My office hours were scheduled for the hour before class. None of my students ever came to see me, not once, and so I always sat in my cubicle alone. It was an evening class, and the building was almost empty at that hour, but next door to me was another cubicle occupied by a more popular and successful teacher. I would sit alone in the nearly empty building and listen to everything he said to the steady stream of his own students.
I tell myself: There are just four of these hours each week. The four hours come one at a time, two on Tuesday and then two more on Thursday - just four small hours out of the whole week. But each casts a very long, very dark shadow on the day before, even on the two days before, and that shadow is especially dark the morning of each day of classes, and then darkest of all during those terrible ten or twenty minutes before the class, which include the last, almost unbearable minute of walking out the door of my office.
I also tell myself that many people in the world have awful jobs, and that compared to those jobs, this is a good job.
omg so sad
from The Letter to the Foundation which is one of my faves in this collection