Chapter 32
Venus
“I want to start over with a new approach,” I say to my class of two.
Myla Rose looks skeptical, but she sits up, tapping her nails on her open laptop.
My other loyal student, Jayden Jones, leans forward with a hopeful grin.
Over the last week of classes, he has steadily moved from the back row to the seat right behind, but one space over from Myla, who sits in the same spot every day.
He says something under his breath to her now, and she chuckles.
I clear my throat, nerves rising and stomach twisting into a knot, as I remember Henry’s advice to teach as I like to learn, to be authentic, to forge connections. My bracelets jingle as I mess with them.
“I’m not a very good teacher.” My mouth goes dry with the words. I slurp my water bottle while the duo eye me with skepticism, like they’re unsure how to respond.
Ins and Outs.
“The fact that I don’t like classrooms is one serious detriment,” I say.
Their smirking faces encourage me to continue.
“For me, being in a classroom again resembles that annoying, needling sensation when a limb falls asleep from lack of circulation, and it hurts until the blood flows normally again.”
They gape with raised brows, indicating I may have gone too far.
“So, for me to achieve proper circulation,” I explain, “and you, a proper education, I need to teach as I like to learn and bring the outside in.”
I leave the podium and approach the whiteboard, marker at the ready. At approximately five feet high and twenty feet wide, this is a much larger canvas than I’m used to. But I take another deep breath and calculate the necessary adjustments.
I start on the left side with a map of the Eastern Seaboard and draw in the features and relevant locations of our coastal plain. Midway through drawing in the details of inland swamps, I turn to my stunned, yet attentive students.
“Music would be appreciated,” I say, “if either of you—”
“On it,” Jayden says, swiping on his phone.
The room fills with an upbeat instrumental that makes me smile, and my markers move faster.
I outline the endemic plants of each region, creating basic representations that highlight their features.
The rare plants in North Carolina compose a thirty-page list, so I narrow the focus to endangered and threatened species by region, starting with those in the mountains.
I’m no longer in a classroom, but engaged in an activity that has calmed and inspired me a million times.
I don’t imagine Henry’s here, but I recall him looking over my shoulder at my latest entry and whispering encouragement in my ear.
“That’s so real, Venus! What’s that part do?
What’s this thing? How does it work?” And the tension of a classroom and students dissipates into normalcy. This is what I do. I draw.
Holding the marker empowers me to speak as I create, like a talking stick.
I provide brief explanations for clarity.
I even share that my father is allergic to most milkweeds, and incessant sneezing inhibits his ability to study them—a personal anecdote that I find amusing, even if no one else does.
I run out of space as I attempt to move east, and turning to my aghast students, I’m out of breath. Jayden quiets his music.
“It’s a little rudimentary,” I say.
“That’s rudimentary?” Myla blurts.
Jayden laughs. “Dr. Blake, you’re like a tattooed Bob Ross with your happy, little trees.”
“Is that a compliment?”
They share a confused glance. “Um, yeah.”
“Then, thank you.” My phone alarm sounds, signaling the end of class. “Wow, we’re done already. I hope you learned something today.”
“I had no idea that North Carolina was so diverse,” Myla says, pausing instead of jumping out of her seat as usual. “I recorded this to watch later. Is that okay?”
“Yes, of course. Please email with any questions about today’s lesson,” I say, reaching for the eraser.
“Here’s a question,” Myla says, “can you do that again tomorrow?”
My tension dissipates in a sigh. “Certainly. Have a nice day.”
They exit the room, and I lean against the podium, practicing my Ins and Outs. I did it. I taught a class (albeit small) without boring them to death, and they learned something.
I’m elated, and a little pained. Forced to ignore the headache forming at my temples, I ogle my creation before erasing it. The result is vibrant and intricate, full of life, which is precisely what this classroom needed.
Board clean and lights off, now, I get to see Henry.