So when I was a freshman in high school, I had one particularly...beloved...teacher. He started every class by spending roughly the first twenty minutes of our forty minute period discussing topics completely unrelated to global history, including but not limited to his cats and his fantasy baseball league. It made me reeal thankful that I put in those countless hours to complete the summer coursework that they just "didn't have time to cover during the school year." Right. Upon returning from his spring break to "Constantinople" he graced us with a vacation slideshow that consisted largely of stray cats. He was a true diamond among the rough of America's high school teachers.
He also had the habit of assigning us lengthy (upwards of 30 pages) New Yorker articles, on which he would quiz us the very next day. These quizzes always consisted entirely of open-ended questions regarding important and useful details such as "What board game was the prime minister of Syria playing?" My brain just does not handle rote memorization and unlike now at that point I still had some academic standards, thus these frequent quizzes became a regular anxiety-inducing feature in my adolescent life.
To this day my heart rate starts to quicken and not from excitement in case that wasn't crystal clear every time I see that typeface with the accompanying three column layout. One of my professors assigned two New Yorker articles to read for this weeks class and I had some serious knee-jerk agita going on and as a result had to do some serious deep breathing before I dove in. Fortunately, they were not as bad as I remembered. I'll still probably neverever purchase that piece of fine literary goodness, though, because I'll probably never fully recover from that kind of school-related PTSD*.
Another thrilling story from my life. You're welcome.
C
*Another groundbreaking addition for the DSM V? Thought so.
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