Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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Campus was alive with activity as students hurried between classes on a sunny fall day. Parents mingled with their teens, snapping photos as overly enthusiastic tour guides presented them with information about the school.
Leaves of vibrant amber, crimson and gold blanketed the lawn, crunching underfoot as students relaxed in small groups, backpacks and notebooks spread around them. A light breeze carried the briny scent of the nearby Pacific Ocean.
In the outdoor commons area, a student band played acoustic covers of pop songs, while classmates lounged on the grass listening or grabbed coffee and snacks from the busy campus cafe. Flyers for upcoming club events, concerts and guest lectures covered the bulletin boards.
The pathways were filled with students riding bikes and skateboards to class, many clad in jeans, sweatshirts — some of which bore SANTA MONICA COLLEGE printed on the front in some variation — and sneakers to combat the autumn chill.
I navigated through the crowds, making my way towards my classroom, located in one of the newer academic buildings. The architecture was a beautiful space, bright and airy, with plenty of natural light and open-air classrooms.
I pushed the doors open, walking past a group of chatting students waiting outside of my classroom, greeting me as I approached.
"Hey, you Professor Knowles?" they chirped, moving aside.
"Hi y'all," I smiled, unlocking the door. "That's me. How are y'all doin'?"
"Good," one of the girls answered. "Looking forward to the lecture. We've heard so many good things about your class. Nice Telfar by the way."
"Aw, thank you," I replied, touched. "I appreciate that. Feel free to come inside now, we'll be startin' in a few."
The students filed into the room, taking their seats. As the last few stragglers entered, I took a moment to gather my thoughts and prepare for the lesson. Scanning over the small, intimate room, I took note of the students' varying backgrounds, many of which were Black. There were young, fresh-faced freshmen, eager to explore the copious amount of options the school had to offer, though it was obvious some had only chosen this class as it counted towards their course credits.
There were also a few older students, who had probably decided to pursue their creative passions after a life-altering event, or had a long-harbored desire to learn about the intersectionality of intellectualism and the arts.
Whatever the reason, it was heartening to see such a variety of ages and backgrounds coming together in pursuit of a common goal of learning.
I'd been teaching part-time for a year and a half and each new semester still felt strange standing on the opposite side, no longer the student, but now the teacher. My memories of being in their seats were still fresh. I'd only graduated from grad school two years prior, and was still adjusting.
