My eleventh grade English teacher was a guy named Paul MacAdam. I got a D in the class, and I only got the D because I wrote a paper about Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye over the summer. I was a crap student: I didn’t read; I didn’t participate; I didn’t turn in papers, or when I did, it was embarrassingly obvious I hadn’t read the books. I also skipped class a lot. It was in the morning, and I didn’t think very highly of morning classes.
I actually said that to him once. He took me aside after the bell rang one day and said you’ve been missing a lot of class, and I was like, “Yeah, I don’t think too highly of morning classes.” I was a real peach.
But when I did go to class, I was usually the last person to file into the room. One thing I remember about that class: Mr. MacAdam always held the door open for us until the bell rang. We’d walk in, and he’d greet each of us. He always held the door open until the bell started ringing, and I’d come in last, three seconds before the bell rang, staring at my untied sneakers, stinking of cigarette smoke, and he’d say, “Mr. Green, always a pleasure,” and then he and the class would talk about the book. Say it was Slaughterhouse Five. I hadn’t read it, of course, but they would talk about it, and MacAdam would get to talking about war and the nonlinear nature of time and how Vonnegut had stripped down the language to tell the nakedest of truths.
But the discussion was always so interesting—these big, hot, fun ideas seemed to matter so much. So I read the books. I never read them when I was supposed to read them; I’d read them a week later, after I’d already gotten an F on my reaction paper. But I’d read them. In essence, I was reading great books for fun. MacAdam didn’t know it, of course. He probably still doesn’t know it. But it didn’t matter whether I was worthy of his faith; he kept it. He still held the door open every day for me. He still treated me like I was the smartest kid in the class, still took me seriously on those rare occasions when I’d raise my hand, still listened thoughtfully to me when I’d give him my reading of a passage I could comment upon only because he’d just read it out loud. He believed I was real, that I mattered. I wasn’t yet able to understand that he mattered, but he was okay with that. He just kept holding the door open for me.
”—John Green, excerpt from his 2008 speech at the Alan Conference (via speciousstuff)
Tutors at my college have dismissed multiple people because though they try they just don’t get it, and then they are abandoned and so never will. Bury College is a fucking disgrace.
1. I don’t enjoy it
2. The hours kill my social life
3. The job can fuel my depression
Reasons to stay
1. Overwhelming self doubt that I can’t do any better, that I won’t get another job, that failure will follow me wherever I go, and that I’ll be unemployed in a…
You’re a diamond amongst sand. Don’t believe any different. It won’t be much, but we can do stuff more often. I don’t care what, but I hate that you’re like this. You’re one of the five people I actually like.
It always confuses me when people make major misplays because they don’t understand a game yet. I always think ‘Is that what I was like when I was new?’ and, sadly, sometimes the answer is ‘Nope, that’s what you’re still like, now play that Forrest and Ponder into your first White source’.