With All Due Respect to Billy Collins

This poem is a response to Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry." 

---

I know a poem has died when I have to dissect it
to show my students how it used to work.

Gently I make my incision,
pull the skin apart,
reveal the muscle and tissue.

The class is somewhat horrified
as I remove each organ for their inspection,
lining these up like conquered chess pieces.

They fall back to sleep as I try to explain
that once, not very long ago in the language,
this creature was alive.

I replace each part and posit a theory on
how the complete organism may have functioned,
even how it may have interacted with others
in its day.

It is no use, by then.
Their phones are in their hands
or on their minds.

Oh hell, so is mine.

We all reach for our pockets
a minute before we should,
eager to know if anyone loves us.

Teaching Shakespeare's Othello

Confession: I am so tired of Othello that I could just... end this unit two weeks early. It has gone on way too long for me, and here's why: I have given them way too many assignments on the same act, and they are generally plugging away at them. But it's so hard to watch. And watch I must: I have trained the students to work in their groups, given them the tools to do the work (I hope), threatened them if they get off task, and it would seem that they don't need me anymore.

So now they're all preparing their renditions of separate acts of Othello, and I'm just... hanging out. I have confessed here before that wait time is the hardest thing for me in teaching. As I wait for my students to produce their acts of Shakespeare, as I wait to see whether their understanding is acceptable or irredeemable, I feel as though I must remind myself to hold steady: let them struggle and laugh and write and play and work hard together. Being available is doing something.

However, even if their productions don't suck big time, it's back to the drawing board with this crazy-awful unit.

June

It's beautiful: being overcome
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.

[Breathe.]

It's beautiful.

Crash or Soar

I have not heard good things about our ninth grade class as a whole. The other English teachers I've spoken with have had their hands full trying to make a go of their English 9 classes. Mrs. B said at the beginning of each new semester, you hope for your class to run and take off from the ground. That being off the ground is the learning experience, and it's thrilling. But her last class walked a bit, and—plunk—into the water they dropped and sank. They did not want to learn.

I approached my first ever English 9 class with a good deal of reservation as a result of this and other tragic stories. If we couldn't fly, at least we could stay away from the deep end for the plunk.

Today, my English 9 removed my fear of the plunk. Jay read his personal narrative aloud for our revision circle. It was about his being adopted. It was rife with spelling and grammatical errors. But the heart of it was not the less visible for them: he was glad to be in a safe, caring family that brought him closer to God. He read in a stilted way, not yet a confident reader aloud. But he persevered manfully through the piece. We applauded him, and slowly hands went in the air for commentary. Everyone appreciated his sharing his piece. One girl, Elena, thanked him for writing his story. She, too, had been adopted, but more recently. And she still remembered what it felt like not to be wanted by her father and mother. She told us of the relief and gratitude she felt toward her adoptive parents, the people she trusted so wholly. She ended with a sob. It may have taken all she had to talk about that. But she knew she had to, because Jay had the courage to write about this thing that had so moved her as well.

When she had finished, I, like an idiot, said something to try to draw the attention away from her... I think I was uncomfortable for her. I didn't want her to feel as though she had spoken to an empty room. But I think now that I would have rather just said, "thanks so much for sharing that," and left it.

So, there is a story of how my class lifted off of their own volition, and didn't wobble and crash. They soared.

Hand-written Comments

When I received a paper back from a teacher, the first thing I did was look at the grade. But I barely hesitated before reading the comments all over the piece. Indeed, I barely breathed as I read them. As I read those comments, I learned so much. My favorite teachers of writing were those who wrote a lot on my papers. That was where they proved themselves to me: I can still picture some of those comments. I took that advice and improved.

This is my second post about grading papers. Different ones today, of course. But my own experience leads me to believe there may be other writers just like me, hungry for the ability to communicate clearly and beautifully.

I say go ahead, use red pen!--make the paper bleed! I will try to resurrect it.

Letter to Student Teachers of English

Dear Student Teacher of English,

I'll start where we usually start: if you're nervous about student teaching, and tired of listening to the naysayers regarding “the economy and everything,” I feel for you. Whatever. Try hard not to listen to them. The thing about teaching is that we always need teachers. There is no lack of students in the world. Maybe there is a lack of funding. For now. But you are learning how to transmit a worthwhile area of knowledge. English is valuable and English teachers are valuable. Keep your head up.

I can't ever tell you how much I have to learn in teaching. Even if your cooperating teacher is a slacker or a jerk, you still have a lot to learn from him/her. My cooperating teacher was a model of professionalism. And, of course, all the areas of professionalism you've heard about are important. My co-op came in at 7:25 every morning, the last possible minute per her contract (but she was never, ever late). A few times this semester, I arrived a minute or two later than her. She noticed. I felt like a real idiot.

If you want to take professionalism to a whole new level, refuse to complain. A few times I was openly annoyed about having to cooperate with (what I thought was) an unjust IEP. I shouldn't have said anything about it. I noticed my cooperating teacher's silence when she had the opportunity of agreeing with me and complaining about the system. She didn't blame or mud-sling. She came to work. And she worked hard. You always have the opportunity to complain. But complaining is the lowest form of interaction. Why not analyze something? Or invent something new? Or laugh? Or friggin' grade something? You have a lot of that to do all the time. That is the kind of person you want to be in the classroom.

Do not let yourself be made afraid of anything or anyone. You're ready for this. Be fearless. Every afternoon when you get in the car, forgive yourself for what you did stupidly. If you're like me, you're going to do a whole lot of stupid crap. You will look in your rearview mirror, and catch your own eye, and scowl, and say to yourself, “seriously? Where did you escape from?” Forgive yourself. Before you go into the building the next morning, release yourself again from yesterday's mistakes. It's a new day, and it's going to be okay.

Write your cooperating teacher a letter of gratitude afterward, no matter what kind of person he/she was. You shared a classroom. You're bonded. Deal with it.

Alright, stop reading this and go do a great job!

Sincerely,

Carolyn

A Student in Fall

Here is a writing exercise for creating smaller, more provocative prose. Think of a place, a time. Take all the words you need to create the picture in your own mind.

Here's mine:

Widget the cat

hot chocolate

sofa chair, striped

purring

peace

wishing for a snow storm

Now, add as few words as you can to create a picture of the moment for another reader.

Here's mine:

Short days have come with fall. I stay inside when the sun is out. I sit with a book, the cat, hot chocolate, and wish for a snow storm to give me peace.

Where I'm From

(This was an assignment based on the poem by George Ella Lyon: http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html )

I am from Waynesboro,
Pennsylvania,
the United States
of America,
the Central Mountains,
specifically the valleys.
I am rural
but not boots
raised on a farm.
Instead, sneakers
worn down from sidewalks.

I am from Nancy and Ralph,
Helen and David.
Babysitters who were family,
and family who were strangers.
From teachers and nurses

people trying to be faithful.
From church seats to pews to folding chairs--
One Jesus.

I am from early mornings and toaster breakfasts,
mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade chicken soup,
leftovers, and no recipes. Mismatched dishes, a
cluttered kitchen table, a TV on in another room.

I am from the cinema in winter, park in summer--
sunburns and freckles, chapped lips and runny noses--
snowfights and long walks to school with a delay.

I am from the sunset, quiet evening, iced tea,
prowling cat in the bushes of a fading day.
From the back porch overlooking a slanted field;
the field filled up,
now it's Crown Circle.

I am from tears and hope,
shouting and laughter,
trial and defense,
discord and peace.

Loop Inspiration

An exercise for inspiration: begin to write (write!) for two minutes. But you MUST stop after two minutes. Then circle any word from that piece, and begin writing with that word for another two minutes. Repeat. Here is my first loop.
____________________________________

Travel Time.
When you leave the house eventually,
maybe early in the morning,
with no guarantees.
Maybe you will not sleep in a bed tonight.
Maybe you will not sleep, because you are stopped at the border between the U.S.A. and Canada. And the police are inspecting your car.
____________________________________________

Guarantees.
You said "I do."
You exchanged rings.
And yet
it's just whatever.
People tell you both that
breaking this union is
unholy, impossible,
even. Just as you can't
pull apart a golden
circle.
Oh
but you can melt it in fire.
What better symbol can
we exchange?
A heart? A lung?
Bone of my bone
flesh of my flesh.
_______________________________________________

Impossible.
She only has one arm that works. But she is determined to climb the rock wall. So she gets the harness situated, with help. And Wendell holds the ropes, and she begins an ascent.
Impossible.
But she is not alone. Her twin sister uses her two good arms to hoist herself up, just beside her. And with the strength of three arms, they go up, up--to the top.

Lupita Mañana, by Patricia Beatty

I'm reading an especially difficult book right now for a class on teaching literature to young adults, Lupita Mañana by Patricia Beatty. It is written in English, and Beatty is not of Hispanic descent, although she lived most of her life in California. The book is written for young adults. But it leaves an ache in me.

A brother and sister are forced to travel northward from the Baja peninsula into the United States. They are taken advantage of at nearly every turn, and the only thing that saves them from falling completely into the hands of robbers, liars, and killers is an amount of common sense. These children are not extraordinary in any way. They have no special intuitive powers, no special intelligence, no special savings account waiting for them. They are folks. Just folks. And I sympathize with them something awful! I am stunned by the reality of their situation. I am sure I've read half of this book with my mouth agape.

First, Second, and Third Languages

I just finished an English "lesson" with Yazmin. We had a wonderful conversation, explaining "was," "would," contractions, the third person singular, and the varied cultural treatment of language learners. We agreed that many people in the U.S. seem to believe English to be the language that God speaks. For that reason they may become impatient with those learning English--and this often without thinking about why they are impatient. Their mindset is different. They will give up on the conversation more easily, deciding that it is not worth the embarrassment for both parties to keep trying.

We agreed that the same puzzlement exists, for example, in Mexico, where people may also expect their conversational partners to speak perfectly. But instead of impatience with the learner, the native speaker in Mexico will usually exhibit curiosity at the learner, thereby aiding the conversational transaction.

I see more and more that a dignified and determined attitude toward language learners is most likely to instill confidence in speaking. I think the main impediment to language learning is fear of making mistakes and sounding stupid. Learning is first admitting that we don't know something; and secondly forming that knowledge, usually by experience. The implications for this are as follows: we shall make mistakes. Praise the Lord. What better way to remain humble than to be continually frustrated in our attempts to communicate even a basic idea?

I have a wonderful example of humility. On our way to Tapatios on Sunday, Kevin was explaining to Yazmin, Kiko, and Moises his understanding of American Sign Language. He has had two years of college Spanish, but he still lacks some confidence, and it had been some time, he said, since he had practiced. He was explaining his second language in his third language! A few times he looked to me for help, using a sign and a questioning face, as if to say, "how do I say {insert sign} in Spanish?"

How do I tell you? You had to be there to laugh with us--to know with us that we don't know. I remember those moments with a new affection, a renewed vigor to go and do what seems at first to be uncomfortable, and therefore unnecessary. Perhaps that is what makes the reward so great.

Dear Literary Criticism Paper,

Right now you exist only in faith. But in a matter of four days, I will see you face-to-page. I await that glorious day with thoughts of uninterrupted slumber and an impatience with that part of my mind which is responsible for feeding ideas into a word processor. It is gone and is demanding a higher wage.

Your Expectant Slave,
Carolyn

Almost one week later, I still wonder why
you have read The Catcher in the Rye
So many times.
Is it because you sympathize
with emptiness just behind the eyes?
Bloodshot and remarkable, they hold my attention.