ERGO

It was raining for the first time in months. Light rain, to be sure. I heard it, pecking on the windows during Advanced English, my last class of the day. I remember noticing it (the rain, that is) when I absentmindedly looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window halfway through one of Hamlet's drier passages (of which, to be fair, there are not many). Bright joy invaded my face. I stared out the window for a while, little rivulets of liquid diamond crystallizing on the windowpanes.
"Something you'd like to share with us, John?"
I turned around. The rest of my classmates had turned to look at me, amused and dryly curious. A  half-smile remained on my face. I must have looked like a complete idiot. I looked back out the window and found myself wondering for a small, significant moment if there was, in fact, anything that I would like to say. I turned back around, towards the class. They were expectant. I looked towards my English teacher. Her eyes twinkled. She was a bubbly sort of person, one that had seen generations of students pass her by, and yet somehow managed to find something new and interesting in each one. She had a habit of speaking in turns of phrase that, if said by anybody else, would have sounded incredibly pretentious. But coming from Ms. Hill, each thus and every ergo was a fluid and privileged glance into the mind of a master of language. She was not angry with me, I knew, for spacing out. She knew me too well. Her eyes smiled. Surprise me, they said. Finally, I pointed at the window.
"It's raining."
The class erupted in laughter. Ms. Hill smiled.
"Well, now that Mr. Kim has so poignantly described to us the nature of the outside world, shall we finish discussing our dear prince's soliloquy?"
Grinning slightly, I shook my head and returned to Hamlet. To my surprise, I had found myself one morning truly enjoying the play, mainly because I found some similarities between the two of us. And while I had no intention of murdering my uncle, I saw in Hamlet a familiar need to neatly organize the entirety of one’s own mind. He’s not angry and depressed because of the difficulty of his moral decisions; he knows what he has to do. He’s angry because he can't get the pieces to fit the way he wants them to.
"...and lose the name of action."
I looked out through the window again. The rain was a little heavier now, and I wished that it wasn't. Spring rain in New England rain wouldn't last for long, and the heavier it fell the less time it would last. I found myself drifting off again, my eyes focusing not on iambic pentameter but on each drop of rain crawling down into the soft dirt, as though the raindrops were intrepid explorers and the window was a massive, transparent ladder extending down into the ruined tomb of some Egyptian pharaoh.
Rain had been a huge part of life in Vietnam. As an expat, I was completely unprepared for it. My first monsoon season brought rainwater flooding into the streets, completely washing away the stench of the day. I remember running into the torrential downpour, still in my school uniform, whooping and laughing as warm rainwater cleansed the day of all joy and pain. I looked up into the sky when all my energy was spent, alone and at peace with the roaring thunder.
"...which will be due on Tuesday. Have a good weekend, and don't forget to cheer on your track team on Saturday! Your midterm grade will depend upon how loud you are."
The class laughed again. I let out a distracted chuckle as I hurriedly packed my things. I wanted to catch as much of the rain as I could. Already I felt the warmth on my skin. As I walked out the door a voice held me back.
"Mr. Kim! A moment, please."
I sighed and walked back inside with silent frustration.
Ms. Hill was still in her seat, scribbling apple-green ink onto what looked like my midterm paper.
"Sorry to hold you up, I just needed to hand back your paper. Excellent work, as usual. Very cogent stuff. As a teacher, I especially enjoyed your comments on Austen's apparent lack of sophistication in her sentence structure and, ergo, the ultimate banality of her style."
She went on complimenting my destruction of Jane Austen's credibility. While I enjoyed any opportunity to remove Jane Austen from the pantheon of authors credited with writing great literature, my desire to feel the rain was becoming a physical itch.
"I will say, however, that as a personal fan I wanted to tear you apart the whole time."She smiled a great big smile.
"Thank you, Ms. Hill.
My eyes were dragged by some invisible force back to the window, where I saw that the rain had thinned out, and was now tapping the window lovingly.
"It's beautiful out, isn't it?"
I snapped my attention back towards my teacher, embarrassed that she had caught me drifting off again.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I've been drifting a lot lately."
"Are you feeling alright? Feeling healthy?"
She was genuinely concerned.
"Yes, just fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
Tap, tap tap.
"Have you been eating breakfast? Getting enough sleep? Any big projects coming up?"
"Well I have a research paper due Thursday, but-"
"Ah, for Mr. Lepellier?  I know he and I have talked about how excited we are for the musical, and I'm almost certain he knows you have a large role in it."
"Yes-"
"I'm sure he would give you an extension if you asked for one."
"Yeah, but-"
"And of course if you need more time with any of your assignments in this class I'd be more than happy to-"
"I'm fine."
It came out cruelly. Without thinking I had spoken in stage voice, making my voice ring harshly even in the relatively small room. As I replay the scene in my memory, my voice has a bitter knell to it, a shallow and thoughtless irritation that haunts me to this day. I remember Ms. Hill's surprise. I had hurt her, deeply. She quietly apologized for holding me up, then handed me my paper, and wished me a happy weekend. I walked out of the room dazed. Immediately after leaving the room guilt wrapped around my heart like a snake, coiling more and more tightly until I could barely breathe. I knew that I should go back and apologize. Yet my feet propelled me away. I had done something inexcusable, something for which I would always hate myself. And all I did was walk.
For all of the words, all the ideas and emotions that I could recreate on paper, I had no way to contain the immense wrong which I knew I had committed. I walked out into the rain. In some desperate attempt to find the words that might absolve me I looked down at the paper I was clutching. I scoured the paper for any pedestrian comment, any nagging criticism that would justify, even a little bit, my sin. I found nothing but an endless parade of check marks and pleased exclamations. At the end of my paper was a comment.

Fantastic work, John. I can't wait for the day that YOU teach this class. Always keep rising. A+.

I looked up. Always keep rising. The rain felt cold against my skin.