By Praniti Gulyani
When you see them for the first time, you will not notice them.
As you enter the lecture hall on your first day of class, they will pass by you like a gust of unnoticed autumn breeze. Like the other students, they will sit relatively close to you—possibly a seat or so apart. They are dressed in ordinary attire and have an open notebook with a ready pen in their hands.
If you smile at them, they will talk to you and ask you about your day. They will observe you with eager eyes, and tailor the conversation according to the emotions that your face depicts.
If you look tired, they’ll talk to you about their experiences, and speak in encouraging tones about how all your effort will undoubtedly be worth it in the end. They are sitting close enough to you to be a student, but feel far enough to be someone wiser and more experienced.
As you process the subtlety of this outwardly minor contrast, and grapple with the unusual closeness of the distance between you and them, you realize that you still do not know who they are.
When the lecture begins, you begin to see the protruding similarities between them and yourself.
To begin with, you notice that they’re taking fervent and detailed notes just the way you are. As the professor revises what she covered in the previous class, you see their eyes light up with the soft sunshine of familiarity—identical to the gentle flames of remembrance in your irises.
When the conversation requires a quick referencing of the text, you see them in a similar academic frenzy—alternating between book and computer.
Just like you, they note down some phrases and miss the rest. They have the humanness of a college student carefully sewn into their personality, and seem to have retained the essential waywardness of youth with great care. It is almost as though they are afraid of losing it.
When the discussion floor is opened for questions, you witness an almost unexpected solidifying of the distinctions between them and yourself. Instead of putting forth inquiries of their own, you see them looking around the class, as they pass encouraging smiles at reluctant students who bear silhouettes of half-formed doubts on their lips.
While this surprises you, you do not think much of it—and instead shove this depiction of benevolence under the encompassing umbrella of “graduating senior kindness”’ that seems to be ongoing ever since you first met them. The warmth of their silent encouragement reaches you and almost instinctively—you raise your hand.
Even though you did not realize it all this while, you have something substantial to say.
As the professor turns to a new topic, which is in this case “persona poems,” and goes on to talk about the subsequent homework assignment, you see them lean forward with eyes of what you would label as refined intrigue.
You have not heard of persona poems before, and the newness of the genre worries you. Subsequently, inch-long tendrils of worry begin to appear around your otherwise excited eyes. Being the strong-willed person you are, you scrunch your eyes tightly and attempt to urge them away.
It is the first day of class, and you do not want to be regarded as a person who does not know what the professor is talking about. Judging by the confident glow on the faces of the students around you—you are certain that you are the only one who is a novice to the genre.
As your eyebrows crinkle into a frown that is a byproduct of academic inferiority, and an encompassing emotion of feeling behind, you extend your forefinger and consciously straighten your brows into their usual line of nonchalance.
You have often been called out for having an unusually expressive face. Try as you might, you cannot shove your emotions behind a thin-lipped grimace that most people execute with impeccable finesse.
As you bite at your unanswered question, wrap your tongue around it, and attempt to push it into the back of your mouth, almost as though it was a day-old breadcrumb, you hear them speak.
“I think the simplest hack to writing an effective persona poem is looking upon the process as wearing a costume. When you wear the costume, you need to become one with it. You need to really take on the voice that the costume brings with it,” they advise.
Almost instantly, you realize that your unuttered question has been urged out of the clandestine pit between your teeth. In addition to being answered, it has been trimmed off any lingering after-doubts that might occur.
All of a sudden, you feel the warmth of a persona poem form in the crevices of your mind. You want to write from the perspective of an overlooked wound, and even though this desire might be looked upon as unusually ambitious, you find yourself feeling unusually prepared. For once, you know exactly what to do.
Grappling with this newfound surge of confidence, you find yourself associating sound with sight—something that you have never done before. You think about dewdrops, and their ever-increasing enthusiasm towards blades of grass.
Even though dewdrops know what to expect when it comes to their blades of grass, they continue to glimmer around them like little pearls with rainbows pressed into their moist chests.
The familiar glow of frequently lived experience does not hinder them from approaching the grass with fresh eyes. It paves way for almost familial affection, and only strengthens the relationship between the dewdrops and their grass.
As the lecture comes to an end, the professor begins to talk about course logistics. She lists the days and time slots for her office hours on the board. Thereafter, she pauses—and turns to look at them with twinkling eyes
Almost expectantly, they rise and walk towards the forefront of the class.
Like a theatrical director introducing the lead actor of their play, the professor looks at them with a well-measured combination of pride and regard. Taken aback by this confluence of otherwise complimentary emotions you lean forward in your chair—almost as though you are witnessing the climax of an action film.
The only difference is that instead of goosebump-inducing anticipation, you are brimming with an abundance of unchanneled gratitude that flows within you like a river devoid of direction. As the homework assignment smiles at you, and invites you to come at it with possibility, instead of a need to conquer—you are filled with the relatively simplistic desire to thank.
However, in this case, while you know how to thank, you do not know whom to thank.
Should you call them a student, a friend, or a silent mentor? Or maybe, a kind stranger?
“Finally, I would like to introduce your Graduate Student Instructor for this semester.” announces the Professor.
And, as you absorb the assurance and direction that comes with the acquiring of a formal title—something that you thought you needed, you realize that you will always look upon them as individuals who make the classroom more accessible by re-visiting, re-understanding, and, most importantly, by re-learning.
Note of Acknowledgement: The suggestions described in this column piece, pertaining to the craft of the “persona poem” are given by my reader, Jaco Beneduci—as a part of English 114 with Professor Melanie Abrams. While this piece is directly inspired by my interactions with them, it is also a collective tribute to all my GSIs/Reader(s) that I’ve had during my time as a student at UC Berkeley, with an emphasis on the indelible impact that they continue to have on me and my learning.
