I brisk into the classroom, set my heavy black bookbag on the desk, and compose my face into a kindly one for the coming perusal. They lollygag at doorways with sweethearts, stumble in checking schedules, and yawn in a stagy manner at the inevitable and predictable "icebreaking" patter. Then I write on the blackboard, feeling twenty-four pairs of eyes checking me out-more motherly than professorial in my dress, more Gap Baby than Gap in my style, name hyphenated, meaning feminist. I take my time and turn to face them, whiteboard marker still poised stinking in my hand. An English professor has to be histrionic or shrivel on the vine, so sometimes I drop a book on the desk to summon their eyes and attention.

I'm scanning too. I'm scanning for my Sami-that light in the eyes, that eagerness of pose which stops just short of nerdiness, that smile that is curious, not yet an ironic smirk. I don't care whether this year's Sami is male, as was the Ur-Sami, or female, as was last year's catalyst, but I think my profession, after nearly twenty-five years, owes me the one each year, if not each semester. The Sami may be smooth but not unctuous; kind, but not condescending to his peers; handsome or starlet-quality, but not with the worked-at patina that means he spends more time on his hair, she more time on nail art, than on homework. I've had Sami symbols who were extremely plain of face. Race definitely doesn't matter, nor does origin.

Sami the Original identified himself--when I pondered aloud how to pronounce his name, spelled S- A- M- I- L in full -- as "Persian," cannily avoiding the label Iranian since anti-Iran feeling was running high that semester, for reasons lost in the mist of international incidents and years.

We examine the textbooks together-an anthology of short stories, a novel, a grammar handbook. I read over departmentally-established guidelines for numbers of pages to be written, revised, and read to satisfy, and hand out my syllabi and rules describing my personal variations on the basic theme of Freshman Literature and Composition-old wine in new bottles, new wine in old bottles, new wine in new, etc, hoping as we test the corks that some fragrance will entice, but nobody raises a hand for a 2-

second whiff, an establishing sniff.

I recall that Sami the First had signaled me shyly at this point, inquiring despite his essential shyness whether or not the editor of our anthology, Ann Charters, might be the same Ann Charters who had edited a book on the Beats, Jack Kerouac in particular. (What freshman pays attention to editors? I remember asking myself. Many go all semester without knowing the name of the text or the name of the professor.) A great fan of Kerouac's writing, I confirmed Sami's conclusion and sighed. Now I had at least one who would rise, perhaps causing that exciting concoction of bubbling discussion and nearly "against-the-will" intellectual encounter that means the real thing happens in the classroom-the elixir of teaching I'm still addicted to.

Today, somebody's watch alarm goes off on the half hour (I make a mental note to explain that unless a student is a doctor or an EMT, no beepers or alarms will be allowed.) While enrollment in Freshman English means a fresh crop of eighteen and nineteen year olds for the most part, they have already heard that the coolest profs will let you out early on the first day if you don't ask a lot of nosy questions, so most have assumed THE POSITION-reared back, splay-legged, super-casual for the guys and turned slightly toward each other and beginning to whisper for the girls-which at my university is their preferred designations for each other. "Women" and "Men" make them nervous, as if maturity is expected.

I end the class early-ish, but not so early as to raise expectations that staying mute on their part will cause dismissal on my part. So far, nobody has sparked, no bent head suddenly snapped to attention over a title by a favorite author. My class may be Sami-less this semester. Then, as I gather my tools, I see a young woman sidle up. She's Hispanic and small, making it difficult to hide her advanced pregnancy. She sparkles when she speaks -"Marquez," she says, "Borges,-will we be reading many of these? I love the way he plays with your head in "The Garden of Forking Paths." We walk out together-she makes no reference to her swelling shape and I do not presume to inquire. I'm relieved. After all, it's the Sami mind I'm seeking-the bottle changes.

• Gay Davidson-Zielske