Armed with a highlighter and an agenda that I will never use, I strolled into class last Thursday with ease. Not late, but not early either, I took my seat in an unobtrusive middle row, expecting the typical introductory spiel I've been getting since kindergarten.
Then something occurred that shook me to my core and rattled my bones. We started learning.
Yes, of course we went over the syllabus, and my professor described the course we'd be taking for the semester. But then, after my professor destroyed any hope of me getting an A in Political Analysis, he began to talk about assignments. He began to outline a proposal for an assignment due quite soon. He assigned reading due NEXT CLASS.
Next class, we'd be in full swing. We'd be deep in the throes of reading and writing and other means of “political analysis” and there'd be nothing I could do to halt it.
At one point in my life—a naive point—I dismissed syllabus week as a waste of time. Instead of diving into the course material, we'd spend up to two weeks on awkward class ice-breakers, going over a ridiculous attendance policy that I probably would not adhere to. I didn't appreciate the fact that syllabus week operated as the buffer to my inevitable suffering. It slowly eased me into my classes. And, after nearly three and a half months of blissful, ignorant summer, reintegrating into a life of scheduled education was a system shock.
However, slowly, I began to see that syllabus week became shorter and shorter. By my sophomore year of high school, syllabus week began to live up to its name sake, and would last only five days. By senior year, it shortened to a “generous” three days of getting acclimated. But now, since freshman FOCUS week is dead, my sophomore year of college has laid to rest a sacred tradition.
Sure, a few of my classes had a few forced ice-breakers and awkward conversational exchanges, but each class closed with a promise of work. Each class ended with a the promise of impending doom. Either that, or a reflection due next Tuesday.
Syllabus week is over and done, dead and gone—and I hardly had a chance to enjoy it.
