I think we all want to be good students: go to class on time, take notes and perform well on… I think we all want to be good students: go to class on time, take notes and perform well on tests. But this is what really happens on a daily basis:

Your cell phone displays the time: 11:03 a.m. You begin the arduous climb up the stairs in the Cathedral. Class started at 11 a.m. You walk quickly — but not that quickly — to your classroom.

You have to go all the way down to the front to find an appropriate buffer area of five open seats. You sit down in the middle; the professor politely ignores the disturbance and continues to lecture.

If you had been reading your books, you would know that he’s talking about the arrival and subsequent conquest of Latin America by Fernando Cortez. You pause, and ponder a shaded memory from grade school of Cortez being mistaken for Quetzalcoatl and a Disney movie that deals with a similar topic. This will suffice as background knowledge for today.

Reaching down, but keeping your head up to fool the professor into thinking you’re listening, you begin groping your book bag. You fumble around the zipper and then, with the touch of a delicate ballerina, slowly pull the zipper open just enough to reach for your notebook. Some luck at last: It’s right on top. You lean down a little farther, opening the front section of your book bag where you keep your pen. Confound it! It’s not there!

You flip the notebook open to the appropriate page anyway, slouch back a little and tilt the notebook up on your knees. If you position yourself stealthily, it will appear that you are taking notes when, in fact, you don’t even have a writing utensil. It’s now 11:08 a.m.

The professor catches your attention with some emphatic gesture. You look toward the chalkboard; it’s covered with scribblings — in English, you recognize — about trade routes in Peru. You take a good, long look at that chalkboard in order to catch up. Doing so, you miss even more of the lecture.

How delightful! A tiny sparrow has landed on the windowsill. It is a magnificent creature of the wild, gazing into the room with its pious little eye. This sparrow is captivating. It nods robotically and jumps around. You are mesmerized.

Oh, but the lecture still ensues, and it’s only 11:16 a.m!

Imitating the practice of note-taking by wiggling your hand, you remind yourself that you could still be sleeping. But, no! You vow to pay attention.

“The important thing to remember about the Aztec civilization is that it was …” the professor’s voice catches your attention.

But, the sparrow is still there. The captivating, little sparrow.

The voice returns, “That’s the important thing to remember.”

Your attention drifts a few rows ahead, to a slogan on the back of a shirt. Some advice from the kid sitting in front of you in colonial Latin America:

“Beers Up

Aviators Down

Come Out Swinging

Go Down Hogging”

You take a minute to ponder this shirt. You don’t know what “hogging” is. It has to do with drinking, flying an airplane and swinging. You consider the possible meanings of “swinging.” You re-read the slogan. It’s now 11:28 a.m. You look at the professor again, and see his mouth moving. This shirt is really throwing your chi off balance. It doesn’t make any sense.

“The significance of this date in history will be realized only after the onset of the 16th century, and even more so after the Industrial Revolution.” You hear the words, but what do they mean?

Your attention is diverted once again. And what an odd crack that is in the wall.

“How could the great civilizations of Latin America have known? It must be noted that the two languages in question are vastly different in structure as well as sound. There was no need for a translator prior to their arrival.”

The professor has posed a question. Should you answer? But there is a more important question in your mind: Should you go down hogging?

As you remove your hoodie, you immediately notice your arm, where the word “homunculus” is written in permanent marker. Wait, have you forgotten your homunculus?

You are relieved when you remember it is in your brain, right where you left it. You strain to recall the details of the night before, and why someone thought it was necessary to write such a peculiar and cryptic message on your arm. The familiar end-of-class paper rustling breaks your concentration.

It’s 11:51 a.m. You wanted to learn about Fernando Cortez and his expedition to the New World today. Really you did.

Rachel Chunko thinks she sees the same sparrow in every class. If you, or anyone you know, has seen the same bird, e-mail her at [email protected].