Saturday, January 17, 2009

Halfway Through

My first semester as a teacher is coming to a close - and I haven't slit my wrist as many of my collegues have claimed I might. I bought some razors once, tied a noose one night. But, I made it so far. Actually worked in a cool lesson on my 11th graders despite the shotgun to our heads that is the SOL test.

We read "The Devil and Tom Walker" and are studying the dark Romantics - some of my favorite shit- and I introduced the short story - arguably the sweetest prose writing form there is. I personally love Carver and O'Conner, but Irving and Poe and Hawthorne are great forerunners. So, I had them write a Romantic short.

Got them in the computer lab and showed them how to format dialogue and how to build tension in their plots. It felt good. The kids loved it. They actually (most of them - not just a few like it usually is) got into it. They're not finished, but we'll be picking it back up after exams. But it really felt like teaching, like I had something to give them, roaming around the room, hearing their keyboards clipping and clapping, the silence in the room aside from that sound, their fingers stopping, their eyes gazing off into the world of their story.

Then they'd ask me to look at it.
Ask me if one detail should come before the one they had half typed, the cursor waiting for my answer.

Many of them will remember that story. Not to say any of them will be so inspired to become a writer, but I couldn't help but remember my tenth grade year, when I realized I loved to write. Shy kid, I was. You couldn't put me in front of the class for anything. But we had this journal our teacher made us write in every once in a while. It could be anything. Diary. Story. Whatever. I wrote this WWI story about this cowardly solier who tries to desert or something. I still have it. I just remember it being so descriptive, and while I wrote it I knew I wanted others to read it. In class, the teacher asked if anyone wanted to read what they wrote. Everyone, the teacher, even I was surprised to see my hand up. When I finished - they clapped. I knew I wanted that feeling. The next time she assigned the journal, I wrote knowing I would read it. I wrote the hell out of this dark piece about a guy trapped in a sewer or something. Real fucking wierd story, but again, using words like a motherfucker. The next day, the other students begged me to read. I rarely spoke in school. Kept to myself (until I met Heather), but here I was the bard of 10th grade.

I had found it. You know that it. That one thing, that one way your soul shows.
If my lesson can do that for someone all I can say is - word.

Other than that, I'm also coaching JV Baseball this year. Always dreamt of coaching baseball and teaching at the same school. God's good to me, that's for sure. Went skiing in Vermont with the other coaches and had a shit-ton of fun. Oh, I mean it was a coaches conference. That's it, that's the ticket. It just happened to be at an Indian casino. Lost a bit in blackjack, but learned a shit load I never learned about pitching. I might have actually gotten to pitch a little more in college if I knew some of the stuff they're teaching players now. But, that's that.

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