The View From The Front of The Class

The classroom wasn’t what she expected from university. An entire lifetime spent wondering what the inside of a college classroom would look like, only for it to be underwhelming at best. The chairs were uncomfortable, the room was barely full, and she didn’t particularly care for her classmates. That wasn’t an issue, though; she didn’t need friends, and didn’t want to find any among her peers in this room.

B wasn’t sure what a college writing course was supposed to look like, or feel like, but it surely couldn’t be this. The boy behind her had bragged about using ChatGPT for his personal writing, one of the girls had brought her dog to class once, and the only other Black girl in class kept to herself. B did the same, really. As soon as the clock struck 3 o'clock, she would gather her things, stuff them into her bag, and go to the library. She had no interest in socializing or making friends here.

It was a rare day that her professor didn't cancel class. Usually, she would receive an email with a maximum of two sentences saying something along the lines of, "Class is canceled. Read the assigned text. Do the work." and B could almost see the ghost of the "lmao" her professor probably wanted to put at the end. Given this track record, she kept refreshing her Canvas inbox as she rode the elevator up to her classroom. The class was in the business building, and she had yet to meet another English major. B wore a long black dress that day, with black boots and her favorite backpack. Her braids were halfway covered by a bandana, which wasn't a stylistic choice—but she knew no one at her PWI would know that.

She texted her mom about ordering more braiding hair on Amazon, then went back to refreshing her inbox, only looking up from her phone periodically. The classroom was empty, so she went in and sat at her usual seat in the front. She chose the front for her on-campus classes that semester, mainly because she had been late to both classes on the first day, and those were the only available seats. Although the seats weren't assigned, there was an unspoken agreement that everyone sat in the same place each class. No one really disrespected that agreement. But B also loved sitting in the front so the professor could see her, know that she was paying attention, and make sure she didn't miss those participation points.

As she scrolled on her phone, more of her classmates flooded into the room. "Did you get an email from him?" a boy asked. She didn't know his name and he didn't offer it.

"No," she said, "I keep checking."

He smiled and put his backpack down. "Yeah, I keep checking too. I'm surprised he's going through with it this time."

B opened her mouth to say something, but another girl came into the classroom looking sweaty and winded, "Did he cancel?" she asked.

B shook her head, as did the boy. The girl sat down; she also didn't introduce herself, and neither did B. It was clear to her that the girl and the boy knew one another, maybe from this class, maybe from around campus. They were friendly and didn't seem to have any interest in small talk, which was fine with her. She put her headphones back on, ignoring the room when another person came in and asked the same question. It was almost 3 o'clock, almost time for the class to start, and she prepared herself to pack up and leave. She had already planned what she would do with the extra time on campus.

I can go to Chick-fil-A, get a sandwich and a milkshake. Maybe I'll call mom, see what she's up to. Or, I can go to the library and finish the essay that's due on Friday.

But as the clock struck 3, the professor came in. His smile was easy, and he gave a knowing look to the half-filled classroom. "You thought you were going to leave, huh? I've got you for an hour and a half," he said.

He walked to the front of the class, putting his bag down on the floor. The professor had a habit of looking around the classroom with a small smile on his face. It wasn't one that displayed a particular joy or happiness, but one that was almost assessing, as though he was looking deep into each of his students, figuring out the inner workings of their minds with just a look. He seemed to have them all figured out.

"Oh, before we get started, are there any protestors here?" He asked, looking almost excited at the prospect.

B had heard about the protests that happened on campus over the weekend. She was a commuter student who lived 30 minutes away with no car, and didn't feel comfortable asking her parents for Lyft money just so she could attend a protest. Still, it made her heart soar to know that her peers were standing up for what was right. The governor had declared his intention to ban Black fraternities and sororities from all public universities, the kind of university that B attended.

The class was silent after the professor asked the question, which was normal. B felt bad for the professor, as it was usually like pulling teeth to get engagement from his class. A voice rang out from behind B, smug and almost disgusted. "Protests for what?" He asked.

B didn't turn around; her heart began to race, but she kept her eyes forward, watching the professor instead. He gave that knowing smile once again, one that told B he knew exactly the kind of person her peer was, "Haven't you heard the news? About what the governor-"

"Yeah, but this is a red state? Right? I mean, that's why I came here."

B's heart didn't race anymore; it didn't feel like that. It was more like it was pounding against her ribcage; her leg began to bounce under her desk. Her professor chuckled, leaning against his desk, "A red state, yes, but a blue area. You didn't notice?"

The boy didn't respond.

Her professor rolled up his sleeves, looking around the class. "Okay, I want to know your opinions. I want you to tell me how you feel and why. Does anyone want to tell me if they think the bill is fair?" he asked, his tone friendly and inviting. He sounded as though you could tell him anything, that he wouldn't shame or punish you for your thoughts. And that was exactly why her classmates began to divulge their thoughts to him.

"I just think it's unfair. I mean, there's a fraternity that I can't join just because I'm white? How is that not racist?"

"I agree. I mean, I get why they needed it back then, but things are different now. They can join white frats and sororities, and all schools. They don't need their own space."

"It will only cause more division; we don't need that. I think we should all be together. What's the point of not being segregated if they're gonna just isolate themselves?"

"I just don't think that belongs anywhere on campus, really. We should just have regular sororities and frats."

One by one, her classmates revealed themselves. It was as if they were taking turns removing their masks. And B hated feeling that way; she scolded herself for the dramatics, but she couldn't help it.

There were so many thoughts that were swarming around B's head. So many feelings and emotions. Her heart wasn't racing or pounding; it was almost like she couldn't feel it at all. It wasn't just anger at what they were saying; it was frustration, too. She knew that if she said anything, if she spoke with the fiery passion that she possessed, the one that she brought to every debate and everything she did in life, she would lose—not because she would be wrong, but because she would be the angry Black girl. She would be the bitter one, the one making everything about race, the one who was just trying to make white people feel bad about themselves. She could see it now, hear it in her peers' voices as they spoke.

Her professor looked at her, calling her by name as he asked for her opinion. It was something that he hadn't done to anyone else in the class, putting them on the spot. But maybe he saw what she was going through. Maybe he saw the torment, the anger, the hurt. Maybe he knew that she needed to speak, and that they needed to hear her.

She didn't turn around, didn't address her classmates who were saying those things that boiled her blood. They weren't the ones who asked her a question; it was her professor, so she looked at him while she spoke.

"Well, these spaces were all we had. And just because Black people are legally allowed to share a space, a community, a university, with white people, doesn't mean that we feel welcome here. It doesn't mean that anything is done to make us feel comfortable or feel like we belong. My grandparents were the last segregated class in their school. During their time, I wouldn't have even been allowed to sit in this classroom," she took a deep breath, keeping her voice steady, "Aside from the cultural importance to these institutions, these brotherhoods and sisterhoods, they're often the only places that we can just be. That we can be comfortable and accepted."

Her professor nodded, giving her a smile. He continued on with his lesson, then ended the conversation with her words. No one else added anything or spoke about the topic. She tried to brush it off, tell herself that it was no big deal, but she couldn't shake the overwhelming emotions that threatened to drown her. She kept her head forward; the view from the front of the class was limited, but safe. She didn't need to look at her peers, didn't have to allow them to see how they'd made her feel.

When class was over, she packed up her things as usual. She could still feel the tightness in her chest, a tremble in her muscles, but she wouldn't break until she got out of there.

As she packed up, her professor looked at her. "Hey," he called.

She looked up at him, curiously. He nodded at her, "Thank you for giving your thoughts. I know it wasn't easy."

B smiled at him then, and gave him a nod, not trusting her voice. Not trusting that she wouldn't just start sobbing if she spoke about what she'd just been through. She liked her professor, but her mother had always told her that university was a professional environment. If she wouldn't cry to her boss, she wouldn't cry to her professor. So she left it at the smile and the nod, hoping to convey what she felt in that moment.

Thank you for talking about it.

Thank you for giving me the last word.

Thank you for checking on me.

She didn't cry in the elevator, and she didn't cry as she walked out into the rush of students leaving the business building. But as she took the long and mostly deserted way to the library to work on the essay before her next class, she texted her mom. She texted her best friend, and she let a few tears slip out.

It wasn't so much about what they'd said. It wasn't the fact that they held the opinions that they did or the fact that they didn't get it. It was about the audacity. It was about these twenty-somethings feeling entitled to tear down things that are older than their own parents, let alone them, just because it made them uncomfortable. These things that have provided so much culture, community, and opportunity for people that they couldn't care less about. It was about their inauthentic call for unity, when they couldn't even try to understand Black people and Black culture.

Most of all, it was about being othered. B felt a wall being placed between not just her and her classmates, but her and her entire school. And that's what hurt the most.

She took a deep breath and stopped at the vending machine before going to the library. Her dad sent her money for a Starbucks drink with the memo, "I hope you feel better, I'm sorry." She smiled and changed course, making her way to Starbucks instead. On her way, B looked at the Black Student Union group chat to see when the next event would be.

Her professor taught Black History focused lessons after that day, despite the college writing class having nothing to do with Black History at all. Every week, she showed up on time, worked in her peer groups, and never let the emotions she felt that day show.

Every week, B sat in the same seat, with the same view from the front of the class, learning more about herself and the world around her than she thought possible.

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