The Grass is God's Handkerchief

I love books.  I've always loved books.  In elementary school I didn't have any friends so I turned to the only things I could think of on school property that didn't get a choice if I was there or not- books.  Some I would read once, others I would read over and over again.  Like familiar faces my books became my friends.  From this crazy idea was born the convoluted idea that maybe I should study books in college.  After all, I was the only kid on campus to read all the books in the library by the fourth grade.  I was wrong.

My freshman year of college was a learning experience based loosely on my core classes.  As my Mother likes to tell people, I learned a lot that year, but very little of it was in the classroom.  The next year I became a serious student and really hunkered down to my major classes.  Half of my classes were Literature, and three of them were with my favorite professor, Dr. Rommel.  Standing over six foot most of the students on campus had a healthy fear of her.  She normally wore long dresses and tall heels and spoke using such terminology as "who is your audience?" "look at it through the eyes of the author", and my favorite, "dig deeper."  A few students called her "General Rommel", a joke I didn't quite understand a the time.

Some time over that year I realized that no matter how much I studied and how hard I worked, Literature was just not coming to me as easily as it should have.  What was even more crazy was that for as hard as my Literature classes were there was inverse relationship that all my History classes were a breeze.  Instead of taking a hint I decided to double major.  During my last semester of Sophomore year I took an American Literature class.  It was one of my smaller classes and I was the youngest student taking the class and the only sophomore.  I was the only one who ever did the reading, I was always the first one in the classroom and I was the only one who sat in the front row.  There were no men in the class and Dr. Rommel ruled that class like she did everything- an undying passion for teaching her students.  I was one of the few people who liked her.  She jokingly addressed me as "the history major" whenever she had a history question.  I rarely knew the answer but I enjoyed the class and I enjoyed trying.  I doubt I remember much of that course as a whole except for one class-  Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.  I didn't actually remember who wrote it or what it was called and I probably would have forgotten about it entirely except for one line.

The grass is God's handkerchief.

One might think that the way Dr. Rommel repeated his words and that specific line that our lives depended upon the outcome of this knowledge.  She paced back and forth, questioning us, prodding us, trying to get us to voice our thoughts.  Like usual, everyone behind me shielded their eyes and pretended not to notice as they studiously wrote notes.  I snickered.

Immediately Dr. Rommel rotated back to my part of the classroom.  "Well, what do you have to say?"
If I had any lick of sense I might have shied away, or try to become very small in my seat.  I didn't.  With her gaze she implored me to share my thoughts concerning Walt Whitman as tried hard to stop laughing.  Everyone behind me gave me warning looks, all the while questioning if I had gone nuts.
Remember, the line was "the grass is God's handkerchief."

Finally I managed to smother my laughter enough to voice, "Well at least now we know why it's green."  Every set of eyes on the classroom looked at me in shock.  No one understood.  So I had to explain.  No one laughed.  Except for me.  I'd like to say that I had enough self confidence to defend my position, to challenge their questioning gazes, to answer their stares.  Finally I had gotten the message and sunk down in my chair.  And I might have stayed there except for Dr. Rommel who stood up and announced, "Now she has a perfectly arguable position," as she continued on with class.  I considered her words.  She was right though, as usual.

After class I went to see her.  I was very confused and who better than my adviser to help me sort them out.  I told her that I never had a problem speaking up in History class.  I could argue against the most outspoken boys in school about the most ridiculous of subjects.  I could play devil's advocate to my heart's content.  I could do research and my research made a difference in class.  I never had to question my understanding of history.  With Literature I was usually lost in space.  I still remember what she said.  Just because I wasn't as good at Literature didn't mean that I was bad at it- just that I was better at History, and maybe I should pursue it completely.  The next day I declared my history major and worked stuck with it till I graduated.  I changed that semester.