“Why don’t you just come to class?”
The question hangs in the air like a rain cloud; in other words, it’s about to ruin my day. The simple answer is, “I can’t.” The full answer is much more complicated and much more nuanced — but I never give it.
I find myself at a professor’s desk at least once a semester, either by my own volition or at the request of the professor. The professor has good reason to ask — I haven’t made it to class once all term.
Each time this happens, I can feel the stress all day as I wait for his or her office hours. I always make sure to wear a dark-coloured shirt, because I know it will be sweat through at the armpits by the time that the question is asked.
The answer is that I am not physically or mentally capable sometimes. It is not something I can express any better than that. The answer is that because I have missed so many weeks I am positive that something will be said when I finally do come, so I don’t attend. Sometimes, that is the answer. The answer is that I was so stressed about the coming day’s class that I couldn’t sleep, and was too exhausted to attend. Sometimes, that is the answer. The answer is that I have been feeling so tired this week that I’ve been going to bed at seven in the evening and waking up at noon, so I slept through class. Sometimes, that is the answer. The answer is that I haven’t got the week’s homework done, and the fear of embarrassment at being asked for my input in a small class is too great to allow me to walk up the flight of stairs to the classroom. Sometimes, that is the answer.
The answer is I spent all day embarrassed about something that I said to someone three summers ago, and couldn’t leave the house for fear of seeing her — even though she lives in another city. Sometimes, that is the answer. The answer is that I failed out of a competitive program at Carleton, and I am so afraid of failing again that I spent the class time rereading the material. Sometimes, that is the answer. The answer is that I spent a year back home, living with my parents, and trying to put my life back together and now I’m in a first-year class — I’m embarrassed because I’m 23. Sometimes, that is the answer.
The answer is never that I’ve been partying too hard; I have fewer friends in this city than I have fingers. The answer is never that I had friends visiting from my hometown. Most of my old friends stopped talking to me when word spread around my small town that I was crazy. The answer is never that I don’t think attendance is important. I know that my marks would be so much better if I could make it to class. The answer is never that I’m hungover; I can’t drink with the medication I’m taking. The answer is never that I’m not taking school seriously. I value this second chance at a degree more than you could ever know. The answer is never that I don’t appreciate the opportunity. I know that I would be homeless on the streets of Ottawa if it were not for the love of my family.
The answer is that I’m working at the limits of my ability, and sometimes my abilities aren’t up to the challenge. I am registered with Accessibility Services, and they have been integral to keeping me in school. If you see me and talk to me on a good day I am affable, polite, kind, and well-mannered. On a bad day, things are not nearly as easy as that.
I’m not asking for free marks. I’m not asking to be given handouts. I’m just asking for you to think that there may be an answer to why I’m not in class that is more complex than that I just don’t care.
Michael Iannozzi is a third-year linguistics student.
