Theatre 280

I have a problem with authority. I don’t have any. This fact is painfully in evidence each and every time I attempt to teach my Theatre 280 class here at Cornell. The minute I walk into the room I am bombarded by sixteen Ivey League minds in heavy negotiation mode. Sometimes in interest groups, sometimes individually, but everything is always on the table: what they want to do today, when they want to take the quiz, how long the upcoming paper should be, should there be a paper, if we have to do our monologues, so do you! They love me (that’s what I tell myself) but they trample me.

Occasionally in the middle of class I find myself longing to miter a corner, or apply a thin bead of caulk to something, anything. The dialogue between me and an inanimate object is a peaceful give and take in comparison to the harangue of sixteen sharp-minded over-privileged youths. I don’t have the skills to stand my ground. “Yes, that does sound like a good idea, having the rest of class at College Town Bagels, chit-chatting” or “Your right. Writing clear, well constructed sentences is over-rated, even…what you said, obsolete!”

What am I talking about! They overwhelm me and I begin agreeing with anything in order to make it stop. I know the CIA has condoned these tactics but to find it on a campus! Anyway, quite by accident I stumbled upon a sure fire way to silence the cacophony and gain their attention in an instant. Allow a tooth to fall from your mouth. No, seriously. If you happen to have crowns or posts or veneers or bridges or any other construction in you face, arrange to have it loose one class and then, while trying to make a point, just let it slip into your lap.

Instantly, the class was galvanized. Like magic, I had the undivided attention of sixteen Cornellians. I plan to use this tactic sparingly but it’s nice to know it’s there, in my arsenel.

Class was dismissed. Tooth was re-cemented. True story.