On Being Seen

I got a tattoo yesterday. At 3:15 PM, I pulled down the shades of my classroom windows, kicked out the three musicians who had been jamming there while I corrected papers, and went to get a tattoo. At the time, this didn't seem inconsistent or even extraordinary. This was no drunken, midnight dare. Though I had been planning this for some time, the actual spark was in an escalating conversation with my brother over Sunday pizza. It went something like this.

Noah: Man, I want a tattoo.

Me: Me too. We should do that.

Noah: Seriously. We should. Tomorrow.

Me: Seriously, I'll do it. But not tomorrow.

Noah: Why not?

Me: I'm busy tomorrow. I have a chiropractor appointment, then I have to go grocery shopping.

Noah: Lame.

Me: Thursday?

Noah: Mm... yeah. OK. Let's do it.

Me: OK.

Noah: I'm making the appointment. I'm calling them. Tomorrow.

Me: Fine! Call them.

Noah: Fine, I will!

And there it was. On Thursday afternoon, we went down to a spotless tattoo parlor in a less spotless neighborhood, showed the glum artist our printed-out designs, and submitted to what felt like the cruel proddings of a ball-point pen for about five minutes each. We were each getting punctuation marks affixed to our skin, for reasons best known to ourselves, the two English literature students and denizens of order and reason. In under an hour, we were back to the car, ready for dinner with our parents. All of this was rather mundane, and except for the exorbitant cost we might have just gone out for Jamba Juice and sketched drawings with Sharpies while we waited for the smoothies.

This morning, I am sitting next to the overhead projector while my students write. I just finished reading "I Sit and Look Out," Walt Whitman's grim portrait of suffering, which seems very appropriate at the end of this naturally disastrous week. I have asked them to begin a free-write with his words. On the screen:

Complete the following sentence:

"I sit and look out at..."

If you run out of ideas, simply start again with the same words. "I sit and look out at..."

Free-write for ten minutes. Your utensil should not leave your paper!

I am pleased with them, my students, writing peacefully their perspectives on the world, for better or worse, while the morning outside begins to get sunny. Their writing is fluid and concentrated, and I marvel at how much better able they are to concentrate now than they were earlier in the year. I glance down at thoughtful, insightful observations about the world, and delight in how seriously they are taking this Friday reflection.

(Later, when the sun really comes out, all of the "looking out" would be literal, and I will have to wade through piles of "I sit and look out at the sun and I wish I was out their instead of in hear riting this. the world is mosly boring because there's nothing to do, EVER, expecially in school..." Spring does bad things to the mind.)

After ten minutes, I drag their attention back to the front of the room and sit back down by the overhead projector.

"Please put down your pencils, ladies and gentlemen. Very nice writing there. I'm impressed, Period Two. Excellent, spectacular free-writing time." They nod their appreciation.

There are two boys in the front row, whose desks are about two feet from where I sit. They are in the front for a reason. I notice mildly that they haven't written a great deal, certainly not ten minutes' worth of solid writing, but I don't comment. One of them raises his hand, and the other quickly follows.

"I'm going to give you a chance to share in a minute, guys. Just wait a second."

"No, no! I have a question!" he insists.

"Um, OK. What's your question?"

"Why do you have a comma on your foot?"

I stare at him for a few seconds, unsure how to answer, my delusions of my students' competence crashing around me. I suddenly understand why he accomplished nothing in the ten minutes of writing time. He has been gazing at my left foot. Still, I was impressed that he at least saw it was a comma. Not everyone knows what a comma was, and only someone who knows me well could have guessed that I would tattoo punctuation onto myself. I could have explained that I liked commas, that they were an expression of rest, rhythm, order, and balance. I could tell them the story, but I am vaguely ruffled. I take another tack.

"Um, why are you staring at my feet?"

"I wasn't. But is that a tattoo, or something?"

"Yes it is. OK, now back to the free-write."

My weak redirection is hopeless. Everyone is involved in this conversation, and I hear questions from all over the room.

"Wait, is that a TATTOO?"

"Are you sure it's a comma? It looks like a little 6, or something."

"What... you have a tattoo, Ms. D? Why?"

"Did that hurt?"

It's like being bombarded by water balloons. The questions break around me, none answered, and I wait paralyzed for the maelstrom to cease. The last question is the only one I am able to field.

"Ms. D, how old were you when you got that?" asks a front-row boy.

I have to smile at this one. "Let's see. Twenty-three."

"And how old are you now?"

"Twenty-three."

"So, you just got it this year."

"Yesterday."

His jaw drops. He shakes his head like a soaking dog, trying to brush away the blurriness of this new development.

"Yesterday? No, you didn't. Do you swear--on your LIFE--that it was yesterday?"

I look at him seriously, putting the full weight of solemnity behind this absurd statement: "I swear, on my life, that I have had a comma tattooed onto my foot for less than twenty-four hours."

I am surprised and rather pleased that they noticed at all, actually, especially as it sometimes takes me weeks to noticed a haircut or a new set of braces. It is tempting to feel invisible as a teacher, to be hurt by the times I am ignored and overlooked, treated more like the side-table you always trip over than a person with ideas, feelings, or intelligence. I laughingly consider how well we know the people we see daily, even those we never make an effort to notice, how soon they recognized even the most mundane of alterations.

The chatter begins again, as the class winds down and I let them put away their journals and backpacks. I hear the hum of interest, and gather that I have gained a notch of credibility by my scheduled, well-thought-out trip to University Avenue. "Did you hear her? On her life, you know?" It was Teacher Appreciation week this week, and though I received no cards or flowers--and more than my fair share of arguments--I suddenly feel appreciated, visible once again to those sharp and wandering ninth-grade eyes.