if I only had a brain
My feet dance down the stairs, and pull me into the subway car, where I spend the next half an hour, switching once to get to school.
At school I spend hours in a computer lab doing research on why seaweed is good for you. I find myself loving feature writing, learning to find articles, and the magical world of the library. I spend another hour with my head in nutrition books, until it's time to head to another class.
I'm not scholarly. And although I'm not stupid, I'm not brilliant either. I have poor concentration and find it hard to sit down. I find it hard to grasp anything involving terminology, numbers or heavy facts.
When I sit through my Philosophy of Rights and Justice class I feel as if my teacher is speaking German. It should be easy to understand human rights and duties, but it's all muddled in my mind, and the essay due in days seems like a hurdle I can't quite jump.
Part of me enjoys the challenge. I like to feel my brain in knots, working to untangle itself. And part of me wonders why the hell I'm here.
I'm a student. Yes, a student. I may not be wearing a backpack or drinking beer, but most people around me are. I'm a student with chapters and chapters to read, pages and pages to write, and an overwhelmed mind.
Today I stood up infront of my English class, and did a presentation on Sharon Old's poetry. I talked about sex, rape, and the menstrual cycle. I'll give any place credit that lets me talk about such things.
At the end of the day, when I shove myself back into the subway with the rest of Toronto, I feel good about myself. Even if I didn't grasp everything, I went to class, took down notes, listened and made a contribution.
Every day I learn to push my mind a little more. I learn to speak up and use my voice.
That's why I'm here.