It was exciting to scamper over to the student who had raised his hand with a question about Rita Dove's "Adolescence-III." Maybe the question would be about the bowl of tears or about the fragility of the tomatoes ripening. I would get to be a teacher. I would have a student. Or, did this mean that it was my right to now strip him bare and humiliate him as happened to a famous poet one island over in a famous incident now forever? buried? in culture shock.
What's for lunch was the question. It had seemed so urgent. I thought I had been on the cusp of a teachable moment, suddenly, with all my skin.
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