I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.
William Faulkner
I am starting the process of teaching Faulkner's novel As I Lay Dying to my AP kids. It's been years since I read it myself, so the re-reading has been a pleasure.
Faulkner's world is such a thoroughly messed-up, yet somehow familiar place. Those characters he crafted are slices of Southern culture. They still exist. I see fragments and shades of them in neighbors and family members. I don't know what that says about me. Is it a bad thing when you recognize Faulkner characters?
For years I wouldn't read Faulkner. My first experience with him was The Sound and the Fury. I hated, hated, HATED that book, a reaction that is rare for me. I wouldn't read anything else by him and considered him to be highly overrated. Sometime in graduate school, I came back to him. I suppose it was more out of curiosity than anything else. I don't even remember what book it was that I read. It might have been AILD. I enjoyed it. That lead me to read more of his work. With each one, I found a rich world waiting that was fictional, yet familiar.
Faulkner distills the South into tiny, shimmering, jewel-like drops. Even though lots of things have changed since his South dissolved into mine, so many of his observations hold true. I don't know if that's because things change so slowly here, or if it's because the characters he wrote share traits that will be a part of human makeup one hundred years from now. Maybe it's a little bit of both.
I am by no means a Faulkner scholar, but I have learned to enjoy him. There are many more of his books that I need to read. I even have plans to revisit TSTF to see if it's really as bad as I remember. (Probably.)
Monday, September 26, 2005
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Teaching Poetry
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Emily Dickinson
I love teaching poetry. It makes this job worth doing. Every time I open a textbook or anthology, I feel a sense of wonder. I feel like a mage opening a tome of wisdom. And when I spin out the words, say them and hear them, I feel the magic of them unfold like a sparkling woven mantle wrapping me snugly.
Meanwhile, the kids are rolling eyes, printing misspelled slogans on their notebooks, and praying for the bell to set them free. I can't understand them. They are Other. Yet, not all of them have built those walls. Even some who are firmly entrenched may find that the power of the words slips through a chink, a bolt hole they forgot to secure, and touches them.
I will spend money on books, especially good poetry anthologies, faster than any other item. I bought one yesterday, and I bought another today. (If you're looking for a good anthology, I recommend the Garrison Keeler collection Good Poems for Bad Times. ) I love the feel of the covers in my hands. Paperback, hardback, clothbound, or rare, rare leather, it doesn't matter. There is luxury in the weight of it, the heaviness of ideas contained within. Every new poem and every old, familiar one demand and deserve my attention.
I sit in my new chair in my 70's paneled living room, and I open the pages. The words tumble out like a treasure chest of jewels spilling across the crocheted afghan in my lap. This is true luxury. I may never own the best or most modern of things, but as long as I have these words, these shards of their writers' souls, then what more could I ask?
Tomorrow, I will go back into the classroom full of enthusiasm. I will fight the gnawing void I find there and stand guardian over my poor, broken-winged student-doves once again. Maybe a few of them will see the vast wealth that beckons. If I can share even the tiniest glimmer of the magic, then I suppose it will have been a good day.
Emily Dickinson
I love teaching poetry. It makes this job worth doing. Every time I open a textbook or anthology, I feel a sense of wonder. I feel like a mage opening a tome of wisdom. And when I spin out the words, say them and hear them, I feel the magic of them unfold like a sparkling woven mantle wrapping me snugly.
Meanwhile, the kids are rolling eyes, printing misspelled slogans on their notebooks, and praying for the bell to set them free. I can't understand them. They are Other. Yet, not all of them have built those walls. Even some who are firmly entrenched may find that the power of the words slips through a chink, a bolt hole they forgot to secure, and touches them.
I will spend money on books, especially good poetry anthologies, faster than any other item. I bought one yesterday, and I bought another today. (If you're looking for a good anthology, I recommend the Garrison Keeler collection Good Poems for Bad Times. ) I love the feel of the covers in my hands. Paperback, hardback, clothbound, or rare, rare leather, it doesn't matter. There is luxury in the weight of it, the heaviness of ideas contained within. Every new poem and every old, familiar one demand and deserve my attention.
I sit in my new chair in my 70's paneled living room, and I open the pages. The words tumble out like a treasure chest of jewels spilling across the crocheted afghan in my lap. This is true luxury. I may never own the best or most modern of things, but as long as I have these words, these shards of their writers' souls, then what more could I ask?
Tomorrow, I will go back into the classroom full of enthusiasm. I will fight the gnawing void I find there and stand guardian over my poor, broken-winged student-doves once again. Maybe a few of them will see the vast wealth that beckons. If I can share even the tiniest glimmer of the magic, then I suppose it will have been a good day.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Monkey with a Tape Recorder
Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats. ~Voltaire
For those of you wondering where I've been the past 5 days, have I got a story for you.
The week just started out badly. I was tired and cross, and the following days did nothing to improve things. Monday was forgettable. Tuesday saw my beloved cat Yoda at the vet's because she'd somehow hurt herself. She's taking antibiotics and pain medicines, and will hopefully be better soon. Wednesday, though, came and took the prize for worst day EVER at school, eclipsing all that had gone before.
As those of you who read me often know, I'm a high school English teacher and our professional lives here in MS are subject to the gravitational pull of State Testing. Our school is seeking to improve scores and had invited an educational consulting firm in.
I was expecting a lecture of dubious value on teaching methods, blah, blah, blah. I was expecting to have a headache and possibly, depending on where they decided to seat us, a literal pain in the posterior by day's end. What I was not expecting was that they would bring an entire curriculum in and tell us to teach it and only it....or else.
Every word was scripted. Every activity was prepackaged right down to little captions saying, "Say this now...." Every novel, every short story, every poem had been chosen for us with no input allowed. We were to become glorified monkeys with tape recorders, and we were to be grateful for the chance to become such wonderful teachers with so little effort on our own parts. If we chose not to use the material, we needed to be aware that they (the consulting firm) would be doing surprise drop-in visits just to make sure everything was "on track". Should they find us not using their materials in the approved way (naughty, naughty), they will write a nasty little evaluation that bypasses our principal and goes directly to the system superintendant.
The three other 10th grade English teachers and I were stunned. I could not have been more shocked if the tidy little blond in the navy blue suit had gotten up on the conference table and started breakdancing. My eyes actually teared up, and I thought I was going to have to flee the meeting to recompose myself. Was this what they thought of my teaching? If so, if I was so incompetent, shouldn't they replace me?
The information got even more grim when we were told that the company was behind in development and publication of this magic tool. Only the first nine weeks of curriculum was ready. The second nine weeks was to be shipped in early October, and the following semester hasn't even been written yet. No full course progression exists, nor could anyone tell us exactly when our major works would fall, or even what those major works might be. We broke for lunch and staggered out of the meeting into the sun of the parking lot.
The English department as a whole is known for being...er...opinionated. We are the hallway most commonly avoided by the administration because of our propensity for grabbing the hapless principal and dragging them into our rooms with a muttered, "Come here...I have to tell you something..." I'd say those of us who teach 10th grade are probably at the loud, frayed, leading edge of this.
That being said, you can imagine the conversation when the four of us went to Sonic for lunch. We were all varying shades of mad, hurt, and/or hopeless. Rebellion was fomenting. Ultimatums were flung along with wild french-fry enhanced gestures. Solidarity was forged. Chocolate was sought and consumed on our way back for the second half of the day-long meeting.
I went up to my room during sixth period to collect a couple of text books for discussion at the tail end of the meeting, and found an additional problem awaiting me there. The kids, as kids will do with a sub, were talking and laughing instead of taking care of their assignment. The sub was sitting at my desk playing with her cellphone and the radio was blasting boom-boom music. I almost blew a blood vessel. They were supposed to be writing an essay, and she hadn't even given them the paper for the assignment. They were supposed to be WRITING an ESSAY and she had boom-boom music going.
I displayed heroic restraint, passed out the papers to the kids, ignored the sub, went back downstairs, found the principal in charge of substitutes and gave him an earful. He went to deal with it. I wanted to smite her. It was just too much to deal with when I was already so distressed because of the meeting.
By the end of the day, I felt as though I had been beaten head to toe. I was heart and soul sick. I wanted to pack my Shakespeare bobblehead and walk away for good. I picked up the tattered remnants of the assignments I'd left for my classes and went home. I ate something and crawled into my bed.
The next day, I was still sick. I woke up with my stomach churning. I dragged myself to school and went through the motions. I could not shake the thought of the monkey with the tape recorder. It would save the system so much money, after all.
One of the other teachers went and had a talk with our head principal. He said that he wasn't aware that the consulting firm expected us to use their materials to the exclusion of all else, and that he would not support that. He told us not to worry, and yesterday morning, he came by my room to talk with me personally about it. I felt so much better.
This week has been a total crap-fest, but I am hopeful that next week will be better. Even though I will lose two days to testing, I think I can stand anything as long as my principal doesn't throw us to the testing wolves.
This is where I've been over the past week. Hopefully, this particular "long, dark night of the soul" has passed.
For those of you wondering where I've been the past 5 days, have I got a story for you.
The week just started out badly. I was tired and cross, and the following days did nothing to improve things. Monday was forgettable. Tuesday saw my beloved cat Yoda at the vet's because she'd somehow hurt herself. She's taking antibiotics and pain medicines, and will hopefully be better soon. Wednesday, though, came and took the prize for worst day EVER at school, eclipsing all that had gone before.
As those of you who read me often know, I'm a high school English teacher and our professional lives here in MS are subject to the gravitational pull of State Testing. Our school is seeking to improve scores and had invited an educational consulting firm in.
I was expecting a lecture of dubious value on teaching methods, blah, blah, blah. I was expecting to have a headache and possibly, depending on where they decided to seat us, a literal pain in the posterior by day's end. What I was not expecting was that they would bring an entire curriculum in and tell us to teach it and only it....or else.
Every word was scripted. Every activity was prepackaged right down to little captions saying, "Say this now...." Every novel, every short story, every poem had been chosen for us with no input allowed. We were to become glorified monkeys with tape recorders, and we were to be grateful for the chance to become such wonderful teachers with so little effort on our own parts. If we chose not to use the material, we needed to be aware that they (the consulting firm) would be doing surprise drop-in visits just to make sure everything was "on track". Should they find us not using their materials in the approved way (naughty, naughty), they will write a nasty little evaluation that bypasses our principal and goes directly to the system superintendant.
The three other 10th grade English teachers and I were stunned. I could not have been more shocked if the tidy little blond in the navy blue suit had gotten up on the conference table and started breakdancing. My eyes actually teared up, and I thought I was going to have to flee the meeting to recompose myself. Was this what they thought of my teaching? If so, if I was so incompetent, shouldn't they replace me?
The information got even more grim when we were told that the company was behind in development and publication of this magic tool. Only the first nine weeks of curriculum was ready. The second nine weeks was to be shipped in early October, and the following semester hasn't even been written yet. No full course progression exists, nor could anyone tell us exactly when our major works would fall, or even what those major works might be. We broke for lunch and staggered out of the meeting into the sun of the parking lot.
The English department as a whole is known for being...er...opinionated. We are the hallway most commonly avoided by the administration because of our propensity for grabbing the hapless principal and dragging them into our rooms with a muttered, "Come here...I have to tell you something..." I'd say those of us who teach 10th grade are probably at the loud, frayed, leading edge of this.
That being said, you can imagine the conversation when the four of us went to Sonic for lunch. We were all varying shades of mad, hurt, and/or hopeless. Rebellion was fomenting. Ultimatums were flung along with wild french-fry enhanced gestures. Solidarity was forged. Chocolate was sought and consumed on our way back for the second half of the day-long meeting.
I went up to my room during sixth period to collect a couple of text books for discussion at the tail end of the meeting, and found an additional problem awaiting me there. The kids, as kids will do with a sub, were talking and laughing instead of taking care of their assignment. The sub was sitting at my desk playing with her cellphone and the radio was blasting boom-boom music. I almost blew a blood vessel. They were supposed to be writing an essay, and she hadn't even given them the paper for the assignment. They were supposed to be WRITING an ESSAY and she had boom-boom music going.
I displayed heroic restraint, passed out the papers to the kids, ignored the sub, went back downstairs, found the principal in charge of substitutes and gave him an earful. He went to deal with it. I wanted to smite her. It was just too much to deal with when I was already so distressed because of the meeting.
By the end of the day, I felt as though I had been beaten head to toe. I was heart and soul sick. I wanted to pack my Shakespeare bobblehead and walk away for good. I picked up the tattered remnants of the assignments I'd left for my classes and went home. I ate something and crawled into my bed.
The next day, I was still sick. I woke up with my stomach churning. I dragged myself to school and went through the motions. I could not shake the thought of the monkey with the tape recorder. It would save the system so much money, after all.
One of the other teachers went and had a talk with our head principal. He said that he wasn't aware that the consulting firm expected us to use their materials to the exclusion of all else, and that he would not support that. He told us not to worry, and yesterday morning, he came by my room to talk with me personally about it. I felt so much better.
This week has been a total crap-fest, but I am hopeful that next week will be better. Even though I will lose two days to testing, I think I can stand anything as long as my principal doesn't throw us to the testing wolves.
This is where I've been over the past week. Hopefully, this particular "long, dark night of the soul" has passed.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
All Things to All People
To weep is to make less the depth of grief. ~William Shakespeare, King Henry the Sixth
I haven't been keeping up with this very well this week. Just another stone of guilt and obligation around my neck, and I'm already so weighed down that I can barely stand it. I am almost at my break-and-run stage. I am so burned out from trying to be all things to all people.
I'm tired of trying to get all the stupid limbs out of my yard. I'm tired of constantly dragging them only to find that I haven't really made any progress at all. I'm tired of seeing the tops of the pines lying in the middle of my circle drive and knowing that I have neither the tools nor the strength needed to get them moved.
I'm tired of trying to keep my house immaculate. My floors need the vacuum, my tub needs to be scrubbed, and I need to sweep my porches. I need to dust, polish, and mop. I can't keep up with all of it.
I'm tired of trying to be a perfect teacher. I'm tired of the weight of fourteen sets of papers dragging at my shoulder every day when I leave school. I'm tired of putting together my best efforts and it not mattering at all.
I'm tired of coming home to a dark and empty house. I'm tired of having to do everything all by myself, including picking myself up when I feel like this, and I'm mortally tired of pasting the socially-acceptable smile on my face and pretending that everything is okay so nobody has to worry about me. I'm tired of being the shoulder that's cried on and never having anyone to turn to myself. I'm tired of all the circle closing and me being on the outside everytime.
I guess this is going to be my form of venting, and tomorrow, I'll probably have all this back under control, but right now, I just can't juggle these balls any more. If there's no entry for a few days, it's because this is one thing I can drop from my daily routine without huge effects. I'm just sick and tired and in need of an extended holiday.
I haven't been keeping up with this very well this week. Just another stone of guilt and obligation around my neck, and I'm already so weighed down that I can barely stand it. I am almost at my break-and-run stage. I am so burned out from trying to be all things to all people.
I'm tired of trying to get all the stupid limbs out of my yard. I'm tired of constantly dragging them only to find that I haven't really made any progress at all. I'm tired of seeing the tops of the pines lying in the middle of my circle drive and knowing that I have neither the tools nor the strength needed to get them moved.
I'm tired of trying to keep my house immaculate. My floors need the vacuum, my tub needs to be scrubbed, and I need to sweep my porches. I need to dust, polish, and mop. I can't keep up with all of it.
I'm tired of trying to be a perfect teacher. I'm tired of the weight of fourteen sets of papers dragging at my shoulder every day when I leave school. I'm tired of putting together my best efforts and it not mattering at all.
I'm tired of coming home to a dark and empty house. I'm tired of having to do everything all by myself, including picking myself up when I feel like this, and I'm mortally tired of pasting the socially-acceptable smile on my face and pretending that everything is okay so nobody has to worry about me. I'm tired of being the shoulder that's cried on and never having anyone to turn to myself. I'm tired of all the circle closing and me being on the outside everytime.
I guess this is going to be my form of venting, and tomorrow, I'll probably have all this back under control, but right now, I just can't juggle these balls any more. If there's no entry for a few days, it's because this is one thing I can drop from my daily routine without huge effects. I'm just sick and tired and in need of an extended holiday.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Power Returns
Fallen-tree video is absolutely essential to hurricane broadcasts. The most sought-after footage is, in order of ratings: 1. Big tree on strip mall. 2. Big tree on house. 3. Big tree on car. 4. Small tree on car. 5. Assorted shrubbery on car.
Carl Hiaasen
Today, eight days after the hurricane, I have electricity again. I hardly know how to live. I have been walking around in the humid darkness for so long, that turning on a lamp seems almost foreign. All the windows in my house are now closed, my air conditioner is functional, although set very high because I've become so used to HEAT, and there is a pitcher of Red Diamond Sweet Tea chilling in my refridgerator. In a few moments, I will partake of the almost unheard-of luxury of a hot shower.
The past week has been strange and beyond strange. I started to title this entry "A Country Girl Can Survive", but I opted for the more prosaic title above. I am trying to make the transition from manual labor and tree clearing to secondary education again. I learned to live by the light of kerosene lanterns. I became adept at the mind games of "it's not really cold water...it's just cool and pleasant." I tied a bandana around my mouth and cleaned out nasty things with odors that almost gagged me from my freezer and refridgerator. I ate vegetables cold from the cans.
Right now, everyone is very tense about fuel, and another storm is brewing. Everywhere you look, there are still massive trees lying in forlorn chunks and people sort of wandering around their yards staring at things. Crazy people are shooting at rescue personnel in New Orleans, and every moment seems to be writing historically momentous events. I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring, but for tonight at least, I have power again, and all the often-taken-for-granted pleasures that it bestows.
Carl Hiaasen
Today, eight days after the hurricane, I have electricity again. I hardly know how to live. I have been walking around in the humid darkness for so long, that turning on a lamp seems almost foreign. All the windows in my house are now closed, my air conditioner is functional, although set very high because I've become so used to HEAT, and there is a pitcher of Red Diamond Sweet Tea chilling in my refridgerator. In a few moments, I will partake of the almost unheard-of luxury of a hot shower.
The past week has been strange and beyond strange. I started to title this entry "A Country Girl Can Survive", but I opted for the more prosaic title above. I am trying to make the transition from manual labor and tree clearing to secondary education again. I learned to live by the light of kerosene lanterns. I became adept at the mind games of "it's not really cold water...it's just cool and pleasant." I tied a bandana around my mouth and cleaned out nasty things with odors that almost gagged me from my freezer and refridgerator. I ate vegetables cold from the cans.
Right now, everyone is very tense about fuel, and another storm is brewing. Everywhere you look, there are still massive trees lying in forlorn chunks and people sort of wandering around their yards staring at things. Crazy people are shooting at rescue personnel in New Orleans, and every moment seems to be writing historically momentous events. I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring, but for tonight at least, I have power again, and all the often-taken-for-granted pleasures that it bestows.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Alive
No quote. I'm on my parents' aged computer and I don't want to take up a lot of their computer dial-up time.
I am alive. The city where I live is slowly recovering. I still don't have power, but my parents do, so that's where I am at the present time.
Sometime later, sometime when I have power at my own house (whenever that is), I'm sure I'll write something terribly clever about the whole thing, but right now, all I wanted to say is that I'm alive, my house stands tree-free, I have no power, I'm sick to death of soup from cans, and that I am very thankful to be here, even in these conditions.
For all of you who have been praying, thank you. Only God could have gotten us through this. Please keep praying for all the people not so far from here who have lost it all.
More later....
I am alive. The city where I live is slowly recovering. I still don't have power, but my parents do, so that's where I am at the present time.
Sometime later, sometime when I have power at my own house (whenever that is), I'm sure I'll write something terribly clever about the whole thing, but right now, all I wanted to say is that I'm alive, my house stands tree-free, I have no power, I'm sick to death of soup from cans, and that I am very thankful to be here, even in these conditions.
For all of you who have been praying, thank you. Only God could have gotten us through this. Please keep praying for all the people not so far from here who have lost it all.
More later....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)