My eyes open half an inch above my notebook. Snapping upright, I grip the arms of my chair, inhaling violently through my nose. I squint in a subtle effort to steady my eyelids; in certain circles, this facial expression passes for nonchalance. Shifting my squint toward the preceptor, I ease back into my chair and paw at my textbook. What? I was readjusting my seat to get a closer look at the passage where Thorvald avenges Freydis' death by pillaging Bjarni of Erikssdottir's sheep farm.
I stare at a point across the room, funneling all my willpower toward my eyelids. Stay. Open. They undulate woozily, see-sawing: As one drags itself open, the other falls shut, twitching faintly. Forcing the world into focus, I notice the morose youth sitting opposite me — checking his e-mail on his laptop — has floated into my field of vision. My pupils drift into eye contact with his. Without warning, one of my eyelids drops closed and the other shudders heavily, falling in tow.
E-mail Boy frowns, pursing his lips incredulously. No, I try to insinuate with my eyebrows, that wasn't a wink. But as I lean toward him my eyeballs revolt, volleying from side to side beneath my sinking lids; against my will, I am implying extreme sarcasm and/or possible dementia. E-mail Boy slumps lower behind his laptop.
I struggle to regain control of my face, or at least to look away. As I manage to quell my shaking eyeballs, however, I realize I've neglected my mouth, which has begun to drift open. I clamp it shut so abruptly that a small snorting noise escapes. Spent by my efforts, I blink.
As I open my eyes, my face is plummeting toward the lap of a girl to my right. Panicked, I veer to the far side of her shoulder, grazing her jacket ever so slightly with my nose. She jolts out of my path, letting out a small squeak. I ignore her, staring intently ahead of me, jaw clenched in a posture of concentration. What? I was leaning over to take something out of my backpack. My hands fumble blindly below my seat, questing for a pencil. After a third sweep under the chair, I realize: my bag is sitting two feet behind me. I freeze, unsure what to do next. I could extend the radius of my fake pencil search to the posterior of my seat, but that would require lifting myself; my quads tremble at the thought. I start to blink ... NO. Nono.
Popping back up, I throw another cockeyed glance around the table, hoping that my slack facial muscles are mistaken for ironic skepticism. Gently, my head begins to weave a figure eight closer and closer to the table; E-mail Boy watches me uncertainly as I lose control of my eyelids again.
This needs to stop. Get your life in gear. Do something active to keep yourself awake ... doodle. Drawing engages various areas of the cortex: movement coordination, space perception. Yeah. I prop my arm against the table with a sigh, dragging my pen in the slow arc of a smiley face. So. Hard. I blink.
After several minutes, I pause to survey my handiwork. The page is scattered with two-petaled flowers and ghoulish half-grins that drop off sharply, meandering off the page entirely. Lifting my pen with grim determination, I embark on another daisy. I blink.
As my eyes snap back open, I catch my pen slashing a clean 45 degrees through the flower. That's it. Motor-sensory stimulation is insufficient. Time for drastic measures. My arm, seemingly on its own, wafts upward.
I sense a pause in the preceptor's trumpet-like rumble. Everyone looks at me, waiting for me to speak.
I give them a curt nod and clear my throat, consulting my notes; a forest of half-finished stick figures stares back at me. My heart is pounding so hard that I can see my hands jiggle with each arterial pulse. Mission accomplished. I am most definitely awake.
Taking a deep breath, I begin with the only sentence written in my notebook. "Well, as you were saying earlier, Norse social strictures are defined by the common literary trope of violence as the ultimate retributive force, but I really think ... "
Becca Foresman is a sophomore from San Diego, Calif. She can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.
Read More
Why can’t lecturers win the President’s Award for Distinguished Teaching?
Jerry ZhuLet’s acknowledge those who make “boutique teaching” possible, those who work tirelessly to make our rigorous curricula more accessible, and those who dedicate their time to advising and guiding us through all the challenges we face at this University. Lecturers should be eligible for the President’s Award for Distinguished Teaching.
Let’s acknowledge those who make “boutique teaching” possible, those who work tirelessly to make our rigorous curricula more accessible, and those who dedicate their time to advising and guiding us through all the challenges we face at this University. Lecturers should be eligible for the President’s Award for Distinguished Teaching.
Princeton’s administration of justice is Trumpian
Frances BroganThe disparity between the University’s approach to Giberson and its approach to pro-Palestinian protestors reflects a concerning trend of appeasing an increasingly emboldened right rather than resisting the threat it poses to academic freedom and the wellbeing of Princeton students.
Secular Opening Exercises? Don’t throw out the baby with the bath water
Frank StrasburgerThe secular makes no room for the spiritual. What Opening Exercises are meant to convey is the spirit of the institution so that it may be kept alive from generation to generation.
The secular makes no room for the spiritual. What Opening Exercises are meant to convey is the spirit of the institution so that it may be kept alive from generation to generation.
