Robot Wars
By: Richard O’Shea
It was the final week of the semester, and everyone was already mentally halfway out the door. I sat among a very nice group of junior-college students. I enjoyed the class, but the students lacked motivation.
The course had moved steadily, we had uneventfully worked our way through the course book and completed an assessment. The students had complied in the minimal way, the way that people comply with instructions they don’t feel connected to. For the final class, I put on a movie and began giving each student their individual feedback.
It was then that I noticed a presence I had long stopped expecting: Taro (not his real name), the student who had been absent for nearly every class meeting. He had perfected absence to the point where it felt like part of his identity. Seeing him there—solid, breathing—felt almost like encountering a memory that had stepped out of place.
He sat calmly, watching the film. It was probably the most engaged he had been all semester, despite the fact he was on his phone.
When it was his turn, I sat beside him. I explained, as plainly as I could, that he had failed the course. Sometimes I feel bad failing students for absences. They might have missed one or two too many classes because of illness or family problems. This was not one of those cases, he wasn’t anywhere near passing. He listened without protest. When I finished, he let out a short laugh—not amused, not defiant, but simply acknowledging that everything I said was true and that it could not be otherwise.
“I understand,” he said. “School isn’t really for me.”
He told me, in a steady voice, that he would rather make battle robots. That he was part of a group building machines that fought other machines. He said the group was doing well. He hoped to turn it into a career.
As he spoke, I noticed a clarity in him that had never appeared in class. He described gears, competitions, and long hours in a workshop. He talked about it all as if he were recalling something essential—something that had shaped him more than any lesson I had given.
When he was done, I nodded. There wasn’t much more I could offer him beyond the truth he already knew.
He thanked me, quietly, and returned to his seat. The movie played on. The class ended. Students filtered out into the early evening light. And Taro disappeared again, this time with a reason that felt real.
Sometimes I think about him. He struck me as someone who had chosen a path early, not out of rebellion but out of understanding. I hope it carried him somewhere that made sense to him, somewhere where the machines he built moved in the direction he intended.
