The Cold Stare of the Disinterested

by

Andi Miller

There is nothing in the world more chilling than the disinterested stares of twenty-five new students. As a college English instructor, it’s my experience that the first day of class  is more daunting for me than it is for the students I eventually discover were shaking in their boots in that first class meeting.  Perhaps I’m cut from the cloth of the paranoid, but as they sit and gawk at me, heads half-cocked, fiddling with the edges of their books, I always imagine they’re planning my demise. Generally, I think they’re probably ruminating on sleep, their impending lunch break, or would rather be hiding under the desks. I suppose the imagined pressure helps me put on my first-day dog and pony show with just a little more flash and pep.

In January I began teaching the first literature class I can truly call my own. My years of graduate school teaching involved guest lecturing in classes that were not mine on subjects I devoted that period of my life to fully and with which I felt extremely comfortable. It was the work, not the students, that took center stage. Other times I might assist a favorite professor for a semester, leaning on her practiced grace when I needed to. However, this semester is truly my inauguration into the task of teaching literature in higher education. So far, it’s been quite a ride.

When I began planning the course I spent a good deal of time thumbing through the textbook trying to decide which stories, poetry, or drama out of which I could milk the most meaning. Which offering would yield the most symbolism? The most affecting theme? The shadiest foreshadowing? As one might imagine, after a day or two, I wanted to shave my head, don my running shoes, and head for the hills. Finally, I alighted on a truth universally known but often forgotten—even by me—that a teacher has to make a course her own if it’s really going to fly with the students.

With my own tastes and enthusiasms in mind, I finally chose stories that meant the most to me in my youth. Stories that stuck to my soul for their uniqueness and vigor; first among them, “A Rose for Emily,” by William Faulkner. As is par for the course, “A Rose for Emily” captured my 14-year-old heart for its delicious Southern setting, the gothic tone of the tale, and its macabre twist. I won’t reveal more, for it seems there are still readerly people who haven’t laid eyes on it, and for that I am truly saddened. Take heed and go read it, now! It’s available online—free to lusty bookworms far and wide. It might change your life, but it will definitely make you say, “eewww.”

The day of our class discussion of Faulkner’s nugget dawned rainy and drear, but that’s the perfect climate for reading Faulkner’s ghoulish tale. My first question was the easiest of all, “What’d you think?”

With great relief they pored out their praise for the story and I breathed a relieved—if guarded—sigh. After all, even though they loved it, I didn’t know if they would truly be willing to wallow around in the details of Faulkner’s story to discover how he created the magic. Thanks to their being enamored of the story’s twist, they were indeed willing to analyze it in greater depth than I originally anticipated. For it is the details in Faulkner’s brilliant short story that keep me rapt upon every re-reading, and I desperately wanted to discuss them with my students.

The latest reading brought to me a greater realization and appreciation for the depth of symbolism in the story. Faulkner’s juxtaposition of the Old South with the New South was lovely and wonderfully written, and frankly, one of my students’ favorite parts.

I hate to admit, in my graduate school days, I was not always the most conscientious of students. While I made good grades, participated in all facets of the academic lifestyle, and wrote my heart out, I found when I began to teach that I didn’t fully appreciate texts until I read them with my students in mind.

Quite simply, I am in love with my subject area. Literature is what keeps me going when I’m exhausted, worn down, and overworked. My students, though I complain about them with some regularity, have a similar effect on me. When I read a text with an eye toward instruction, I notice things that I might’ve skimmed over in several prior readings. I’d completely forgotten that Homer Barron, Emily Grierson’s odd suitor, was rumored to be gay. That his gloves were yellow, and Emily was a bitter, haggard personage. However, upon re-reading and with my enthusiasm for teaching in mind, these details came fully to life and took on more meaning and intrigue than ever before.

Funny, after two college degrees, revolving careers, and some mild writing success, sometimes I feel as if my education is just beginning. The cold stare of the seemingly disinterested makes me work harder than I’ve ever worked before. They make me a better reader, too.


Andi is a recovering university academic employed by the North Carolina community college system as an English instructor. While she decided to forego a Ph.D. and career as a professor, she fills in all the free time her current position affords her with editing literary publications, reviewing, freelancing, and blogging. Her work can be found in the journal, Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States (MELUS), and Altar Magazine as well as online in various venues such as PopMatters.com. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC), and writes fiction. Her turn-ons include new books and gelato, while her turn-offs are reality television and washing dishes. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it