Page 13 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
I paused outside my classroom door. My moods tended to be like the weather. Ever changing. Unpredictable. I did my best not to take it into the room with me, but after another sleepless night, I worried my best wouldn’t do today.
The students were whispering with one another, texting under their desks, popping gum, some even sleeping. In the midst of all this, Phoenix sat front and center, straight-backed, and ready to learn. I fought off a smile as he, once again, reignited the fire I’d once felt for teaching.
I dropped my bag onto my desk with more intensity than required, but it got the job done. Within a handful of seconds, the class came to order and were able to contain their dismay when I informed them of the pop quiz slated for the end of class.
“‘The unexamined life is not worth living,’” I quoted, then waited and watched the wheels turn in everyone’s head. Everyone except Phoenix. He tucked his hands under his thighs to keep from raising them. “Ms. Baxter. Can you tell me who uttered those words?”
“Socrates,” she said, and Phoenix mouthed it at the same time.
“And what prompted this? What idea does it pertain to?” I asked, and she flushed.
“Anyone?” I scanned the room for someone else to call on. A pencil went up in the back of the class. “Mr. Lattimore.”
“It was part of his exhortation on caring for the soul.” He struggled to pull more from his memory. “I’ve got nothing else.” He threw his hands up and the class laughed. Phoenix raised his hand.
“Mr. Michaelson.” I leaned back against my desk, crossing my feet at the ankles. “Can you explain what Socrates intended by asking us to examine our lives? To care for our souls?”
He cleared his throat. “‘Once we know ourselves, we may learn how to care for ourselves, but otherwise we never shall.’” His voice rose an octave. I was sure his certitude could be heard from the hall. “It asked the question of how we should live. Most don’t contemplate this and instead live their lives based on cultural value and societal norms. Socrates believed the examination of this question was important. A form of self-care that’s often overlooked. We can’t care for ourselves until we face ourselves. It’s one of the hardest things to do.”
“Why?”
Like a phoenix rising from its ashes, he grew stronger, bolder. “It would require attaining self-knowledge. Looking inward to ascertain our true nature. How many of us can stomach that? It’s much easier to take our cues from the flock.”
I shrugged, playing Devil’s advocate. “Seems simple enough. Why don’t more of us do it?”
“Because…” He dropped his eyes to his desk, thinking the question through. When he raised them, they no longer contained the fierce fire from before, but the fright of someone having looked inward. Even for just a moment. “Because we’re afraid. Afraid that even our examined life isn’t worth living.”
The rest of the students fell away. It was only the two of us in that room, understanding and sharing in the same fear.
Snapping out of our trance, and ignoring the stab of his pointed words, I addressed the room. “What is your true self?” No one answered. “Or perhaps the easier question is, what isnotyour true self?”
“Your...car?” Ms. Kumar replied, then slunk in her seat when the snickering began from the back.
I held a hand up. “There are no wrong answers in this class. Ms. Kumar doesn’t believe that material items are a part of her true self. I agree.”
“The bad things people say about you?” someone answered.
I nodded, feeling the fire build.
“The bad things we say about ourselves!”
They were blooming right in front of me. “Excellent. What else?”
“Being who my parents want me to be is not my true self,” Ms. Kumar added with a hard nod, feeling better about that answer.
Everyone got a turn, and the energy in the room was electric. “So what’s left? After we have stripped away who we are not, what have we left behind? Where did Socrates believe that our true selves could be found?” After taking in all the stumped, perplexed faces, I stopped in front of Phoenix’s desk.
“Our souls,” he said. The effort it took to tear my gaze away from him left me rattled.
“Notebooks away and pencils out,” I said as I rounded my desk for the stack of quizzes.
I berated myself as the class fell into silence, eyes to paper. This was not a class of one, yet I’d continuously had to make a conscious effort to equally distribute my attention during that lesson. Alarm circulated through my body at how easy it would’ve been to dismiss everyone and continue my discussion with Mr. Michaelson. The alarm was more like a feeling not a sound. Like a warning.Like an omen.
The thought pelted me out of my seat. “My apologies,” I whispered when the scrape of my chair legs reverberated around the quiet room.
I erased the board, packed up my bag, and checked the time. Anything to keep busy. To keep my mind off the developing situation.
The bell rang, and I instructed the students to place their tests face-down on my desk as they exited the room. Mr. Michaelson hung back.
