But on the day we were covering this part of the book, when I got to this passage and began to read, the class immediately turned hushed and rapt. I hadn't prepped them for the significance of this part of the story to the work as a whole, but they must have sensed it. I looked up briefly from my reading. As I stood reading, my students were all gazing steadily and seriously at me. Even the chronic note passers. Then as I looked down to continue reading, something unexpected happened, something that had never happened while I was teaching: I felt my eyes begin to water, and I heard the slightest waver in my voice. I had worked hard thus far in my still-young academic career to establish and maintain a reputation for toughness, the sort that will attract the best students, repel the others, and make those that do take the plunge excel beyond their (and hopefully my) expectations. Crying in class is not the sort of thing that aids this endeavor. Nor is it my style. So I focused hard, concentrated on my vocal delivery rather than on the meaning of the words, and willed my eyes to draw the moisture back in as I continued to read. When I finished and looked up from the page at the preternaturally quiet students, I was stunned to see several students sitting in their seats look up at me with tears streaming down their faces.
Karen Swallow Prior, Chapter 4: "The Magic of Story:
Great Expectations,"
Booked: LIterature in the Soul of Me
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