Wobbly Benson

Wobbly Benson

It was my first quarter at the University. I had gone through the usual array of class choices, the professors who taught them, and to be honest I received no reliable information. One advisor told me that Mr. Bensons class, although enlightening in an unvarnished way, was considered incomprehensible by many who dropped the class after the first session, according to the advisor who I felt was not only a bit into herself, but was too conventional to appreciate the nuance between normal and abnormal. I, like many others, had the preconceived idea that college was supposed to be eye-popping. I had spent the previous twelve years believing not only that I was to stay within the lines developed on protocol, but should be grateful for the institution of learning itself as many were less fortunate.

Leaving the past behind and beginning anew, was what I had envisioned college to be. A place where no one knew you. You would not be burdened by the image of who you were. It was to be a new beginning, a new life that you designed for yourself.The first fifteen minutes of Wobbly Bensons class put an end to my fabricated idealism and left me yearning for my days in kindergarten.

I found his name to be pretentious, although I couldn’t explain why, even to myself. Who would name their child Wobbly? I assumed it was a nick name, although some parents believe an outlandish name sets the stage for the greatness they know their offspring possess.

He was a man of short stature who made up for his size with bravado, mainly a high-pitched whine that was decibels above normal speech.He had a mustache that drooped over his upper lip and a receding hairline that made his head look like it was formed by two distinct halves glued together with a cheap adhesive. He stood behind the lectern on what looked to be an old fruit box; slatted sides and the ends embossed with a decal that had long since faded beyond description. His ears stood at attention as though they were about to mutiny, but were reluctant because of a droopy eye that appeared to follow all activity with an uncanny devotion to a phrase written on the board behind him; Stike before being stricken.

Fear is often a tool used by those who wish to instill a sense of loyalty. But to what?In parochial school we were groomed for the world by fear. It kept us alert and ready to bale at the slightest provocation. But this was a different type of fear. It wasn’t explicit, nor was it implicit. It was more a feeling than a directive, not subtle or provocative; it was like being exposed to a deadly virus that hadn’t been named as yet. Its prediction of contagiousness setting the stage for a drama that had yet to occur.

I was used to being threatened by the mere suggestion that something could go wrong; “something always goes wrong” according to Sister Mary Joseph; her words still echoing in my memory as they were chased by the resounding sound of a ruler hitting a lacquered desk top. I had begun to doubt my affinity for new adventures and began to long for the stale comatose experiences of my previous twelve years of education.

His blazer was an assortment of purple squares augmented with thin black lines that made him appear to be a walking checker board.His shirt was a pale blue, offset by a burnt orange tie fastened securely to his chest by a silver clip that sported a turquoise stone. It appeared to look out over the assembled in hopes of capturing a premonition of someone not listening intently to the drone emanating from the podium.

“I use the Benson curve to determine the grades you will be required to earn. If you are not familiar with the Benson curve, it goes as follows; feel free to take notes.

10% of you will receive A’s, while 10% will fail. The remaining 80% will be divided unequally between B’s and C’s. I do not believe in D’s; they represent the least of efforts in attaining a passing grade, which is not a level of dedication I recognize and therefore it does not exist.” He mumbled on for another fifteen minutes about those who came to learn and those who came because they had no vision of a future that they belonged in. “If any of you would care to leave now, it will not be considered anything other than an attempt to remain dignified. I do not suffer failure lightly. If you have come to be entertained, you will be, but for reasons you have yet to imagine. Class today will be short. I wish you all to think about my words, and if you accept my terms I will be glad to see you here tomorrow. I will expect you to bring your imaginations in the form of five hundred words on why you want to be part of this movement, and what you hope to gain from the experience.Class dismissed.” He stepped off his fruit box and headed for the exit door.No one moved as he walked from our presence, leaving the room a metaphoric rendition of what, when, and why.

I had seven days to decide if I should continue with the class or find an alternative elective and continue on my merry way. After looking at the classes offered I decided to stay with old Wobbly despite my reservations. When I arrived in Seaton Hall the following day I found the class to be half the size of the day before. I can’t say I was surprised. When having to justify an excuse to consider yourself a writer, not to mention having to do so creatively, Chauser’s English Lit class looked more appealing.

He entered the room five minutes late, gave no excuse, and began mumbling unintelligibly about traffic, parking, and the fact that anyone with perseverance could get a driver’s license, although that did not ensure they knew how to drive with the etiquette necessary to keep from being arrested for pre-emptively assuming the role of an adult, with the power to end life by car should the occasion present itself. He had on the same purple jacket, although he’d swapped the blue shirt for an orange one, but his tie remained as blue as yesterday’s sky. The silver clip had been replaced by a cross made of palm fronds. I began to realize he was attempting to tell us something without actually having to say a word.

He strode to the lectern after leaving his yellow rain coat in a soggy pile below the board, which was unusual because it hadn’t been raining. He climbed onto the crate and then spent several minutes cleaning the lenses of his designer glasses. Then, for some reason, he placed the glasses in his shirt pocket and placed a monocle in his right eye. “I am pleased so many of you decided that this writing adventure will possibly be your portal to the life you dreamed of, but were afraid to attain on your own.That is why they pay me. I am to let the creature I call imagination out into the light, so that it can properly impress us with its magic. I want to remind you as well, that the words “writers block’” do not exist in this emporium of words. It is a term used by the those who are too lazy to write and need an excuse that allows them to continue believing they are writers, while not having the courage to write.”

He then slammed the notebook he held in his hand onto the lectern top and yelled, “dismissed!” as if he were calling out bingo numbers at a VFW hall. He then made his way quickly toward the exit door leaving his yellow rain coat on the floor.This was the second day he acted with such animated disregard for his students that I felt I needed to ask him about what his intentions were, as far as teaching was concerned. As he placed his hand on the door lever he turned toward the silence, “I should mention that I am an agent of possibility, not probability.Probability is a guess at a degree of success. Possibility is a clean state should you feel compelled to write your story upon it,” then he smiled his crooked smile and left, leaving only the slow contracting of the doorway and time to contemplate his words.

An agent of possibility. I understood what he was attempting to instill in us, but a less dramatic way might have been more affective. I surveyed the room that remained in silence; not so much as a shuffle to break the silence. Then someone sneezed and the room broke into the kind of laughter that replaces doubt; not about what was said, but the doubt we all live with when considering our worth, and the path we choose or is chosen for us, to express our investment in life.

Amidst the laughter I made my way out of the room.He was no longer arrogantly striding but moving slowly as though in pain, and yet attempting to overcome its hold on him and the demon that chased him. I followed him at a safe distance I presumed. He turned down the hall that led to the administration office and disappeared. As I turned into the hall he was leaning against the wall flanked by windows overlooking an enclosed garden of various species of plants. “Are you following me?” His words penetrating my illusion of confronting him regarding the students who expected what… I don’t know, but appeared to have received less so far.

“No….Yes, I don’t know….I wanted, no, needed to ask you if you were planning on teaching us anything, or is your intent that we discover ourselves while you watch?” He didn’t respond immediately. I didn’t know what to expect as he appeared to peer at the drooping tendrils of a dying clematis vine.

“What is your understanding of teaching?” he asked as though asking for a brochure at a play.

“Teaching I offered, is the deporting of pertinent information from either school or experience to those who seek knowledge of a particular subject.” I don’t know where my words came from. I tend to say what comes into my head without thinking when I find myself helpless or lost in a situation. I know it makes me sound like a commercial, but I can’t help it; it’s me being me.

“Not bad. I assume you have rehearsed your answer before? But if you hadn’t, it was an admirable try, although totally lacking in substance. It, however, is the essence of each of us. The search for creative release, whether it be a sunset, painting or poem.

You, me, we cannot be taught anything unless the information can be accepted as truth. If there is any doubt then the lesson has been a failure. Do you see?”

I did see, however I did not agree. I believe it is our duty to question the validity of answers and not accept them because they were espoused by a person who wears a title. Much like the notion of perfection, truth should always be debatable. It is the debate, the questions raised, the answers given, are what determine whether something is factually correct or has been leveraged by our own subjectivity to suit our needs.

“And what is so important that you chase me down a hallway to find out?” He slides from one topic, one demeanor to another without leaving a shadow to gage where he has been or is going.

“I was planning to ask if you intended to teach a particular theory on writing, or perhaps a style, or some trick that gives us permission to expand the boundaries of what we know while stealing from established writers?”

“I appreciate your candor. But I do not teach, although that is what is expected of me. What I do is allow. By that I mean, you have my enthusiastic permission, which you don’t need, to write. All writing is creative unless you are plagiarizing someone else’s work, which we all do unknowingly; the words and thoughts however should be yours and yours alone. You can’t get more creative than that. As I said in class, I do not teach, I am an agent of possibility. I feel everyone has the ability to teach and to learn, if given the opportunity.

We for the most part we do not consider educating ourselves because we are too busy assuming the role of students who are mere effigies of what and who they determine themselves to be. It is as simple as allowing yourself to be or do what you wish and accept the consequences when they arrive, which they always do. Giving someone encouragement costs nothing, yet has more value than any other form of enrichment. It allows the recipient to abandon his inability to shake doubt, and accept the notion that he has worth, even if not apparent or applauded….. and it costs nothing.”

He turned abruptly and left me peering out the window at the clematis vine, and attempting to decide if he was correct. No one can teach us anything, nor can we learn, unless we are willing to chance the possibility that we may be wrong and have to amend our thinking and actions to accommodate necessary change. I turned to watch him disappear into the administration office as a grounds man pruned the vine, leaving only hope that next spring it would return to the possibility it inherited from the generations that had come before. Encouragement: reassurance, inspiration, praise; words he believed that are valuable when attempting to transform doubt into possibility; allowing the probability of success or failure to wither, despite the possibility of a warmer and wetter than normal winter.