I knew I was in trouble as soon as I walked into the classroom, late on the first day, and saw only two other students and the professor.
It was 1985, my junior year, and the spring of my self-importance. The sound of the Mississippi River lapping at her banks across the bridge from campus enchanted me more readily than stuffy classrooms and the stuffed shirts lecturing in them, so I often arrived late to class, if I arrived at all. These companions, smirking at me from their front row seats, were thinking the same: this will be the longest quarter ever. We three were the ones who appeared for class at random, sat in the back row, muttered wisecracks under our breath, and experienced the occasional ire of a fed-up professor.
I’m at Tweetspeak Poetry today telling the story of my deep love of Spanish despite dismal academic performance. And how the work of Pablo Neruda could have made all the difference back then. Swing on over and read the rest.