Chapter 118

The classroom buzzed softly with chatter as students filled the rows, the scratch of pens and shuffle of laptops settling into a rhythm. Abigail sat near the middle, her notebook open, a fresh page waiting. Her guitar rested against the desk beside her bag, and she rolled her pen between her fingers, steadying herself after the long morning.

The door closed with a quiet thud, and Professor Evelyn Cross walked in. Tall and composed, with dark curls pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, she carried herself with a kind of quiet authority. Today she wore a slate blazer over a pale blouse, her expression thoughtful as she set her books on the desk.

“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice warm but precise. The room stilled almost immediately. “Today we’re going to start with a question: What does literature owe us?“

She wrote the words on the board in looping script and turned back to the room, her gaze sweeping over the students. “Some say truth. Some say escape. Others say nothing at all—it owes us nothing. What do you think?”

Hands went up hesitantly.

“It should teach us something,” a student near the window said.

“It should make us feel less alone,” another added.

Professor Cross nodded, her eyes bright. “Yes. Baldwin once said, ‘You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.’ Literature connects us to the human condition. That’s where its power lies.”

She shifted to the stack of books on her desk, lifting the top one. “For this semester, we’ll read Baldwin, Morrison, Angelou—voices that refuse to be silent, voices that still echo in classrooms like this one.”

Abigail scribbled the names quickly, her pen pausing when Cross continued.

“Your task isn’t just to read these works. It’s to ask better questions. What are these writers trying to show us about identity, resilience, love, loss? If you leave this class with answers, good. But if you leave with stronger questions, even better.”

The room fell into a hush, the weight of her words settling over them. Abigail found herself nodding, the thought of “questions over answers” resonating more than she expected.

Professor Cross let the silence linger for a moment before breaking it. “So—who here has read Baldwin before?”

A few hands rose. Abigail’s didn’t. Cross’s eyes swept over the class, landing on her briefly, before moving on.

“Good,” Cross said. “That means most of you will be meeting him for the first time. And sometimes, that first encounter stays with you.”

Another student spoke up, her voice uncertain. “But… what if I don’t get it? Like, what if it feels too heavy?”

Cross’s mouth curved in a small smile. “Then sit with the heaviness. Let it challenge you. Literature isn’t here to comfort you—it’s here to move you. Sometimes comfort comes later. Sometimes not at all. But either way, you’ll be changed.”

Her gaze flicked back to Abigail, holding for just a breath before she shifted her attention to the board again.

Abigail wrote quickly in her notebook, her pen pressing hard enough to leave dents in the page: Literature doesn’t give answers. It makes you feel. It makes you ask.

Professor Cross glanced at the clock, then back at the class. “Alright. That’s enough for today. Before you go, I want to set the tone for the semester with a simple assignment.”

She picked up one of the books from her desk, holding it up so the cover faced the room. “Your homework is to read the opening chapter of Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain. Don’t just skim it. Sit with it. I want you to pay attention to what grabs you—what line stops you, what image lingers. Write a one-page reflection. Not analysis. Reflection. Tell me what you felt.”

She placed the book back on the desk, her tone steady but inviting. “This isn’t about being right or wrong. It’s about starting a conversation—with Baldwin, with me, with yourselves.”

Chairs shifted as students began closing laptops and stuffing notebooks into bags. The scrape of zippers and the shuffle of papers filled the room.

“Remember,” Cross added as her voice carried over the noise, “questions are more important than answers. I expect you all to bring at least one question to class on Monday.”

Abigail closed her notebook carefully, sliding it into her bag. She felt a strange kind of buzz—like the assignment wasn’t just homework, but something personal, something that might stay with her.

As the class emptied, she slung her guitar case over her shoulder and walked toward the door, her mind already replaying the words: Not analysis. Reflection.

It felt almost like an invitation—not just to study literature, but to use it as a mirror.

Abigail stepped into the bright hallway, the rest of her day stretching out before her, grounded in the thought that maybe this class would challenge her in ways she hadn’t expected.