Being Seen

The instructor dismissed us for a fifteen-minute break then confronted me in the hallway. She asked me what I was going to get. We were both examining a bank of vending machines. I said that I didn’t know.

She said, “Has anyone ever really looked at you – ever really seen you?”

Again, I said that I didn’t know.

She said, “I can feel you looking at me when I’m teaching.”

“I’m not,” I said.

“Yes, you are. I can feel it.”

“I never even do the assignments.”

“No,” she said. “You’re right, you don't.”

“What does it feel like?” I said.

“What does what feel like?”

“When I’m looking at you, what does it feel like?”

“It feels like you can really see me.”

I thought about this for a moment then put two dollars in the nearest machine and punched in the numbers for a pack of gum.

She said, “I probably spend a hundred dollars every year on gum.”

The students started filing back into the classroom then.

“I’ll try and do my work from now on,” I said.

“Yes. That would be nice.”

I asked her if she wanted a piece of gum.

“Thank you,” she said. She took one, then said, “When you’re looking at me, do you see anything?”

“No." I thought about it for moment and said, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“It’s O.K.,” she said. “You know, I should save this piece of gum. Chewing gum is not conducive to teaching.”

“No, you’re right, it’s not.”