Mornings Are My Safe Space

Mornings are my safe space.

It makes me feel important to open the lecture hall’s windows as early as possible, to clean the white-boards, to take my first-row seat, and to work when I know everyone else is sleeping. Useful, responsible, organized. The work takes me beyond my austere fashion, beyond my plaid skirts and earthy coat, beyond my fountain pens and reading glasses and braided bun. It makes me feel real.

The silence is calming. The constant shifting of the light’s hues reminds me of the passing of time. There are birds chirping, cars driving on the street a few blocks from me, leaves ruffling against the building, against the glass, and against the wood of their trees. I take my copy of Pride and Prejudice from my bag. I lay my notes on the table near the book and I lean over them, savoring all the words, analyzing the structures, the constructions, the lines of dialogue. It was so natural to smile; I don’t even notice. The smell of old books fills my being with joy, and the scratching of the fountain on the paper, the elegance of the notes I take over Austen’s writings, make me relax muscles that I did not even know were tense. 

Alone.

Productivity flows through my hands, and I think about the people that are sleeping. Many of my classmates don’t want to be here, in the class of those who failed their master’s degree, who failed the linguistic exam, who did not get in the class they wanted and were waiting the few semesters it would take for them to reapply in the one hall who did not reject anyone. They are here for all the wrong reasons: they want to fill their time; they want the points on their curriculum; they want to flee from judging eyes that press them into any class at all, even if it is literature. For them the beauty of books does not matter; they do not care about the nuanced expressions only achievable through writing; they do not care about empty libraries early in the morning, about reading a text that makes you question all your convictions on life and love and reason and-

“Good morning!”

I glance at my wristwatch before answering; it is not even seven. I do not know this woman, with her arms full of books and a bag falling on her shoulder. I notice her clothes. There is no way I couldn’t, wrinkled, mismatched, out of season. Who wears bright pinks in the middle of autumn? Though, I have to admit; they have a strange charm to them, strangely eccentric, strangely unique. 

“Good morning.”

“It is too early to work, isn’t it...?” she complains and I let some hair fall on the side of my face she could see. I shift a bit on my seat, turning myself towards the wall. “I haven’t even started this project... when is it for...?”

I know she is not talking to me, and if she is, I have better things to occupy my time with. I have coffee in my thermos, and I drink some so that I occupy my mouth, so she knows I don’t want to speak. She understands, but this silence is not comfortable anymore. It is heavy, and I feel it pressing me towards something that I avoid even thinking about. I focus, Pride and Prejudice. But I feel the side of my face burning, I need to glance at her, to study that strange presence that is certainly not studying literature, and I need to understand her, I need to talk to her, because it takes someone either brave or stupid to stay in this hall alone with someone, specially this early; to invade my space and act as if it didn’t matter.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Jane, from the philosophy class.” But when I look at her, she is flipping through a pile of papers that covers her desk, just like me. “And you, oh stranger of the lecture hall?”

Jane. I laugh at the coincidence. 

“Hanna, from literature.”

“Really? That is such a coincidence, I am reading Hanna Adrendt right now. Would you mind, Hanna from literature, if I were to use you for an article I’m writing?”

Yes, quite a lot. This is my space, this is my time, and this is my assignment I am working on. I care about what I am doing; I don’t go around asking strangers for their opinions on philosophy.

“What is it about?”

Her eyes brighten, and she smiles.

“Have you ever heard Adrendt’s discourse on violence as a means of protest?” she searches through her pile of papers and books and notes. I don’t think she is talking to me, not as much as to the idea of an academic. “I need to write an opinion article about ‘Violence as the only means to recognition’, and I need some more views on that.”

I search to the bottom of my mind for any memory of that author. No novels, no auto-biographies I had read, no critiques, no articles. She was out of my scope, and I did not know what she was talking about.

“I am not familiar with her views, I am sorry.” These words burn my tongue in shame. If it is being taught at the level we are both at, I should know her. Jane knows I should know her, and she will think I am an impostor, getting here this early, this well dressed, studying with this dedication, all illusions. 

“It is fine. I don’t want your views on her as much as I want your opinion on the topic. Are you politically engaged?”

I blink a few times in surprise. She is a talented actress; she can conceal her judgment well.

“If I tell you I am not, would you try to recruit me?”

“No. Though I would judge you a little. It is a privilege to flee from politics, you know.”

“Then I choose not to answer this in a recorded medium.”

She laughs as if defeated, but I don’t want her to stop talking. Who is Adrendt? What did she say and what did she write? I thought that by choosing literature I was free from going through this kind of shame; I had read all the important books at least twice, and this is unbearable.

“It isn’t necessarily a bad thing to be judged. It is through trial that we learn how to grow, isn’t it?”

“And you will put me on trial? Who sent you?”

“Only if you consent to it, and I came by myself. I allowed my feet to take me where they pleased.”

I scoff and close my book. Be a character, I think, play the part, see where it goes. Jane is the one talking about destiny and letting steps be taken on their own. I will stay grounded. I will answer her questions. The winds blew her in my direction today, and I could swear it was hitting the windows just a few moments ago. I take off my coat; I close my thermos; I let my pen down and I lay my glasses on the table. She watches me as I take a chair from her side and set it in front of her, sitting with my legs pressed together and ankles crossed. 

Jane seems pleased. She closes her books; she scratches her eye behind the lenses, and crosses her ankles with her legs open on her seat.

“I will take that as a yes. I want to know, Hanna, what you do here so early.”

“Study, just like you.”

“I did not come here to study. I thought the class started at seven. I made a terrible mistake, and I woke up at five thirty, won’t happen again. Though we still have about twenty minutes until the class really starts, time flies. What do you study?”

“Literature.”

“Too broad.”

I breathe in deep. She is unbearable. 

“Representation of female narratives in classic literature.”

“That is better.” Jane has her chin supported by her hands. I notice, I don’t know why, I wasn’t paying attention to her looks, that she has her nails painted in a cream shade of pink. “So you will understand Adrendt’s ideas easily, since you are already familiar with the progression from submission to protest.”

“Who was she?”

“An activist, a German Philosopher, an author.” Her gestures punctuate her speech. I notice her clothes are not as mismatched as I thought. Pink and white do go well together. “She wrote about the civil rights movements, the second wave of feminism. I have some introductory texts, if you want to read them, just a second...” 

Her stack of papers is a mess, and her dating system isn’t any better. I can hear the corridors getting busier outside the hall. We had a little more time. I get up and return the chair to the place I took it from. “No, don’t go. Here, you can have it.” She almost hands me about ten pages of text stapled together, but she retrieves it just before I can pick it and writes something on the white pages on the back. “Consider this with just a bit of care, no pressure.”

‘Wide Awake Coffee, 5pm’

I put her text away, and I try to pay attention to class.

Mornings are my safe space. Afternoons, not so much. Too many people, too much stuff going on, too much everything, and too many things to drop at my dorm before I can even think of searching for that spot. Yes, I am a curious little reader. There is no way I am going to pass an invitation from another stranger at the early lecture hall. But this is just not safe. 

That hall was my space. That hall was my refuge. It reassured me I was as dedicated to my education as I liked to think. It was material proof of me getting one step closer to the platonic dream I had of being a renowned critic; of drinking dark coffee in autumn with a hazy fog outside my window. Now it is a witness I did not know about everything I should know about. Now it is a place where another stranger goes, where she can find me and distract me with more inquiries. Why, then, am I going?

I sit on the mattress. I massage my temples.

If I am rude enough, she will go away. Every single other person who went there didn’t last twenty minutes, then never came back. They knew that space was mine; they didn’t want to intrude. What was wrong with that invading stranger? 

I bite the inside of my cheek and change my underwear. The same clothes I used in the morning are fine, but I don’t want to deal with any potential stink. I redo my bun, reapply some gloss. My dirty glasses that never bothered me were now just an excuse to stay home just a minute longer, and I think about refilling my thermos out of pure habit. But I am already almost late, and I am going to a coffee shop. 

The empty weight of my bottle is absolutely cursed on the side of the bag I carry on my shoulder. I fill it with water in the first fountain I find. 

I choose to walk the few blocks between me and the spot. I like the morning lighting better, but I also have to admit that the afternoon’s golden hour also has its charm. The streets are full, some children run around from one patch of sand in the playgrounds to another and climb on trees, shop owners have relaxed talks with their regulars, old men smoke on the sidewalk.

“You actually came.”

“I did.”

Jane smiles as she pulls me a chair, childish, excited, and I can’t help but shed the worry I had been carrying. She has a cup of tea; it is orange, either peach or tangerine, with mint leaves and berry slices. I order a simple latte.

“This late in the day?”

“Coffee does not wake me up.”

“Ah, yes, your entire personality. I am sorry. Did you read the text?”

I feel myself folding inwards to a size I could fit in my pocket and I take a shameful sip of coffee.

“Not yet.”

Her shoulders fall in discrete disappointment, but she keeps on smiling.

“How many times did you reread Pride and Prejudice already?”

And I feel shame cracking my bones.

“Four or five times, I don’t remember. How many times have you read Adrendt?”

“First time, she did a great job captivating me.” She stirs her tea with a straw that clings when it hits the glass. “The whole ‘they only care about us when they care about themselves’ line is powerful.”

“It is.”

Her eyes glow like honey in the light. I advert my gaze.

“I haven’t read Pride and Prejudice.” she admits. “And I don’t think I will, I think I will turn it into a political statement about the elitization of literature, make it a personality trait. And I will be sour about everyone that tells me to.”

“It is an excellent book.”

“Now I am sour at you.”

I chuckle. It was funny how she made that statement seem serious and definitive, how she seemed to be mad and disappointed and yet how she made me sure she was joking.

“I am serious.” She takes another sip of her tea while I am too busy heating my hands on the latte cup. “And if you keep on laughing, you will not be invited to my birthday party.”

“I am sorry.” I drink from my cup only so I have something to occupy my mouth with. “I will bring soda if you let me in.”

“Only diet soda.”

I just nod. When I look back at her, I see her looking away into the setting sun. Early autumn and I was taking every single moment that fashion allowed me to use wool. I wondered if she liked wool, if she was eventually going to join the fashion and desaturate the watermelons that covered her shirt into something more earthy. I somehow know she wouldn’t, because the air is cold and dry, but there are tiny droplets of water condensed on her cup. Jane drinks what is left of her tea with a single sip and tucks her straw away into a tiny purse. She almost puts that away too , but, again, she changes her mind at the last second.

“I bought this cute set of cutlery, look.” Stainless steel, it reflected in a rainbow. A pair of chopsticks, a round spoon, a knife, and a fork. She kept on moving the case, to show the rainbow reflection. “You aren’t the biggest fan of colour, are you?” She asked and finally put them away. “I don’t want to be impolite with the shop owner, but I also want to keep on talking to you, so would you agree, Hanna from literature, to go to the park with me?”

A date. That wasn’t a discussion, that was a date, and she tricked me into coming and she is tricking me into staying and I speedily draw my boundaries and then I laugh.

“Yes, Jane from philosophy, take me to the park.”

I like the way she smiles when she pays the bill and I like the way she talks when we are walking and I like the way she lays back on the bench we were sitting on to feel the last rays of sun on her skin. I do not know who Hanna Adrendt is, and I don’t feel this is an issue anymore.

“I moved in when the semester started, actually.” She explained. “I luckily found a dorm with some friends that allowed me to move in. I am searching for a place just for me, though, even if it is a broom closet.”

“You like them?”

“Yes, of course I do. I wouldn’t have moved in if I didn’t, it's just that... I like to be alone at night, and they are just everywhere.”

“I understand. I want to be alone in the mornings too. The hall is a good place to be alone.”

I made her laugh, and only a second later I understood why I made her laugh.

“I hope I don’t bother you by going there then?”

I let my head fall; I smile at the ground; I turn my face away from her, and then toward her, and I feel myself smiling and I don’t know why.

“No. Not at all.”

The next day I arrive in the empty lecture hall earlier and I start my ritual. Open the curtains, open the windows, clean the board, put the chairs in place.

But then I go to my desk. It is not empty, there is a rose envelope over it, sealed with a cheap sticker.

‘You are right, Hanna from literature. This is a great place to be alone at. Not even the ghosts come here at 10pm. Kisses, Jane from philosophy.’

I put her letter away in the middle of Pride and Prejudice and start reading the Adrendt text she gave me. It is a well written text, and the flow of ideas captivates me. I find it interesting to read the notes she took as I go along, I notice the words she highlighted, the concepts she wrote a definition of, the passages she connected with fine lines. This is not just a text from Adrendt. 

Mornings are my safe space. The cool hues are still cool and the coffee on my thermos is still warm, but so are afternoons now, and if she asks me again, I think nights can be too.