The Rite of Spring

The Rite of Spring

Everyone talks about the fallen soldiers of war. Yes. It is a tragic thing. But why do we not talk as much about the fallen children of war? The fallen women? The fallen elderly? 

Every war has three sides. The good side. The bad side. And those stuck in between them. I was stuck.

School was canceled the day the bombs fell. We were lucky. We knew it was going to happen. The day before we left like there was going to be a tomorrow. Teachers still gave their lessons and assigned homework even though it was going to be the last thing they ever taught and they already knew the homework would never arrive in the "turn in" bin. There was one teacher who did act differently on that last day. Professor Watts. My English teacher.

I had Watts's class at the end of the day. I always looked forward to his class above all. When I found my seat there was a haunting silence in his class. Professor Watts sat quietly behind his desk, looking out the window. After what seemed like a hour he finally rose from his seat and walked to the front of the class. He finally began to speak.

"War. War is an ugly thing children. It is the vicious offspring of hate and politics. Now, you all are to old to fight in this war. And I myself am too old. But we still must take a beating. This beating will stay blind from the public, but not blind from you and me."

The whole class sat quietly listening to the sad monolog Professor Watts was giving us.

"In War men can take almost anything from you. They can take your belongings. Your family and friends. Your homes and your clothes. They can even take your life if they so want to. But, there is one thing they can not take for only you can have it."

We all seemed to lean in wanting to know what this soft spoken man was about to say.

"They can not take your knowledge my children. For only you know exactly what you know... When the bombs drop, and the dust settles, we may never see each other again. But you must never stop learning. Never stop reading and never stop exploring, for you mind is the only thing that is truly yours. But what are you supposed to do with this information? Well, you must write. Write every fact, poem, story you ever think of. Let the world know who you are and what you all have experienced.”

We all sat there silently. What were we supposed to say? We all knew that by tomorrow most of our homes would be nothing but rubble. We knew that even some of our classmates were going to be rubble by tomorrow. Professor Watts knew he needed to break the silence somehow, and jumping into lesson was not going to be how he did it.

He just sat back down at his desk and began flipping through a crate of vinyl records he had on the floor. A gentle smile broke across all of our faces. Professor Watts would always play us music on Friday after his lesson. Even though it was Wednesday he knew it was one of the only joys he could give us all one last time.

Watts came up from under his desk with a single record in his hand. He set it down on to the old phonograph player as we quietly waited. He set the needle down and wonderful music of Igor Stravinsky pour out of the horn. The song was The Rite of Spring, Watts’s favorite song. We all knew this song now by heart.

Watts lowered himself back into his chair and closed his eyes as the music played on. We all did the same and closed our eyes. I closed my eyes. I eventually drifted off to sleep and slept for the rest of class. I woke as the needle began to scratch at the label of the record. Professor Watts put the record away and stood in front of us again.

“I love you all. My God be with you and your family tomorrow. And never stop learning, and never stop writing.”

As he finished speaking the bell rang and we all filed out and went home.

The next morning the bombs fell. 13 of my friends died including my sister who was smothered from the rubble of our own home.

When the dust settled I found myself wondering the flatted streets that were once full of life. I found myself back by my old school. As I was about to continue on my meaningless drifting I paused for a moment because music was coming from the school. Absent mindedly I followed the tune.

The music was coming from Professor Watts room. It was Stravinsky. Somehow the record player survived the bombs and The Rite of Spring was coming out of the bent horn. I peaked my head into the room and saw Professor Watts standing against the front board. He was silent and did not move. I leaned back around the corner and pushed my ear to the remainder of the wall to listen to the music.

I closed my eyes again but this time I did not fall asleep. Instead the fresh memories of this morning’s horrors ran through my head. I stood in the same spot for the who record. When the needle began to skip against the label I leaned back around to watch what Professor Watts was going to do next.

He stood still for a few more moments then fell to his knees crying. He became a crippled mess on the floor. This image scared me above all. Professor Watts was always the strongest person I knew. He always had the answers and always made light of the dark. And now the dark was eating him whole. I ran from the building and did not stop. I did not return to what was left of my home, my family, and my life. I ran. I never saw Professor Watts again.

I never said it but I love you too Professor Watts. I guess I took your advice to never stop learning and writing. I write this for you were ever you are.

So it goes…