the listeners.

My psychology class is three hours long, so we take a break at around 7:15. My classmates leave the room to go out and smoke or call their significant others or do whatever it is they do for ten minutes every Thursday night. I never go, because I don't smoke, I don't really have any friends in that class, and I can survive three hours without talking to my significant other, who I would biasedly say is much more interesting than any of theirs. I've made a habit to have a book with me, so I take out Franny and Zooey, because Josh has convinced me not to give up on Salinger just because of Holden Caulfield.

I glance up to realize that it's just me and Mazie, the teacher. I wonder if this situation will encourage her to start up a conversation; it does.

"What are you reading there, Sandra?"

"Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger," I reply.

"Oh, I don't know that author."

"Sure you do. He wrote The Catcher in the Rye," I tell her, confident that someone with a Masters Degree in Psychology has at least heard of Salinger's most famous work. She has. I tell her that I'm dating a literature dork, and as a result, I've been reading a lot more lately.

I like Mazie. She's an older woman, so she's a little old-fashioned, but she worked for years and years as professional counselor, so she's seen a lot of interesting things. She is surprisingly open-minded for a woman her age who grew up in the mountains of North Carolina, and I know that it's because of all the people who have constantly challenged her views of the world. Her stories, of which we've heard only a scant few, are harrowing in that it seems certain that any one of them could happen to one of us.

"You know, ever since Mom died, I've had a hard time reading books or watching movies. I just want something that's not stressful, you know, that I can watch and relax and not worry about it. My husband thinks it's a little strange, because sometimes I don't want to watch a movie with him that's really a little ole nothing movie, but it's still just, just too stressful. And I have enough stress without all that. But it's getting better." She pauses for a long time. "I don't know why I told you that."

"You can talk, too, Mazie." I want to encourage her if she wants to offload some feelings, instead of just listening to everyone else all the time. I wear my most open and best listening expression on my face, but she says nothing while turning to some papers on her desk. I return to my book, a little hurt, because though I know I come off as brash and aloof, I feel like I'm a pretty good listener. I shouldn't be hurt, though, Mazie doesn't even really know me and she's spent her life doing mostly listening. Her mom died early in the semester ("She died, she did not pass away or depart, she died," she told us when we talked about euphemisms.), and she's made few allusions to the grieving that she's been doing even while discussing bereavement in class.

What a burden to take in the pain of everyone else and feel it weighing you down. I hope that Mazie has someone to talk to, hopefully someone better than some smart-aleck little twenty-something in her class. I've felt that way before - all listening and no talking. It's frustrating and lonely, even on the very small scale that I've experienced it. Even the listeners need to talk, or write. Maybe I should tell her to start a blog.