I am sad to say, readers, that recently I went to rehab. It was basically how I imagined it:
Me: My name is Chris Shuptrine, and I am addicted to doodling.
Therapist: I'm very proud of you, Chris.
Me: Do you think you could remove the straitjacket, then?
Therapist: Nice try. That'll be another three weeks in solitary confinement.
I had checked myself into this rather unethical center after a troublesome incident in class where the teacher rudely called on me, when I didn't even have a hand up, to answer a question. This terrible "cold-calling" system only benefits that one student who has read more than just the title of the textbook and who probably even knows the professor's gender. For the rest of us, it's more nerve-racking than the thought of nuclear war or, worse, accidentally farting during class.
Anyway, here's what happened: I was jotting down important and astute thoughts concerning whether I should start wearing underwear when the professor picked on me to explain the politics of Eastern Europe. My first thought was, "Is he making this place up?" My second thought was, "Doubtful, he doesn't look like he's kidding. In fact, he looks angry. It must be in Maine." By the third thought he had scoffed angrily and turned away.
Feeling a little guilty, I looked over my notebook to see if the answer was there, but found nothing concerning the class, except for the date -- Oct. 13 -- which I don't think was right, considering it's second semester. Below the date were a lot of meaningless drawings. For one doodle I had drawn a picture of a circle, then bubbled it in, then drawn another circle around it, and then bubbled that in. Then I had made a long list of what my signature would look like if I used my non-dominant hand. After that I had drawn rectangles around all my words and re-traced the paper's lines.
Did I enjoy drawing these? I don't know. I barely remember doing them. Whenever I go through my notebooks I always think, "Well, it looks like a blind 4-year-old found my Tolstoy notes again." To think of it, I have never been able to write adequate notes. For some reason my ears and my hands have never gotten along very well:
Ears: Honey, will you take out the trash?
Hand: No. I'm watching the game.
Ears: You never do work around this house!
Hand: Don't give me that. I work hard all day waving and making bird silhouettes, and this is what I come home to?
Ears: That's it. We are over.
Hand: Fine, but I'm keeping the fingers.
I'm not the only one who doodles. In fact, everybody does. You can usually tell if someone is doodling because the professor has stopped talking, but the student is still nodding and writing vigorously, as if the professor's silence is the most profound statement ever, making Shakespeare look like an episode of "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." If you were to look at these people's notebooks, however, you would only find large spirals with sketches of small puppies around them.
I'm sure teachers notice this doodling. How could they not? I mean, would a student who only contributes, at best, one cough to class discussion really be that interested in the material to record every word the teacher says? Actually, yes, since he is the translator for the international student in the class. But that's not the point. The point is that students put up no pretension of hiding their doodlings.
For instance, last semester while speaking in front of a class, I was amazed by how many people clearly were not paying attention. I say this because I was up there discussing some obscure 18th-century poet whose name even I forgot during the presentation, and half the students were actively writing in their notebooks. Were they really writing down my words? Doubtful, as the only person who ever liked the poet was his mother, and even that's debatable. The students were doodling and they didn't attempt to hide it.
Yet although I was on the other side, I'm not giving up doodling. There's just something so relaxing about tracing my hand and turning it into a turkey during class. My rehab experience, however, has taught me a very important lesson, and that is, um, well, I don't know. I was too busy drawing and redrawing purple dragons on my 12-step pamphlet to listen.
Chris's column runs weekly Mondays. He can be reached at shuptrine@cavalierdaily.com.
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