Vermin

“This is not a story about a bug.” I look at my class. We have just finished discussing The Metamorphosis. We have argued, questioned, though, been saddened, vindicated, revolted. We have shared death and dying stories, and remembered people we love who are on the other side of time and memory.
We began this class discussion with accusations and judgments. “This is a stupid story.” “I can’t believe you made us read this.” “Nobody could turn into a bug.” The students were dismayed and disbelieving. They were puzzled. Why would I have forced them to read this awful thing? Instead of defending the assignment, I listened to all they have to say, and nodded my head in acknowledgment of their opinions.

Empty of annoyance and rebuttal toward the assignment, they begin questioning the story events. Maybe it was a dream? “Look at the first part of the story,” I tell them, “See where Kafka writes, ‘It was no dream.’” That finishes our happy solution of waking-up-from-a-dream. It was no dream.
“I hated how his family turned against him,” one student says. “Me, too,” answers another. “My family did that to me,” offers a third. “My family did that when my grandma was sick.” We move from angry and annoyed to thoughtful. We ponder fear and love, racial profiling and sacrifice. We look at how we feel about money and family. We hurt for Gregor Samsa and we pity his sister Greta. We wonder how Gregor’s society came to the point it did. We look at our own. The comments are longer and the silences more thoughtful than when we began talking about the story.
We read and write from our hearts, because the story is true.