Practical Applications

LITERATURE CLASS

(WITNESSED BY TIMOTHY) 

(THOUGH NOT A SURPRISE TO ANYONE)

"The problem with the signifier and the signified," Mr. Tanner said, pausing briefly to curve out the capital D on the chalkboard, "is that their attachment is continually subjective." He drew a book on the chalkboard, wrote BOOK next to it in immaculate, fluid handwriting, and gestured to the one in his hands. "This word," he said, pointing to it, "is our signifier. We agree that it means what, Timothy?"

Timothy jumped. He had been taking notes.

"Well," he said, "...a book."

"Correct. But what do you think a book is?" Mr. Tanner asked, stepping forward to the wide, paper-covered desk. There was generally an apple or two there. Today there was just one, but Timothy had already seen four at a time.

"...something with words in it?"

Technically, Timothy was not a bad student. He was not even an average student. He was a very good student, when he was not in this particular situation. But it had taken a while to get used to Mr. Tanner, more specifically having both his and Ocean's class.

"That's fine," Mr. Tanner said now. Timothy attempted to reconnect his soul with his body. "As long as you have a concept. But that concept is separate from the word book, and furthermore, from what is actually on my desk. And then, of course we have our associations-- Alexander?"

"Yes, Mr. Tanner?" You could tell Alexander was a Tanner student. He had the glasses, the collared shirt, the six 'suggested reading' books on his desk beside the three required texts.

"When I say 'book', what qualities do you think of?"

"Intelligence. Literacy. Talent." Alexander searched for a moment. "Usefulness."

"Exactly. Now, I might agree with those, but I also might add my own. But we can all agree that this," he said, tapping the cover of the book, "is not inherently any of those things. And this word--" he pointed to BOOK on the board-- "is not at all a natural synonym to them, either. We are working with our own projec-- is there something you want?" he asked, turning towards the door.

"Hello, Mr. Tanner."

It was Ocean.

At Clairmouth, one was either a Tanner student or an Ocean student. The decision would be made shortly before the administration began sorting students into classes, and generally one's parents would send off an email something to the effect of 'please place my child into ___'s class', or occasionally, 'please do not place my child into ___'s class'. Some people were lucky enough to avoid Tanner or Ocean entirely, but for the most part, people had their allegiances. If you didn't want Ocean, you ended up in a different art class. If you didn't want Tanner, you ended up in a different literature class.

Timothy had not gotten the memo.

He had waited patiently for his classes, and, come fall, he had received the small blue sheet with the list of blocks and teachers, and neither MR. EMILIO TANNER nor OCEAN had seemed particularly interesting to him, beyond the fact that one of his teachers apparently had only one name. Somehow, someone had put him in both classes.

And now he was going to have to deal with it.

"Indoctrinating the youth?" Ocean asked, looking in. They got a series of diligent frowns from the actual Tanner students.

"If it will help them to become functioning adults, by all means," Mr. Tanner said, writing LITERARY CANON on the board. "Now--"

"A functioning adult," Ocean interrupted, "would be one who has a healthy balance of modern art and incredibly dusty encyclopedias in their lives. You can't spend all day poring over whatever-this-is--"

"One of the finest authors of our lifetimes--"

"--whatever-this-is and then tell me you're being fulfilled. I mean, come on!" Ocean lifted the book, then put it back down. "Go outside! Climb a tree! Mess up your hair!"

"No," Mr. Tanner said.

"God, I hope these children have an awakening and switch classes," Ocean said. It was actually something that happened, but generally carried a great deal of shame from the class one betrayed. "Otherwise, they'll never-- Timothy?"

Timothy blinked.

"Yes, that's my student," Mr. Tanner said. "And speaking of things which are mine; this classroom. This class. Yours are down the hall. Leave my students alone."

"That's my student," Ocean protested. "He's in my class. Block seven; he's making a marvelous bust of his mother out of felt right now."

Mr. Tanner looked at Timothy. Timothy shrank.

"Timothy," Mr. Tanner said, "is a remarkable student who has an understanding of subtext most experienced critics would give their eyeteeth for."

"Timothy," Ocean responded, "is a visionary."

Mr. Tanner pointed towards the door.

"Out."

Ocean rolled their eyes, took the apple off Mr. Tanner's desk, and left. Stella, seated somewhere in the back of the class, gasped.

"Mr. Tanner, they took--"

"I know," Mr. Tanner said, putting his book down. He took a seat at his desk and crossed his arms. "Timothy, is this true?"

"Yes," Timothy said. He had to repeat himself twice to get to a normal volume.

"You are in both of our classes."

Timothy managed to get slightly more volume this time, but not by much.

Mr. Tanner sighed and stood, picking up his chalk again.

"I have one request," he said. "We ask for one thing, and they can't do it. I would highly suggest, Timothy, that you drop Ocean's class before they fill your head with their nonsense. To page seventy-five, everyone, and put down the camera, Catherine."