Today I sat in my night class on 17th century British Poetry. There was nothing pretty about it. The Bulls were playing the Heat and I was missing it. My brain was fried after turning in a paper for the very same class. There was crawfish waiting at my house. I sat there, lamenting the death of my blacked out computer (I sware I wasn’t watching the game on mute.)
Then, during break, a woman starting telling a fellow mother the woah’s of her daughter’s being able to read, and having to read absolutely every word she saw out loud. She bemoaned the laughters allergy to milk and milk substitute. She laughed over how if her new baby didn’t cry at night, she’d get up anyway to make sure the little girl was still breathing.
This happens all the time in class. The nontraditional students talk amongst one another, each trying to best the other’s story about what their angelic offspring has done. Most of these stories I tune out, because I really don’t care if your 6’2, 200 lb eighth grader won his District football game.
And then I saw him. A quiet man somewhere in his early thirties, two rows over. He sat in his desk, body slightly turned in their direction, with a faint smile on his face and his head barely nodding in consent with the woman’s stories.
This man, usually so stoic and so subdued, could not resist the expression the thought of his children brought him. And there it was, something beautiful, right there in night class. The strong, quiet love of a father.