I have 26 students in the class -- some more mature (I told you I'd be nice, ladies!) and some, well, really young. Altogether, we have fifteen children, a handful of husbands, and brothers and sisters galore. We're a diverse group, which is why we're special. We like to eat food and drink sodas all night long. We kind of feel like we're at camp, with books instead of bunk beds and pencils instead of flashlights.
I didn't want to teach this class -- "4.5 hours?" I said. You've got to be kidding me. This is not how literature is taught. It isn't, except for here. Except for now. And I have only 8 weeks x 4.5 hours to survey world literature...Yikes!
So far, we're liking Flannery O'Connor and sad Kafka and his vermin son Gregor. One of my students wrote his very first short story last Wednesday and read it out loud to us with the biggest smile on his face. We're moving on to Munro and Updike soon.
God bless my class, I say! Each week, we survive what feels a little like a war, and each week we keep coming back begging (well, maybe not begging) for more.