Once upon a time I locked my keys in my car outside the library at school. After extensive searching under my car looking like a loser, I concluded that my hide a key is no longer attached to the underside of my car and could be in any number of places spanning about three thousand miles. So I called the campus cops and sheepishly asked them to come break into my car for me, cause you can't do that with a credit card, and that's the only break-in I am any good at. Sigh...
While I was waiting for the cops to come save me, I called my twin Amy. I miss her and I needed someone to give me permission to drop the horrid grammar class. And I sat outside the library talking with her for a good long while about all manner of things; cabbages, kings, our parents, bratty teenagers, school, and eventually the George Orwell piece I had read for my persuasive writing class called Shooting an Elephant. I highly recommend anything written by George Orwell at least once*, and in this case a re-read would probably be in order. I was sharing with Amy the intense satisfaction I get from this class, which is taught by my second favorite professor who I love. He is hilarious and paces around the front of the classroom with growing intensity proportionate with the intensity of the literature we are currently analyzing. I love this man. And I took this class specifically so that I could take it from him and not some grad school hippie who doesn't care, which was a wise choice because this, this is just like the Lit History class that changed my life, but applied to writing. And it is brilliant. And even at seven thirty, it gives me an adrenaline rush that reminds me why I want to teach English! Dr. King! The Rhetorical Triangle! Characters symbolizing the conflict between Imperialism and the native oppressed! yesyesyesyesyesyesyes!**
Long Story short, Shooting an Elephant is the most damning evidence to Imperialism I've ever read, including everything I ever read in 19th Century British Lit. And it is brilliant and beautiful and gory and graphic in all the most effective ways, and now I sound like my crazy coffee-chugging floor pacing, cussing professor, who, after reading a specifically revealing passage, yelled "Excellent!" and then mutter under his breath as he paced away, "Syria...".
That's okay with me. I like him.
And I really like Amy, who is a really good egg, and a really good twin.*** And she plays along when I get all hyped up on English and says extremely quotebook worthy things. It was a good day.
* AKA nobody ever needs to read 1984 twice. As Crawford said, "And just when your soul starts to weep, it gets worse..."
**I miss Brighton. And the yesyesyes dance. That is all.
***Guys. Did you know I have a roommate named Amy? I am also one of five Amys in my ward. We're taking over the place.