I had a science teacher in middle school curtly dubbed “Mr. H” by people who deemed his surname too bothersome to pronounce in full (a sentiment shared by pretty much the entire school population—yes, all forty of us). Before passing up classwork to him, we students had a habit of raising our arms and exclaiming “Mr. H, I’m done.”
On normal days, he would indicate for us to approach and hand over the work. But there was one day when he looked up, cocked an eyebrow, and asked, “Really? Are you really done?”
The black sheep du jour then was HC, who proceeded to reply with a suspicious “Yeesss…”
“Really?” Mr. H said. “When you think about it, you’ll find that you’re never really done with anything; you can be almost done, but never completely done until you’re dead. So don’t say you’re done; say you’re almost done.”
After my fifth and final exam of the semester, I wanted to sing the words “I’m done” to the tune of Michael Jackson’s I’m Bad; but then I remembered Mr. H and his philosophical inquiry in the middle of that eighth grade science class, so I stopped short of doing a bad moonwalk. As far as being almost done goes, I’ve achieved plenty.
I was on my on my knees last Friday afternoon, lovingly folding jackets, sweaters, and packing them for the summer. Glancing around the room, I am immediately disheartened: sifting through the multiple strata of stuff alone will require several sonar readings and the dedicated efforts of a seasoned archaeological team. Different items are unearthed at random corners of the room: M finds a crisp fifty-thousand yen bill from a desk drawer, and I fish a half-dozen pens from the pocket of my favorite coat. People who know me are also acquainted with my disdain for packing but alas, as luck may have it, it is a fine art I have come to master after years of unwitting practice. I close the zippers of the oversized black suitcase, and that was it for my coats.
At about eight-thirty yesterday morning, I start on one of three essays about Nasser and the Egyptian revolution, but the only words swirling in my head are the lyrics to Sherry by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Gah. By the time I complete them, my eyes are glazed over and bleary. Drained and catatonic, I pretend to skim over my answers before rising to hand the essays to the prof at the front of the room, thus effectively relieving my behind of the dead weight I had subjected it to for the past two hours. “Thank you, sir,” I say sincerely. I like this professor for his contagious dedication to his craft, he is very good at what he does. He retaliates with a smile and thanks me, while still mispronouncing my name the way through. I smile politely and walk out of room 310, and that was it for Middle Eastern History this semester.
In about a minute or two, I am going to shut down my laptop and unplug the cable that connects my machine to the internet. I will then carelessly throw said laptop into a heavy backpack and prepare to walk out the door; and then like the closing scenes out of formulaic prime-time television dramas, Damien Rice’s Delicate will play in my head as I pause melodramatically under the doorframe to wistfully replay the conversations and inside jokes established in the now-barren room. Remember that one time we maintained a three-way conversation which consisted of nothing but raucous laughter? Or that other time we had a debate about existentialism, and then a second later squealed about how awesome hippos are? It’s amazing how much laughter could stem from such a sorry-looking commode, and I know I will be back here in the fall in time for more, but for this semester, this is it.
(Mr. H was a really neat guy, but I think he was fired under suspicion of pursuing a romantic relationship with the married math teacher. Scandal at the British school!)
Posted on May 17th, 2007 by Antiguit
