The exchange between a
teacher and student is the relationship between the teacher and her
career: one leads to another, and they must work together to make the
best environment for everyone.
There's an attitude I understood
implicitly growing up, even if it was to never be said aloud. That we
all do what we must, and that often it isn't what we want to be
doing. I was to never call attention to the fact that we were not as
happy as we could be. That my parents were struggling in their
marriage, in their jobs (or lack thereof). The real oppression came
not from having marriage or money problems, but by refusing to talk
about them, to admit that we were not perfect. I always resented
this. I wanted to shout about it, about the injustice of it,
even when I was young.
I see this in the classroom. Teachers
mumble to each other in the halls but smile widely at the students.
They work to make it work from within the system, even while
resenting the rules imposed by people who may have never been
teachers. There is a thin line they walk, between doing the best for
their students and keeping their jobs. It's a balancing act and
no one seems to be better at it (or simply more accustomed to it)
than teachers.
2004, a girl walks her dog at night,
feeling safe and speculative. It's a retention pond and light
pollution, but she feels the beautiful possibilities of the night and
all it has to offer. Later, at the near-extinct computer in her room,
she types out a poem for her class, one of the few students who took
joy in the assignment rather than seeing it as a chore. She writes
about that night, about the immature and ancient feeling of infinity.
Half the lines begin with I am.
Her teacher will breathe deeply when
reading it, the metaphors a bit tired, the words a bit dramatic- but
she will remember why she wanted to do this, encourage the students'
love of writing and poetry.
The teacher is jaded and bitter most
of the time and the students know it, but each time she is surprised
and delighted by her students, she gets a fresh breath of life into
her lectures. And then that girl, who stood alone at night. She
hears the teacher tell her she has the voice of a timeless poet,
kindness not entirely true, and later it is that moment that leads
her to teach as well – even after the poem is lost forever and
poetry no longer comes naturally to her.
We all do what we must. Those who do
not see in words would not say that writing is a must.
After
that assignment (on which I received 100% and a small smiley face),
my parents bought me a volume of Walt Whitman poetry, brand new,
unlike the rest of the faded book collection in our small apartment.
It is back-pocket sized, with green fabric binding, and almost half
of it is Song of Myself.
I taught myself To a Stranger
when I was fifteen – I fell in love with everyone and everything
that year, so it was appropriate:
"Passing stranger!
You do not know how longingly I look upon you
You
must be he I was seeking,
or she I was seeking (It comes to me as of a dream)
I have somewhere
surely lived a life of joy with you -"
(Mary
– great job. I can feel the night air. Have you ever heard of Walt
Whitman? Your work reminds me of Leaves
of Grass. Thank you. 100% :-) )
This
girl isn't always the perfect student who gets
it. They never are. In one class, maybe. In another – she sleeps.
Meiosis, mitosis, something about a periodic table, and she's
drooling on her desk. She doesn't mean to. The clock moves so slow
and it's nearly the end of the day, and her parents kept her up
fighting all night. It's never been this bad before. Her brother
murmurs he thinks dad is moving out soon, to a trailer closer to his
job in the middle of the state.
But her teacher
doesn't know this. All he sees is an indolent girl who dares to sleep
while he lectures. He kicks the tray of books under her desk,
startling her awake, and continues with his lesson. Other students
snicker behind their books.
After he beckons
her outside, she cries, but he doesn't want to stop. He is tired, so
tired, of this system apparently not working. He tries to make it
interesting, he didn't think he failed, but she slept, so he yells at
her. A girl-child too confused to stand up for herself, and he
doesn't hate himself for what he is doing, not even when she doesn't
show up to his class the next day and barely scrapes by with a
C-minus when it's all over.
Can you blame it
all on Sunshine State Standards and pressure by the administration?
Are teachers people too? Would he yell at you if you saw him at the
grocery store?
I'd
like to say I stayed awake in his class for the rest of the year, but
I didn't, and from then on it was
indolence, anger. Rebellion is a must, too, for those of us who don't
have much else.
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