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EVERY YEAR, WITHOUTfail, there's always that one class that you know you're going to remember for the rest of your life.
Freshman year, there was Literature Around the World, which featured eight critically acclaimed novels filled with obscure metaphors for socialism and increasingly depressing monologues given by characters with increasingly unpronounceable names.
Then, last year, there was my American history class, which I thought would be a yearlong testament to democracy, modernization, and the joys of fried food, but instead ended up being an inventory of all the people white men have ever victimized, which, as it turns out, is everyone.
Compared to freshman year lit and sophomore year history, the first six classes on my schedule are remarkably uneventful. European History quickly devolves into a never-ending list of petty wars fought by men with large egos and even larger budgets.
My decision to take normal biology is validated when Ms. Weller announces that the school only purchased enough fetal pigs for the AP class to dissect, leaving the rest of us, presumably, to spend yet another year learning that the mitochondria is indeed the powerhouse of the cell.
Calculus immediately reveals itself to be a joke when Mr. Russel throws his teaching degree to the wind and instead begins bribing the class by throwing candy at the people who raise their hands.
In fact, going into last period, the only thing standing between me and a complete list of mediocre classes is Philosophy, Room B208 with Dr. Harrison.
Harrison is one of those middle-aged guys that look completely ordinary. He's of average height and average weight, with black hair that's graying at the temples and glasses that look about two sizes too big for his face.
Everyone who has taken his class says that it's unforgettable, and it's almost impossible to fulfill the graduation requirements without taking either his freshman/sophomore history class or his junior/senior philosophy elective. So here I am ready to be enlightened.
The first thing Harrison does when he walks into the classroom is pick up a piece of chalk and scribble, in long, sweeping strokes:
What is PHILOSOPHY?
He underlines philosophy twice, as if the caps weren't enough, and then turns to face the class expectantly.
"What is philosophy?" He asks us, then glances around the classroom.
He must find something amusing about our blank expressions, because he smiles, spins around and asks again, this time facing the chalkboard: "What ... is ... philosophy?"
