Migrant

The room is dark, a shaft of white light falling over mounds of little blue books cluttering the dining room table. Except for his scratching pen, and occasional moans over the hiss of the baby monitor, the room is silent. His head pounds; nothing makes it go away, except sleep maybe. Evan smiles at the thought of sleep, tossing Student 87 onto the small pile of corrected finals and pulling Student 114 from the mass of exams left. There is no end to this, no reprieve, no respite. He flips open the cover page and sips coffee, wincing at its coldness. No rest for the worthless, except for the occasional coffee break.

Wandering into the kitchen, he doesn't bother turning on the light. Darkness is good for the eyes, better for the brain. This isn't going well. Why couldn't these people just get it? The final was such a simple question, straight forward, well defined, multi-layered: 'Compare and contrast the theme of alienation in Tolstoy's "Death of Ivan Illyich" and Kafka's "The Metamorphosis." How do the main characters anticipate their impending dooms? How are Tolstoy's and Kafka's attitudes towards death representative of their respective ages?' No great feats of thinking required. No great leaps of critical assertion, or (Heaven forbid) thoughtful interpretation. All they had to do was regurgitate class discussion, apply the texts.

The microwave pings, lifting Evan's mind. Coffee steaming, he glances at the glowing time: 2:14. AM. Less than ten hours until grades are due. He drifts back to the pile, ruffles some pages, sighing as he descends on Student 23. Is this all his fault?

"I watched this really cool TV show last year called 'Alien Nation' that I think pretty much sums up how both the arthurs feel about death. It was about these aliens that came to earth because their space ship had engine troubles..." Evan sighs deeply, shifting to correction auto-pilot. Where did the last five weeks go? Five different classes; three different colleges. Faces faces faces. "The aliens burn up in salt water and they get high on stuff that tastes like dish soap!" He reads quickly to the conclusion. "So it just goes to show you, everyone is an alien to someone, whether it's real aliens or Frank Kafka, who turned into a giant bug, or Tolstoy who got tied up in a black bag."

He takes out his red pen and scribbles tiredly on the bottom. "You didn't even mention the texts? It's great you can remember a TV show you watched last year, but what about the story you read last week? What about Samsa and Ivan's alienated relationships with their families? What about their fearful, myopic views of society? Their frustrated feelings about the meaning of their work? What do these authors view as the meaning of life, the significance of suffering, the hope or desperation of facing death? Turn off your television and read a book, you may learn something." He frowns at his tone. Too nasty? Nah, it's just late. On the inside front cover of the exam booklet he writes "D+." Thanks 23, for even showing up at all. On the master sheet he finds 23, jots down the grade, then tosses the booklet aside. Seventy-six to go.

Without thinking, Evan takes another booklet from the pile and flips it open. If he's lucky, he should be able to get another twenty exams done before she wakes up for her three o'clock feeding. Student 108, female; nice handwriting. It is a relief, since most of the females in the class at least made the effort to read the stories.

"I don't really know anything about any war that you say happened like a hundred years ago since that was such a long time ago and how can that even really matter today anyway, so I don't have any opinion on what these writers think about this supposed war or death or anything sick like that, but I do know how I feel about war in general, it's bad..." War? Nice introduction. Big sentence. She's confessed so much with so few words. He reads on for fun, listening to her ranting, young voice, defending her ignorance with righteous indignation. "War sucks... War kills people... We should all be nicer to each other... War is the main reason there's so much alienation in the world." She concludes with a line from Nirvana. "All alone is all we are!"

Evan re-writes 23's comments, same grade. On to Student 27. One week off, on to Summer Session II. One week off to sleep. One week off to read whatever he wants. To sleep. Sleep.

He floats through the exams, one part of his mind correcting, analyzing, another wandering through the familiar thoughts of exhaustion. Ten years of college leads here, the MA, the AM, Higher Education leads here: four summer session classes at $900 each - $3600. Two summer sessions - $7200. No benefits. No security. Good money. Long regular semesters pay only $1500 per. Five classes, four colleges - $7500. $22,200 for the year, 60 hours a week (driving and correcting). Minus taxes is $15,540, minus daycare is $7840. 48 weeks a year, 60 hours a week is 2880 hours at $2.70 an hour. Just a few dollars less than McDonalds. At Student 45 he pauses. What did she say? He rereads her. Oh. Evan re-writes 23's comments, same grade. Moves on. One week off, on to Summer Session II.

Student 61. "Alienation is, among other things, the withdrawal and isolation of self from other." He stops, shocked by the clarity of the thought. "The main contribution of the Industrial Revolution is not measured in terms of political power or financial prosperity, but the increase of personal isolation of self from other." He focuses his mind to a point, listening to this young girl's analysis. On and on she goes, comparing passages from one text to the other, family relationships, the rise of desperation proportional to the lack of familial understanding, the effect of suffering to the individual compared to the group. The abuse of work, useless, unappreciated, powerless work. It is brilliant. Evan reads it again, refreshed by her thinking. "Very good!!!" he writes. "You explored the worlds of each and demonstrated the affected mental states of their authors' brilliantly. A."

He sits back, smiling. Sometimes it's almost worth it. Just as he opens Student 34, the baby moans. Evan tenses. She's early. It's only 2:40. He tries to control his anger. This is the fifth time she's woken, and the pile of exams is getting no smaller. After a long pause, his daughter let's out a horrendous wail and Evan jumps, scooping a bottle of formula from the warmer and racing into her room before the crying wakes Ellen. If Ellen wakes up, she'll never get back to sleep. If she doesn't sleep, hell to pay in the morning, before she goes to work.

The baby is on her back, beet red, sweating, face puckered screaming the shrill wail of hunger. Evan silently lifts her and settles in the rocker, plugging her mouth with the lifeless nipple. It is cool, dark, comfortable. They could sleep there, rocking in the chair, resting together until daylight. He shakes sleep from his mind. Way too many exams left to go.

After finishing her bottle, she thrashes, rejecting binky Evan offers for peace. There's nothing he can do for her now. Sadly, he lays the girl back in her crib, turns down the monitor in the other room and returns to shh her to sleep. She thrashes, waving useless fists angrily, kicking useless feet, screaming as if being forced down a deep, black hole.

Why do you fight? he wonders, watching her kick and scream helplessly. Why do you struggle against what I so desperately want? Why are you so terrified of something so wonderful? The little girl looks up at Evan, hearing the question in the strange way babies do. She breathes heavily, frantically. She has developed an understanding of self, the other voice answers in Evan's mind, The Spirit, just as she wails dolefully. Sleep is a separation of self from other, of baby from dada. Evan caresses her face, but she screams louder. Is this why children fear sleep, is it your first glimpse of death, baby, looming over the helplessly living? Samsa flashes through his mind, a huge, filthy, wasted carcass of clinging vermin. What did you die for, Mr. Samsa? Was there meaning in your end? What is there to fear in death? asks the Other. The fearful, final separation of self from God? Evan sighs. Slowly her screaming fades, rage overtaken by the indomitable force of sleep.

Evan creeps from her room, sliding back into his chair, taking another exam, 99. What did you live for, Mr. Samsa? Was it all worth it, Mr. Ilyich?