A Different Blue(5)

"Hello," he said politely. He had a British accent. What was a guy with a British accent doing

in Boulder City, Nevada? His tone was warm and friendly, and he seemed unbothered by my

purposeful disrespect. He looked down at the roll that was sitting on a music stand to his

right.

"You must be Blue Echohawk . . ." His voice trailed off a little and his expression was one of

muted surprise. The name tends to throw people. I have dark hair, but my eyes are very blue. I

don't really look like an Indian.

"And you must be Mr. Wilson," I retorted.

Laughter rang out. Mr. Wilson smiled. “I am. As I was telling your classmates, you may call me

Wilson. Except when you are late or disrespectful, in which case I would appreciate the Mr," he

finished mildly.

"Well in that case, I guess I'd better stick to Mr. Wilson then. Because I'm usually late, and

I'm always disrespectful." I smiled back sweetly.

Mr. Wilson shrugged. “We'll see.” He stared at me for another second. The set of his grey eyes

made him look slightly mournful, like one of those dogs with the liquid gaze and the long

expression. He didn't strike me as a barrel of laughs. I sighed again. I knew I didn't want to

take this class. History was my least favorite subject. European History sounded about as bad as

you could get.

"Literature is my favorite subject." Mr. Wilson's eyes left my face as he launched into an

introduction of the course. He said the word literature with only three syllables. Lit-ra-ture.

I wiggled myself into a mostly comfortable position and stared crossly at the young professor.

“You might wonder, then, why I'm teaching history.”

I didn't think anyone cared enough to wonder, but we were all a little transfixed by his accent.

He continued.

"Remove the first two letters off the word history. Now what does it spell?"

"Story," some eager beaver chirped from behind me.

"Exactly." Mr. Wilson nodded sagely. “And that's what history is. A story. It's someone's

story. As a boy, I discovered that I would much rather read a book than listen to a lecture.

Literature makes history come to life. It is maybe the most accurate depiction of history,

especially literature that was written in the time period depicted in the story. My job this

year is to introduce you to stories that open your mind to a broader world – a colorful history

– and to help you see the connections to your own life. I promise to not be too dull if you

promise to attempt to listen and learn."

"How old are you?" a girl's voice rang out flirtatiously.

“You sound like Harry Potter,” some guy grunted from the back of the room. There were a few

giggles, and Mr. Wilson's ears turned red where they peeked out beneath the hair that curled

around them. He ignored the question and the comment and began handing out sheets of paper.

There were some groans. Paper meant work.

"Look at the page in front of you," Mr. Wilson instructed, as he finished distributing the

sheets. He walked to the front of the classroom and leaned against the whiteboard, folding his

arms. He looked at us for several seconds, making sure we were all with him. “It's blank.

Nothing's been written on the page. It's a clean slate. Kind of like the rest of your life.

Blank, unknown, unwritten. But you all have a history, yes?"