Quantum Night

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Several of my colleagues in the University of Manitoba’s psychology department considered teaching to be a nuisance—“the ineluctable evil,” as Menno Warkentin used to call it, resenting the time it took away from his research—but I loved it. Oh, maybe not as much as I loved bananas, or binge-watching old episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm or Arrested Development, or photographing globular clusters with my telescope, but as far as things that people would actually pay me to do are concerned, it was right up there.

Granted, teaching first-year classes could be overwhelming: vast halls filled with stagnant air and row after row of angst-soaked teenagers. Although my own freshman year had been two decades ago, I vividly remembered signing up to take introductory psych in hopes of making sense of the bewildering mélange of anxiety and longing that swirled then—and pretty much now, too—within me. Cogito ergo sum? More like sollicito ergo sum—I fret, therefore I am.

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