"Professor,"
by Eric Scott
Professor,
I am writing this letter to apologize for my absence in the last class. You must believe that I truly wanted to be there; in fact, your class is often the highlight of my week. I know that I am a graduate student now and that I should not miss class. I know that the primary difference between graduate and undergraduate work is my own dedication, and that I must make every effort to be in class and be enthralled with my own course of study. And yet I was not in class, and for that I must apologize, but I will do my best to explain.
I did not make it to your class because I was involved in a car accident. Well, no, that is not correct, because I was not involved in a car accident; I was very close to being involved in a car accident. And I suppose that it was not a car accident at all, either, because no cars were involved; it involved a boxy, white delivery truck and a woman.
I will do my best to describe the situation. The woman was running across the street (I believe the intersection was Troost and 67th, but I admit to not really remembering the cross street) and had just passed in front of the cab of this delivery truck, which was making a left turn onto Troost going to opposite way from me. She had passed the cab by inches, but not by enough of them. She was sideswiped by this truck and she fell down to the ground one foot from my front bumper, just as the light turned green.
I remember a sickening lurch in my stomach as by reflex I let my foot off the brake for just long enough to roll one inch forward before I managed to get my car into park; a man in the next lane over looked at me and did not yell that there was a woman lying on the ground in front of my car, but rather, he looked as though he was wondering whether I was truly blind enough to not realize what had just happened.
I jumped out of my car. I was wearing my suit, professor, for I had taught a class that morning for my graduate school fellowship, and I always wear a suit for that purpose- I say this to help you get a vision of what this scene must have looked like. I attempted to check on the woman, but others were there before me and had already checked on her; I attempted to call an ambulance, but another man had already called one. I stood there and I watched this woman who I did not know lying on the ground unable to move, and I watched the truck driver who hustled out to the scene. I watched, and I felt I could do nothing, for it had all been done already.
Professor, you must understand that I dearly wished I were in your class at that moment. I wished that I were discussing the properties of characters in fiction with you, rather than observing those qualities in the truck driver standing next to me, the only other white person on the scene, whose movements indicated to me that he was more concerned about the fact that he would probably get sued and lose his truck than he was worried about how much he had hurt the woman lying on the ground a foot from my car. I wished that we could be considering how to develop tension naturally within the context of a narrative rather than feeling that tension rise as we saw a police car approach with flashing lights. We could have been discussing how to incorporate surprises into stories, but instead I was explaining to the policeman that no, I was not the driver who had hit the woman lying on the ground a foot in front of my car. But I had no choice in the matter.
The ending to the incident was ambiguous, in keeping with modern fiction, for I was sent away after giving my statement, before the woman had even been loaded into the ambulance. There was no proper dnouement, no satisfactory conclusion, no affirmation of the power of the human spirit. It was merely an event, and the only lasting memory of it is how disturbed I am by the fact that I cannot help but look at it through the eyes of a critic. I keep looking for the meaning. I keep looking for the plot. And there was none. A woman was hit by a truck. That is all.
So I apologize, professor. As I said, I love your class dearly. But even though my clock said I still had ten minutes to get to campus before your class started, I could not help but feel I had had enough literary experience for one day.
Sincerely,
Your Student.
by Eric Scott
Professor,
I am writing this letter to apologize for my absence in the last class. You must believe that I truly wanted to be there; in fact, your class is often the highlight of my week. I know that I am a graduate student now and that I should not miss class. I know that the primary difference between graduate and undergraduate work is my own dedication, and that I must make every effort to be in class and be enthralled with my own course of study. And yet I was not in class, and for that I must apologize, but I will do my best to explain.
I did not make it to your class because I was involved in a car accident. Well, no, that is not correct, because I was not involved in a car accident; I was very close to being involved in a car accident. And I suppose that it was not a car accident at all, either, because no cars were involved; it involved a boxy, white delivery truck and a woman.
I will do my best to describe the situation. The woman was running across the street (I believe the intersection was Troost and 67th, but I admit to not really remembering the cross street) and had just passed in front of the cab of this delivery truck, which was making a left turn onto Troost going to opposite way from me. She had passed the cab by inches, but not by enough of them. She was sideswiped by this truck and she fell down to the ground one foot from my front bumper, just as the light turned green.
I remember a sickening lurch in my stomach as by reflex I let my foot off the brake for just long enough to roll one inch forward before I managed to get my car into park; a man in the next lane over looked at me and did not yell that there was a woman lying on the ground in front of my car, but rather, he looked as though he was wondering whether I was truly blind enough to not realize what had just happened.
I jumped out of my car. I was wearing my suit, professor, for I had taught a class that morning for my graduate school fellowship, and I always wear a suit for that purpose- I say this to help you get a vision of what this scene must have looked like. I attempted to check on the woman, but others were there before me and had already checked on her; I attempted to call an ambulance, but another man had already called one. I stood there and I watched this woman who I did not know lying on the ground unable to move, and I watched the truck driver who hustled out to the scene. I watched, and I felt I could do nothing, for it had all been done already.
Professor, you must understand that I dearly wished I were in your class at that moment. I wished that I were discussing the properties of characters in fiction with you, rather than observing those qualities in the truck driver standing next to me, the only other white person on the scene, whose movements indicated to me that he was more concerned about the fact that he would probably get sued and lose his truck than he was worried about how much he had hurt the woman lying on the ground a foot from my car. I wished that we could be considering how to develop tension naturally within the context of a narrative rather than feeling that tension rise as we saw a police car approach with flashing lights. We could have been discussing how to incorporate surprises into stories, but instead I was explaining to the policeman that no, I was not the driver who had hit the woman lying on the ground a foot in front of my car. But I had no choice in the matter.
The ending to the incident was ambiguous, in keeping with modern fiction, for I was sent away after giving my statement, before the woman had even been loaded into the ambulance. There was no proper dnouement, no satisfactory conclusion, no affirmation of the power of the human spirit. It was merely an event, and the only lasting memory of it is how disturbed I am by the fact that I cannot help but look at it through the eyes of a critic. I keep looking for the meaning. I keep looking for the plot. And there was none. A woman was hit by a truck. That is all.
So I apologize, professor. As I said, I love your class dearly. But even though my clock said I still had ten minutes to get to campus before your class started, I could not help but feel I had had enough literary experience for one day.
Sincerely,
Your Student.