A Matter of Time

By: Dr Cultural Studies

Chapter One: The Map

History is always changing. – Aung San Suu Kyi, 2012

When I teach, I feel connected—to the world, to my students, to the past, and to myself. A piece string attaches to my finger and, like the red string of East Asian myth, I become part of a wider network of knowledge and awareness. Although I know that history is a dying subject (inherently), I can't help but to try and infuse my own excitement into the minds of the bored students who stare up at me day after day.

They (most of them, at least) see history as a stepping-stone to their degree. It isn't essential to overall growth and it most certainly isn't something they want to be informed about. This goes doubly so for world history. The mentality of many American college students seems to be: "If it doesn't affect me, it isn't important. If I don't see it, it isn't there."

What I try to teach them is that history is important, at least in some capacity.

It has always been important.

It will always be important.

It is history that determines who we are and where we are going.

"We're a culmination of our past experiences," I told them. A quarter of the roster nodded in agreement or understanding. The other three-quarters checked their cellphones for texts or the time. Five minutes until the end of class, then the freedom for summer break. They'd forget everything they'd ever learned in this class. "If you didn't pass the graduation test, would you still be here?"

A student shook his head in the front row. Another yawned. Another giggled at some crude joke that his friend had been whispering behind his hand. I tried to maintain my patience. I love my job, I repeated constantly in my head, like a prayer or a curse. I loved teaching. I loved this subject. I love my job…I love my job.

"Probably wouldn't be here, but they wouldn't fail us. They can't."

Ah, and there it was. The entitlement. It was something that this generation had grown up knowing and embracing. To be honest, I was born of the 'entitlement generation' as well. The newly risen chicks that wanted to soar into the skies without ever flapping their wings. "I'm going to tell y'all a story. It's the last day of class. I think this is called for…" Some started paying a small amount of attention at the sharpness in my tone, some continued to ignore me. "When I was ten, my father got diagnosed with cancer. I was left on my own to stay at my grandmother's while my parents spent night after night in the hospital. My brother and sister stayed at my uncle's. A year later, my Dad died."

Across campus, the whistle sounded for the release of classes. Summer courses had finally ended. Some started to pack their things and stand. My patience snapped into tiny fragments. "Sit down! I never said that this class was dismissed." A few jaws dropped at my audacity.

Frankly, I couldn't believe it myself. All semester, I had kept my cool. I had let them walk all over me in various cases. I had been talked-over, ignored, and disrespected at every turn. I dealt with it. I had to, if I wanted to keep my job.

By God, they were going to listen to what I had to say on the last day of class. "Do you think I would be the same person if my Dad hadn't died?"

No one responded. Alright then…Let's try again.

"Do you think this country would be the same if nine-eleven never happened?"

Again, silence. This time the silence was a bit tenser.

"Do you think that our country would exist if France and England hadn't fought the Seven Years' War? Do you think that the world would be the same without the French Revolution? Without the USSR? Without the empires? Without history? Do you think we would be the same people?" I flicked a spec of fuzz off my cardigan and stood straighter. "No. We exist because we are history, people. We're the embodiment of all that has come before us. Think about that concept for a minute. The weight of centuries rests on our shoulders. The question is: can we stand under that kind of pressure?"

Silence hung over my class like a guillotine and I stared at them for a few more moments.

Suddenly, I felt meekness at my brash actions and my eyes dropped to the floor. What did I just do?

Most likely, those who had enjoyed the class up until this point had just decided to hate me for all eternity.

Gathering a calming breath to sooth my nerves, I glanced up toward their still-stunned faces. "It's not that easy, you know. You can try to ignore the world—try as much as you want—but you still live on this Earth. Because of that…Because of that, you are a culmination of the past. Whether you like it or not. You're free to go. Have a good summer…"

Sighing, I fell into a nearby chair and watched as my students darted for the door.

After a year of teaching community college, it still hadn't become any easier. I still expected my students to care, to give a damn about the history of their existence.

Perhaps I over-romanticized everything in my mind. Maybe I was just another overly-obsessed and infatuated history professor. Soon enough, my dishwater brown hair would turn silver with time and I would be the nightmare professor that scares the hell out of freshman students. A shiver ran up my spine at the thought. I never wanted to be like that.

"Uh, Dr. Daniels?" I turned to see one of my quietest students smiling down at me from his immense height.

Plastering on a completely fake smile, I tried to seem courteous and supportive (as I was taught was expected of college professors).

"I agree with you, you know." I felt my pleasant smile fade away. What? "We—we are connected to the past, no matter what." My brows crawled up my forehead. This was the first time Corbin had ever approached me. "Although we don't seem like it, quite a few of us do actually care about this subject." Why did I feel like crying at that reassurance? "The jerks in class, they don't speak for all of us. Rachel, Cody, Khadijat…A few others. I know you never knew, but we always met outside of class to discuss the readings."

"You—You do—You did?" The semester was over. Why didn't they tell me this before? I would have given them extra materials or done something to help them with their studies. Then again, was it my horrible teaching that was causing them to have to meet outside of class? Maybe that was it. I tried to hold back my tears. "W-Why?"

"Well," Corbin shifted and grinned down at me, "it's because we love the subject. Besides, you're—like—the best history teacher ever. We like to talk about you when we meet up, what you've said in class. Rachel has a list of quotes from your lectures in her binder. She puts them up on our Facebook group. I just—" He stopped and lowered his eyes to the linoleum tile. "We just felt bad since we never actually spoke up all that much in class.

"You know, those jackasses, they always talked over us and…Well, there was only so much you could do because you're not tenured. Your hands are tied. You really can't kick people out of class." I felt my jaw drop. He was right. My hands had been tired all year long. There's only so much that a non-tenured lecturer can do in such situations. Throwing students out of class was out of the question because the Dean would become involved if the student chose to argue. It was easier to sack the professor than deal with legal issues. "Um, because of that…We kinda got you a present for the end of the semester. I was elected to hand it over since I ended up having the highest grade on the last paper."

Stunned, I took the proffered gift bag from his thin fingers. It was light and seemed to be something rather small. Uncertain, I glanced up at my student. He gestured for me to open it. "I—I don't know what…I don't know what to say. Honestly, I never…"

"Never thought we were listening? Never thought we cared? Never expected to get a present for your efforts?" He grinned wider and shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Eh, it's hard not to. Pay attention, that is. Those people who don't listen…They never will. They're never gonna open their eyes to see the world around them. You…I guess you could say that you woke a few of us up." I pulled a folded sheet of paper from the bag. As I continued to unfold it, Corbin explained the reasoning. Tears blurred my vision. "Uh, well, it was really Khadijat's idea. To get you a present, I mean. We were all in a coffee shop downtown when she mentioned it. Took the rest of the afternoon to find the right gift. It didn't cost much 'cause we found it at an antique store."

"And because you're poor college students," I laughed breathlessly.

"Well…" he chuckled, nodding his head. "There's that, too."

It was a map, a world map. The edges were worn with time and were a ragged brownish color. It had to be at least fifty years old, maybe more considering the faded watercolors. My hands were shaking as I laid it upon the table, pressing out the wrinkles. "I—I—Thank you."

Corbin just shrugged nonchalantly, "You're welcome, Dr. D. We know you've been having a hard time this semester anyway without those jerk-offs in our class making every Monday, Wednesday and Friday suck balls." He started for the door as I continued to stare at the map, not even phased by his colloquial tone. "Have a great summer break and…uh, thanks for everything!"

With that, he was gone.

This was so unusual. In three years of teaching (two at the graduate level and one in community college), I had never received a present from my students.

I'd never had anyone apologize for their classmates.

I'd never had anyone tell me 'thank you for everything.'

The quiet ones generally remained quiet. The loud ones never gave two cents about my feelings on being ignored or down-trodden.

It was just…unbelievable.

Was I a good teacher then? Had the things I said gotten through to some of them? Somehow, was that the case? Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.

Yes, I had done it! I had fulfilled some amount of my purpose. Seven years of schooling and three years of teaching just to reach this point. All of that hard work…

"Thank you," I muttered again. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…" I packed up the books and notes, placing the map into the safest space in my messenger bag (inside my laptop). I couldn't just sit in the classroom crying. Soon enough, another class would enter and I couldn't be that strange teacher that lingered forever after her students left.

Hurrying down the stairs, I pulled out my cell and dialed a quick number. "Alicia. You won't—"

"Hola," she responded drowsily. "You out of class now?"

"Yeah, I just got done. You won't believe what my students got—"

"They got you something?" She sounded shocked. Of course she was. She was my officemate. As a lowly instructor at a community college, I didn't have enough power to have my own office. Instead, they placed me with another worn-down history professor. It's the fun of teaching in secondary education—not enough money, not enough space, not enough time. Too many papers to grade. Ha.

I stepped out into the bright sunlight, walking briskly toward the worn building at the back of campus. The grass on either side of the narrow covered pathway looked wild and the students were crammed into this tiny space if they didn't want to be under the sweltering heat of the sun.

The college itself didn't have enough money to build out (even with all of the extra students on campus that we couldn't necessarily accommodate).

"They got me a map," I smiled happily. "Said that they actually loved my teaching and that they were sorry for not speaking up more in class!"

"No way," she breathed.

"Seriously, right? I couldn't believe it myself!"

Alicia gave a triumphant laugh, "You see? I've been telling you for years. I've been saying it for three damn years. Ain't I been saying it, Michelle? Huh? I've been saying it." I heard something screech in the background and I knew that she had gotten so wound up that she was now standing. Her chair was a screeching metal contraption. "You're an awesome history professor, always have been. Some people are just called to do things. You were called to teach history. Al que ha de ser charro, del cielo le cae el sombrero, you know?" No, I didn't. No hable Español. And she knew that, too. French was another story entirely. If only she spoke French…"No one loves the subject more than you and you even try to make it interesting for your students. Psh, I don't even bother. You're freakin' awesome, don't ya know?"

Taking the phone from my ear, I hit the 'end' button and stepped into my tiny office. "I know I'm pretty darn cool, but if that were the case, more of my students would pay attention."

She turned, flicking her long black hair over her shoulder. "Bullshit," she retorted as she watched me sit down on our small office couch, "a fin de cuentas, that is their fault not yours. They are the ones choosing to get the lower grades. That isn't in your control."

I smiled up at her, "Yours bombed the final, huh?"

"Crashed and burned," she sighed. "I don't blame myself for it though. They're the little dweebs that decided to ignore all of my office hours and the extra help I offered." She let out a string of incomprehensible curse words in Spanish before throwing herself into her chair. It screeched in protest. "Ay! I don't care anymore! Can't I just go be a stripper, Michelle? I thought I'd have my own office by now…"

"Am I really that bad?" I questioned with a smirk. I pulled out the map and ran my hand over it again. She eyed it before smiling at me. "Don't say it."

"Aw, you're like a proud madre! Look at that face!" The glare I sent her was nothing short of withering.

I shifted and glanced away, "I don't approve of you becoming a stripper."

"Nice change of subject," Alicia complimented off-handedly. "Anyway, I'd get paid better and I'd work better hours and I wouldn't have all the emotional stress. I might even have time to date." She sucked in a dramatic gasp and her eyes widened. I cringed. I knew where this was going. "You should come be a stripper with me!"

With a smirk, I glanced down at my dress pants, pumps, and cardigan. "Yes, I'm certain that's a great plan."

"I know! Yeah—" She stopped and glared. "You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"What gave me away?"

Sinking down in defeat, my friend shrugged. "It probably is a bad idea anyway. I can't dance worth shit and you don't have any rhythm whatsoever. We'd be laughed off the pole."

I shrugged, "You'd be laughed off the pole. I'd be working the floor. Personal preference, I suppose." As she broke into raucous laughter at my straight-faced joke, I carefully placed the map on my desk. "You know I can dance. You've seen it in person. My rhythm is a handicap, but it doesn't stop me from dancing anyway."

"Not like that!"

"Anyone who comes in isn't going to care if I'm on beat or not," I replied with a level tone.

Her jaw drops, "I've seen you ballroom dance like once or twice. Salsa, tango, waltz. I've never seen you—" She choked on her coffee and wildly waved her hand up and down. "Drop it like it's hot."

"I can 'drop it like it's hot.' In fact, you'd be surprised just how good I am at lap dancing. It's a talent that I rarely show. B-Because, well, look at me." Gesturing to my cardigan, I turned from the map and popped one hip out to the side while crossing my arms. "Please, I was in a sorority. Most of us know how to dance in some capacity or other. Generally, it was the other."

She stopped laughing, turning to stare me in shock. After a moment, I grinned despite myself. She caught my expression and squawked, "You're pulling my leg!"

My eyes rolled, "Of course I am! I may have been in a sorority, but I was the wallflower of that sisterhood. I can't drop anything except my face when I fall down on the dance floor. I can partner dance, but that's about it. And even that's…troublesome." At the small anime reference I just made, I smiled outright. It was rare that I got to pull a reference like that so seamlessly. "Ah, don't you have a…class—like—right now?"

Alicia gasped, jumping out of her chair. With a flurry of quick movements, she threw on her coat and scarf. The whole time she was speaking in rapid Spanish and English. It was a common occurrence, one that I had grown accustomed to over the years. Whenever she gets rattled, she zooms back and forth between her languages. "Maldito!" I snorted, knowing that one well. "You're a bad influence! I should have left five minutes ago! It's the last day of class. Oh, what does it matter? It matters because I bought those bastards candy!"

"You brought them candy?"

She paused and gave me a bland look, "It's student evaluation day. Of course I brought them candy!" Once again, she flew into gathering her things. "¿Por qué tengo que ir a enseñar a esos pequeños bastardos?"

I got the basic gist of what she was saying and I let out a laugh. "Because that's what you're being paid to do…and you've got sixty seconds."

"¡Cállate! I'll get there when I get there!"

Shaking my head, I just smiled as she finished packing her bag. It was such a routine that I wasn't even shocked when she slammed her laptop shut as hard as possible in her frustration. Really, it was a mystery how the thing hadn't broken into pieces under her hand already. "Avoir une bonne classe! I'll probably be gone by the time you back."

"French sucks, Spanish rules!" I rolled my eyes at her. "I won't be coming back to the office after class. I've got some research to do in the library before heading home. Christiana has a show at eight. You'll be okay by yourself, right?" She threw her bag over her shoulder and started for the door, "Bye! Don't become a stripper without me! Be careful on your way ho—" And she was gone, probably still talking even though she was already outside.

My eyes trailed over toward the stack of student papers that I still needed to grade. Heaving a sigh, I grabbed my pencil and set to work. I noticed the map as it was caught on the corner of the paper mountain as it shifted toward me. As it did so, the map slid over the edge of my desk and landed on the floor by the door. I let out a frustrated growl, but didn't rise to retrieve it. I would do so before heading out for the evening.

It was nearly nine before I decided to end my torturous grading session.

Four hours.

Good Lord, too long.

My head was hurting terribly from both the horrible papers and the dim light. Alicia's lamp didn't provide much by way of illumination and I was essentially sitting in a dark room by the time the sun went down. Stretching my muscles, I tried to work the feeling back into my aching hand.

Back in grad school, grading had been the bane of my existence. At first, it was an exciting concept—having the power to evaluate, but that novelty fell away after the first paper.

Such papers…

Perhaps I should give an example: The Star-Spangled Banner was written in response to the Civil War by Abr Lincon.

My historic heart ached.

No, I wrote in response, it was written in reply to the War of 1812 by Francis Scott Key—not Abraham Lincoln.

To myself (from a more personal, less professional perspective), I thought the mix up was hilarious.

As a professor, I didn't know how to react.

In the darkness of my office, I began to gather my things. I had been reading War and Peace during my free time (ha, what free time?) for the past month or two. It was my third time through, admittedly, and I really didn't want to read Moby Dick or Jane Eyre for at least another few years. The Art of War was stuffed into my bag as well before I gave a considering glance toward my laptop. My head shook. I had my old one at home and I didn't want the extra weight on my shoulder after those gruesome four hours I had just endured.

Settling my knit hat over my head and my scarf around my neck, I started for the door. A quick click and I was in complete darkness. It was so engrained into my habits that I didn't even have to see where I was going to get out.

My heel landed on something and I felt (and heard) it tear underneath my weight. What could be—

The map!

Heart leaping into my throat, I spun around and began frantically searching for the lamp switch. I could see nothing in that inky blackness. Where was it? There! I could see it right in front of my face. Oh, how could I forget the map? I couldn't have ruined it so soon. My fingers wrapped around the light switch.

Wait.

This wasn't right.

How could I see the lamp switch when it had been so dark just moments before?

Just to be sure, I flipped the light to the 'on' position. Nothing happened, but the light in the room grew brighter—tinted a light greenish hue. Cautiously, I turned around and felt my heart thunder in my chest.

That…couldn't be possible.

The map— the map that my students had so kindly given me—it was glowing. The tear from the heel of my pumps sparked with green lightning, leaping outward from the gash. I stumbled backward, the back of my thighs slamming into Alicia's desk. Something toppled to the floor and shattered upon impact, but I paid it no mind.

Bright shocks of radiance flashed from the fissure. The flashes built in intensity with each ebb of the light. At first it was slow, rhythmic, like the waves of the ocean. Then, it grew more and more intense. The repetition became faster and faster and faster. With it, I felt my heart fly to an unhealthy pace.

Th-bump, th-bump, th-bump, th-bump, th-bump, th-bump.

The strands of hair about my face seemed to be lifted by a light wind. Gasping at the sensation, I pushed myself farther away from the now-radiantly shining map. It seemed though, that no matter where I tried to go in that tiny office, there was no escaping that surge of power. Everything in my body seemed charged. My muscles tightened in preparation for something, anything, for whatever was about to happen. There was no time to think about how utterly preposterous this whole incident was. There was only time to try and escape.

Whatever this was…It wasn't good.

The green light only became more powerful. The hairs on my arms began to stand up and a shiver ran down my spine as a feeling of dread poured over my heart. My eyes flickered toward the window on the other side of the room.

My only chance.

Taking one final glance toward the map, I turned on my heel and darted for the window.

That's when the sounds started. They came from the tear, from the brightest of the light. I couldn't quite say how I knew, but I could sense that was their origin. Panic made my hands quake as I attempted to wrench the window open wide enough to escape. The voices were growing clearer and clearer until I could make out their exact words. For some reason, as they became louder and the light became even brighter, I found myself growing hopeless.

"You bloody wanker, I need your help!"

"My hands are tied, Iggy. Dude, what do you expect me to do? Go against my leaders?"

"Yes, damn it!"

Trapped. I was trapped.

Terrified, I turned to press my back against the wall. Green lamination was coating every surface like mystical lava. It was spreading slowly from the epicenter of the map's tear. I couldn't breathe, edging to the farthest corner of the room.

No…No...Please.

"Ve~ Mister Germany, are you certain you want to do this?"

"I haven't a choice. I never had a choice. They left me no choice."

I didn't know what would happen when it reached me. Death would likely be quick. My mind was racing with possibilities. Thinking quickly, I wrenched off my bracelet and threw it out the window. Someone would find it. That was the best I could hope for.

The voices grew louder, so loud that I had to press my hands to my head.

"You will do as I say!" An German accented voice growled.

"Non! I will not!"

"You will. For the sake of your people, you will."

Cries for help, screeches of pain. Fear multiplied in my heart as the light wrapped around my foot and began to crawl up my leg. There was a prickling sensation as it traveled upward, around my waist and finally to my chest. It lingered there for a few moments, ebbing and flowing. My lungs rattled as if I were dying.

The green started to transform to a pale gold before—

All at once, everything went white.

There was no time to scream.

No time to think.

No time to cry.

No time to run.

No time.

Just, white.

"A local young woman was reported missing on Friday morning after authorities received a tip from an unknown source. Police say that the young woman, an instructor at the Highlands Community College, was last seen in her office around five in the evening." A picture was placed on the left hand side of the screen. A woman with brown hair and meek brown eyes. Unremarkable, but with a pleasant smile.

The screen shifted to show an older man, a red, white and blue bandana wrapped around his head. He looked to be a biker with his long gray hair and long silver beard. Not to mention, the worn leather jacket that draped over his small frame. "Michelle was a nice girl, a real nice girl, ya know. Always tried real hard to please everyone. It's really a shame…It's just unreal. We'll find her with any luck. God willin'."

"That was the Michelle Daniels' grandfather, Tim Daniels, the owner of well-known Daniels Construction in Nashville."

"Michelle had just received her doctorate degree three months prior to her disappearance. Friends and family say, 'She was the kindest, gentlest soul.' If you have any information regarding her whereabouts, they are offering a reward." The newscaster nodded solemnly, looking to the papers she held. "Kansas City Police have started an investigation into the disappearance. So far, there are no leads, save for a bracelet she was said to have never taken off found just outside her open office window. A candlelight vigil is being held at Michelle's church in a show of support for the family."

"We're all inconsolable," a small, black-haired woman cried. "She's out there somewhere and, come Hell or high water, we're going to find her. She—She—" Shaking her head, she motioned for the camera to leave. "Dejame! Just…leave me alone."

"So terrible…" the male anchor commented, shaking his head. "Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family of that young woman. Very tragic. We hope they find her soon."

"In other news…"

With a click, the screen went black.

Ah yes, the ever-present question of pairings. Right now, there isn't a pairing.

My original character: I have worked hard to make her as real as possible. Hopefully, she doesn't translate as a Mary Sue. The OC is not a fictional representation of myself and it took quite a bit of research to form her into something functional.

History can be both menacing and beautiful as well as downright hilarious. Reference will be made to some of the cruelest and most terrible atrocities this world has ever seen. I can't say much more without giving too much away.

Oh, and Hetalia does not belong to me.