a book at random and read it: pedagogy (as it turns out, there are probably a million books just on that subject–some of them are on my shelves now, years later); essays by professors who taught English, discussing their lessons for fellow professionals, war stories…each book spine had its own colour, thickness, stickers or not, many had those lovely lines running down the spine from years of being overbent in the way that actually makes a bibliophile\u2019s own back hurt, a sort of sympathetic pain-pleasure experience-response happening.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Another hot day, sun bursting, <\/p>\n\n\n\n hitting the cement With waves of <\/p>\n\n\n\n heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We trudge through the thick air and enter <\/p>\n\n\n\n the cool room; The cold, white fluorescent <\/p>\n\n\n\n light flickers–on–<\/p>\n\n\n\n I find my seat at the lopsided mountain of books, <\/p>\n\n\n\n metal frame, Stickers galore! USED SAVES <\/p>\n\n\n\n proclaimed in yellow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room is a refuge, haven, <\/p>\n\n\n\n my safe place This place I am <\/p>\n\n\n\n myself, fully<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughs at whatever website is open, this morning\u2019s coffee in hand, <\/p>\n\n\n\n 30 tabs open Chair squealing as he leans back, ready to grade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The titles overwhelm <\/p>\n\n\n\n me, pleasantly: The <\/p>\n\n\n\n Well Crafted Sentence<\/p>\n\n\n\n New Seeds of Contemplation<\/p>\n\n\n\n Teaching English in the Two Year College, Volume 46<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dictionaries spill out in between Michel Foucault and curious <\/p>\n\n\n\n wirebound books Smelling of libraries, office carpet,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clean air, and–0.77 ballpoint ink, black.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Square and <\/p>\n\n\n\n carpeted, Two <\/p>\n\n\n\n desks on <\/p>\n\n\n\n opposite sides <\/p>\n\n\n\n With a sense of <\/p>\n\n\n\n connection,<\/p>\n\n\n\n A window that never <\/p>\n\n\n\n seemed open <\/p>\n\n\n\n Between the two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Yet the room <\/p>\n\n\n\n itself seemed <\/p>\n\n\n\n An open <\/p>\n\n\n\n window,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Full <\/p>\n\n\n\n of <\/p>\n\n\n\n opport<\/p>\n\n\n\n unity <\/p>\n\n\n\n And <\/p>\n\n\n\n sacred<\/p>\n\n\n\n ness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Here <\/p>\n\n\n\n was a <\/p>\n\n\n\n space<\/p>\n\n\n\n Where I <\/p>\n\n\n\n could learn <\/p>\n\n\n\n and <\/p>\n\n\n\n Become <\/p>\n\n\n\n unburdene<\/p>\n\n\n\n d. This was <\/p>\n\n\n\n my space–<\/p>\n\n\n\n A place of<\/p>\n\n\n\n Freedom,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Warmth,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Safety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Being in this new space, surrounded by a plethora of books, was not new to me. I was raised surrounded by books, on the floor, on bookshelves, in cubbies, wherever they could fit. We always had more books than anything else, and some of the coolest ones, when I was a child, were my mom\u2019s dusty old paperbacks from the 1960s or so (back when books were maybe 50 cents or a dollar!). Later on, years or a decade plus later, I would mark up some of those same books: \u201cwe\u2019re reading <\/em>The Odyssey for class, can I borrow yours? Can I use a highlighter in it and sticky notes?\u201d It\u2019s always best practise to ask the book lender, in this case mom, what the parameters are of book borrowing. There are those special books that you just don\u2019t dare mark up–dog ear, bright yellow highlighter, sticky notes that leave a mark–because there is something extra precious about those books. That actually turned out to be a topic of conversation in a literature class–what makes a book special enough <\/em>not to mark up? Why? Conclusion: inconclusive. My mom\u2019s copy of <\/em>The Odyssey, printed 1962, has a special scent to it–that indescribable, you-have-to-experience-it-to-understand kind of scent…old paper from another era, the ink settled comfortably into the page, the binding a little wonky and probably different ingredients than now…open the pages and it smells like maybe you just walked through a portal, because new books just don\u2019t compare to that scent. It smells like a used bookstore–that\u2019s not quite it either. I hope these books smell like that forever, and we can keep passing on that pleasantness of scent. It\u2019s positively delightful, I am enamoured by it, wrapped in its pleasant scent every time I open one of these old books. I think it\u2019s a sort of nutrition for the soul.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Books–pages and ink bound <\/p>\n\n\n\n passionately– Some are crispy, <\/p>\n\n\n\n some are soft;<\/p>\n\n\n\n The spine is broken, peeling;<\/p>\n\n\n\n Pages are tasty and offer delight, <\/p>\n\n\n\n even an ecstasy. Grimm\u2019s Fairy <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Tales<\/em>, 1940s, yellowed pages and U <\/p>\n\n\n\n n w o u n d binding;<\/p>\n\n\n\n I open the book, gently, and smell it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n I am a child again, small and tucked in, r<\/p>\n\n\n\n eady to choose A grim story for sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The contents <\/p>\n\n\n\n pages still have <\/p>\n\n\n\n Colourful pencil <\/p>\n\n\n\n marks Crossing <\/p>\n\n\n\n out the titles read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I suppose it\u2019s strange to find comfort in these <\/p>\n\n\n\n bloody tales, But the me that used to be still <\/p>\n\n\n\n enjoys<\/p>\n\n\n\n A good whiff of <\/p>\n\n\n\n memory, <\/p>\n\n\n\n Something warm <\/p>\n\n\n\n and…<\/p>\n\n\n\n Voyaging.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ali\u2019s book on Faiz arrives–<\/p>\n\n\n\n Faiz! Beloved poet of our <\/p>\n\n\n\n brother\u2019s homeland I open <\/p>\n\n\n\n for a surprise: Urdu, side <\/p>\n\n\n\n by side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet the breeze <\/p>\n\n\n\n pour colours into the <\/p>\n\n\n\n waiting blossoms\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n (Faiz 35)<\/p>\n\n\n\n What lovely <\/p>\n\n\n\n lines– What <\/p>\n\n\n\n endless <\/p>\n\n\n\n possibilities!<\/p>\n\n\n\n I often disappear <\/p>\n\n\n\n into the pages Of <\/p>\n\n\n\n the book I\u2019m <\/p>\n\n\n\n reading<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was <\/p>\n\n\n\n a way <\/p>\n\n\n\n to <\/p>\n\n\n\n Escap<\/p>\n\n\n\n e <\/p>\n\n\n\n reality<\/p>\n\n\n\n And find joy in <\/p>\n\n\n\n the chaos, Critical <\/p>\n\n\n\n for a young mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n L<\/p>\n\n\n\n ater, <\/p>\n\n\n\n Whe<\/p>\n\n\n\n n I <\/p>\n\n\n\n met <\/p>\n\n\n\n Agha<\/p>\n\n\n\n We went on <\/p>\n\n\n\n many journeys <\/p>\n\n\n\n And I\u2019ve been <\/p>\n\n\n\n home<\/p>\n\n\n\n To places <\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019ve never <\/p>\n\n\n\n really Been; <\/p>\n\n\n\n he guides me <\/p>\n\n\n\n on Snowy, <\/p>\n\n\n\n rocky trails<\/p>\n\n\n\n We pass through the <\/p>\n\n\n\n Himalayas, Through <\/p>\n\n\n\n markets with<\/p>\n\n\n\n Incense<\/p>\n\n\n\n Shawls<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wazwaan<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Histories, unspoken.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"template":"","meta":[],"genre":[28,26],"year":[44],"class_list":["post-127","writing","type-writing","status-publish","hentry","genre-essays","genre-writing","year-44"],"acf":{"contributor":"Jade Maceoghain","bio":"Jade is Kashmiri-British and a first-generation community college graduate, working on their undergraduate degree in English. They work at the Writing Center, and credit their strong mother with an early passion for literature and creativity. Published in Johns Hopkins Macksey Journal, this is their first creative works publication.","text":"","contributor_page":[325]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/writing\/127","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/writing"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/writing"}],"acf:post":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor\/325"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=127"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=127"},{"taxonomy":"year","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dekonstruktr.com\/tidepools\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/year?post=127"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}WHY IS IT SPACED LIKE THIS? <\/code>and FRAG<\/code> and COME TO OFFICE HOURS<\/code> and NOT ENOUGH FROM THE BOOK<\/code><\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/a> \u201cFirst Time\u201d<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/a> \u201cEverything You Need to Know\u201d<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/a> \u201cRefuge\u201d<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/a> \u201cThe Green Book\u201d<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/a> \u201cUrdu\u201d<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/a> \u201cAgha, Faiz, & Disappearing Into\u201d<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n