Recurring Nightmares

The first year of teaching, the nightmare was the worst, and I woke with a heart-thumping, cold-sweat start. The dreams have continued at the start of each new semester, but now they no longer end my sleep. We're used to each other by now.

On the night before classes start, the dream goes like this. I'm wandering through Antonian Hall on Carlow University's campus (the location never changes even though I've taught other places). It's an evening class, and I enter in a panic from the street level, bolting up four cement steps, turning right down a long hall of classrooms. Darkened hallways make me wonder if I've gotten the date wrong. The doors are heavy wood with small deeply-colored stained-glass inserts that muddle my view inside.

I know that I'm late. What I don't know is what classroom I'm scheduled into--and so I begin a frantic check of each classroom. How long will the students wait? The rooms in Antonian Hall are quite large--partially separated by an acordion-pleated room divider, and as I open the door, the room at first looks empty. No class here. Then, I hear what might be a voice, and I peer into the back corner of the room. There is someone here! I enter, and I see a gathering of people I have long loved. Some have been dead for years. All have been lost to me, people I may never have the opportunity to see again. My brother is seated in one of the old desk chairs, smiling--with his pipe clenched between his upturned lips, waving me in.

Caught between two worlds, I hold up my finger---stay, just a minute. Wait for me, I plead, and I run down the hall to find my class. All the time I am thinking, how could I leave him? But my responsibilities call me forward, and I tear from classroom to classroom finding no one. When I realize that the students must have grown tired of waiting, I run back to the first classroom, which is, of course, empty.

What might we have said to each other, my brother and I? How fine would it have been to lay my head once again on my father's warm shoulder? As much as I would play Daniel Webster to see them again, the dream never changes. I hold up my finger--stay just a minute. Wait for me.

I'm sure my nightmare is born only of presemester apprehension. New faces line the rows bringing with them challenges and expectations. Can I win them over? Will I be able to lead them to love what I love? Will I be enough?

I wonder if tonight my mother will be sitting in the classroom waiting for me.