And so like a surge of emotion, or better yet like a dam that gave way to a strong undercurrent, my tears flow down my cheeks against my will.

My teacher stands there unnerved.

“That’s why I’ve been calling your house phone, cell phone, e-mail or any means of communication, because it’s kinda hard to do homework on something we’ve barely gone over in class,” I manage to say between choked sobs.

“But, still. I expect you to participate in class. You know that counts 30% toward your final grade. It seems that every time we’re reading a passage or watching a film, I have to call your name to make sure you’re following with us. Everyone volunteers their answers except you Madeline,” Mrs. Bronson said.

And whose fault is that? I’m trying to finish the last of the ton of homework you gave the week before. That’s because I have a job, 3 other classes and barely have enough time. That’s because I can’t decipher this Greek, you call yourself teaching us. That’s because ----

I stopped discussing matters with my conscience for a millisecond to study her blank facial expression. Her big gray pupils blinked repeatedly. She gaped at me as if I just flew in from Taiwan and only spoke Taiwanese.

Mrs. Bronson, a blond Czechoslovakian slim jim, looks 33 about 3 desks away. But when you walk up to her, she gets older by the second. She looked every bit of 55 close-up with lines and contours outlining her face and nose.

She broke away from her gaze and started stuffing paperwork and folders in her briefcase as if my hardship didn’t concern her.

But, it did concern her.

She only scribbles a few sentences that resemble long life lines with the same green marker from the beginning of the spring semester. Once bold and evergreen, the marker has contrasted to the color of lime in brightness.

I hate when professors make it seem like I’m the only one struggling. The fact is, students just don’t come together to protest against inefficient, unprepared, uninteresting, unavailable, nonchalant professors. They rather come with a friend. When a single person has visited a teacher more than three times during their office hours, does that not show determination, willingness, and hunger to improve? That doesn’t mean I have an abnormality. Stop directing me to disability services.

Students, who nod their heads in unison, appearing to know, are just as confused as I am. They’re so ready to leave that they hit the vending machines, log into Facebook, Myspace, text friends, converse on cell phones about nothing or jump in their cars to head home.

Then, there are those who work afternoon and evening shifts. Not.

I remember asking this heavyset white man who usually sits up front, if he had any idea how to do the four Geography questions on pg 47.

“Did you understand the questions in the book?”

“Naw,” he said laughing. “I just did ‘em to look like I was doing something.”

The only difference between students like him and I is that he’s somehow able to maintain A’s and B’s.

Mrs. Bronson barely knows the English language when she annunciates. Someone actually has to finish her sentences for her or fill in the blank after she starts talking. And yet, through it all, she is ever incredulous to receiving the truth. She will obliviously deny that she serves as the REASON behind my poor test grades, my steep essay grades, my homework percentages, my uh, D+.

“Madeline, have you tried tutorial services?”

What kind of a question is that? Of course.

“Yes,” I sniffed. “But the tutorial services are only open 4 days a week from 1-6. Their schedule is very inflexible, they change location and you may not get the same tutor every time you go in.”

“I tried it, disliked it and I just, I mean, I just, you know….”, I fumbled.

I hated crying and being devoid of articulation at the same time.

“It wasn’t worth it,” I finally said, frustrated.

She zipped up her brief case, put on her yellow raincoat, picked up her umbrella and told me that she will “get with me” later on in the day.

I took my books in my arm and followed her out of the classroom as she cut off the lights before locking the door.

We walked down the maze of a hall, chatted a few minutes more until we departed.

The rain poured outside. My black shirt and jean skirt stuck to me like paste as did my stockings and flats.

I jogged to the parking garage to where my car was parked and blindly drove to Starbucks in the next town. My windshield wipers moved from left to right uniformly, mockingly, as if to say “Should’ve used Rain-X dear.”

I briefly glanced at the clock. It was 11:07 a.m.

Who knew that Friday, February 20, could exacerbate in the hours to come?