I’ve been away from writing my blog for a while. Life has intervened.
Have I been writing? Oh, yes. Since I last wrote, I have endured several life-events, as I call them, so I need to journal about them.
First, I submitted a short story, I think my best one, to a competition. It was rejected because I used lyrics from two meaningful songs: “Send in the Clowns,” by Stephen Sondheim, and “Sournds of Silence,” by Paul Simon. They were the inspiration about a clown, dying of Covid, and the experiences he had in the circus. I had heard the two songs at dinner one night in a restaurant, and they actually inspired the story. I am quoting myself, here:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
MIND MISCHIEF
Too much time. . . too much silence at Ringling Brothers’ Rest Home.
Vanilla life. . . Too little mayonnaise, never a lick of Sriracha. So much like gooey oatmeal.
Vanilla walls. Vanilla blanket on my bed. Only tent is the white curtain around my bed. And Henry’s. We usta be clowns together.
Miss the Big Top. Miss the train. Miss the elephants. Miss the crowds.
Nights are the worst. “Sound of Silence.”. Hello darkness, my old friend. . I’ve come to talk with you again. . .and the vision that was placed in my brain. . . still remains. . . with the sound of silence.
So, last night was strange. They thought I was sleeping. I fool ’em sometimes. Didn’t take my sleeping pill. I’m saving them up. Might need ’em sometime.
So, jes’ like in “Sound of Silence,” my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light. . .that split the night. . . and touched the sound of silence. Bright light. Then. . .They pulled the tent tight around Henry.
He was not silent. He was coughing. . . and coughing. . . then they took him away from me.
I am alone. I am afraid. It is too silent. The tent is around where he always snores.
* * *
Maybe the cleaning lady comes today. I call her Judy, ’cause I love Judy Collins. She sings “Send in the Clowns” when she sweeps. One who keeps tearing around, That’s her. One who can’t move. That’s me
She knows I love clowns. She is mopping the floor. She sings, Isn’t it rich?. . . Are we a pair?. . . Me here at last on the ground. . . You in mid-air. . . like me and Maisie. How did she know? We never told anyone.
Judy Collins dusts around my floppy shoes. She brings me the pictures I can’t see from my bed. Henry and me go way back. He’s juggling balls in this picture, his big muscles bulging.. Nobody knew his secret. He was crying on the inside. Lost his whole family in a fire. But his clown face wore a smile. Always, a big smile.
Before she leaves, she pats my hand and says, “Don’t worry. They’re here!” She means the clowns. She always sends them in when she leaves. She don’t want me to be lonely. And then she’s gone.
* * *
I have two buttons. One plays my music. “Sound of Silence,” And in the naked light I saw. . . ten thousand people, maybe more. . . or “Send in the Clowns,” Making my entrance again with my usual flair, sure of my lines. . . No one is there. . . or “From Both Sides Now.” But now it’s just another show. . .You leave ’em laughing when you go.”
My other button calls Joni. She’s my nurse.
She doesn’t come.
My head hears, “Entrance of the Gladiators.” It opens every show. Everybody marches around the three rings. Then Ringmaster Marty says, “Welcome to the Big Top!” The band plays a big “Ta Da!” Everybody cheers. In my vanilla room, in my mind, it shatters my sound of silence.
Then I call Joni Mitchel to sing, Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels. . . It’s love’s illusion I recall. . . Sing it, Joni.
I wave my trebling arms and cheer silently. No one else knows. I’d dance with Joni Mitchell if I could, or even the cleaning lady, if I had my legs. And if you care, don’t let them know. Don’t give yourself away.
* * *
They’re outside my door. I can hear them whispers. My dog Zach could hear a mosquito a whole train car away. I can’t see good. I can’t walk at all. But I can hear ’em. I know they’re talkin’ about Henry.
Yesterday, I think. Joni and the doctor came. They told me and Henry, “You can’t go outside. Nobody can come here. You can’t do church service. You can’t play games. You can’t use your wheelchairs.”.
Hell, I usta ride the rails all over the place, coast to coast. I been everywhere. See my poster? It’s from Clintonville, Wisconsin, it is. I don’t wanna be here. Not no more. Not without Henry.
My eyes sting with tears wishin’ my circus sidekick, Zach, was here snugglin’ next to me.
Now, they’s talking ’bout me. I can feel it deep in my soul, like readin’ a crowd. Always knew when people needed extra cheerin’ up. ’specially on rainy, muddy days, or when somethin’ bad happened in the news, like in Vietnam or when people saw all the sick kids the circus wid their crutches ’n’ bandages . . . Marty had to work harder on those days.
Room’s empty wid Henry’s bed gone. Where’d dey take him? Shouldn’t leave without me. We best buddies. But my words like silent raindrops fell and echoed in the wells of silence.
I change songs. Tears and fears and feeling proud to say, “I love you” right out loud. Dreams and schemes and circus crowds . . . I’ve looked at life that way. I pretend to sleep the restless sleep of silence, missing Henry’s snores.
I hear Joni. “I’m thinking if we go into Joe’s room with gowns and masks and gloves, all this PPE stuff, he’s probably going to be scared. I think I’ll tell him it’s our new clown costumes. That might help. So, let him live in the clouds with rows and floes of angel hair, like the song says. All this SARS or Corona or COVID stuff, whatever they’re calling it today. Its’s getting me down, too.
I’m too old for this protocol stuff and fear, and the unknown. I’m thinking I’d rather be with Joe and his ice cream castles in the air.” They’re saying this virus could kill us all. We’ve got to outwit it. We’ve got to be suspicious about everyone and everything. They’re paying us to be paranoid. That’s basically what I got out of the staff meeting yesterday.”
“Good morning, Paul,” I hear Joni Mitchell say. “I’m thinking we’ll tell this patient these are our new clown suits. He’s a circus man through and through. His head is literally in the clouds. He plays his music, lives in the past, and loved Henry. He stares at his poster all day. It’s from Clintonville, Wisconsin, a very long way from Florida. Joe’s latest stroke stole his left side, and he’s been in memory care for about six months now.”
“Here’s our issue. Try keeping a mask on Mr. Masters. No visitors. Move him to isolation. Get him tested. Time’s awaiting. Fifteen more on this corridor alone. Hope this is our Waterloo and it doesn’t hit another wing too. Let’s get to it.”
Dr. Simon checks their compliance, their Personal Protective Equipment, masks and goggles.
“Okay. So he’s moving to a whole new place—isolation. We know he had direct contact with Henry. No idea where Henry got it. No way to contact trace except to the staff.”
“Anyone check Donnella?” Jodi asks. “She cleaned his room this morning,” Dr. Simon makes a note on his ever-present clipboard.
“Hi, Joe. It’s Joni.” She touches my hand. “Hello my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again” she says. “Ready?” Jodi asks. She plays “Entrance of the Gladiators.” and explains, “Joe, we’re taking you on a parade down the hall. Can you hear us through the masks? Don’t be frightened, Joe.”
I can’t see Joni’s face, but she takes my hand. She has a shiny face. She has goggles, like Clarabelle’s. Her eyes look like a frog’s. Why is her hair blue? Clarabelle’s was fuzzy and bright yellow. No one had hair like Clarabelle.
“Why, yer lookin’ like the sky behind my white cloud, there. Newest in clown suits, eh?”
“Well, Joe, let me explain this to you. Can you hear me? We’re going down a long hallway. There’s a new germ we’re trying to outwit. It’s called SARs or Corona.”
“Corona beer? Can I have some? Kinda miss it.”
“Not that kind of Corona, Joe. But we have to make sure the germ can’t find you. Okay? Now, I have to take your temperature, okay? We wait for the beep. Dr. Simon writes the number down.
He comes over to watch Jodi. She says, “Put your head back for me, okay? I want to tickle your nose. Look way up, like you’re seeing top of the big tent to check the rigging. Is Maisie there today?”
Can’t see her yet, Miss Josie, jes’ “The dizzy dancing way you feel As every fairy tale comes real. . .”
Mind’s mischief is an awesome thing. Hafta work hard to see the circus train, and the tents, and the crowds, and the glitter and the clowns and the elephants and Zach and Marty, and Henry. All I see is “feathery canyons everywhere. . .”
Then a feathery angel, Miss Jodi, turns the lights down low. I’m moving, like in a picture show. Through the tent flap. I watch Marty, in my mind’s eye. He’s the ringmaster. Always up to some mischief to deceive the crowd. That’s really all the circus is. It’s illusion. It’s tricks. It’s smoke and mirrors. But I’ll never give up the secrets.
That’s what my therapist tries to do. Make magic. Make my leg move. I’d be out there with little Zach. He’d jump through hoops, I’d flap around in my oversized shoes. Marty called ’em torpedoes, ya know, from the war.
He was on a submarine. Scary stories. Never saw the sky, it seems. That’s why he loves the circus. He can move around. I can’t no more. I miss my shoes. Did they find my shoes?
No worries. When things get too boring here, or when I don’t exactly know where I am, it don’t matter. I go to the clouds. They can “block the sun. . . they rain and snow on everyone. . . so many things I would have done. . . but clouds got in my way.”
The therapist isn’t coming. The cleaning lady isn’t coming. I miss the crowds. I miss the children. I miss Maisie. Oh, she had legs! Gorgeous gams. And sparkles and class. She was a high-wire artist, in more ways than one. An acrobat. What a bod! She and I usta get together off hours. Never told no one about that, we didn’t. She’d come see me if she could. She can’t. Never. Jes’ can’t. The people bowed and prayed.
Sign says ISOLAT . . somethin’. Don’t think it’s a train station depot like some island er somthin’. Wouldn’t have a white room on a train. Where the hell am I, anyway?
I’m missin’ the sawdust, the popcorn, the trumpets and drums. Even a hot dog would taste good right about now. And the “Ta Da’s” and the cymbal crash at the end of routines. And the applause. The thunderous applause.
So quiet in this place. So vanilla.
“It’s just another show. You leave ’em laughing when you go” and it’s on to Milwaukee.
Ah, right on cue. My in-this-place “Ta Da!” Another blue-coated, no sparkles, half-faced clown brings me breakfast. Maybe I don’t hear her, if it’s a her. Can’t tell. Wonder if they’ll serve oatmeal again today. A little brown sugar or Mom’s maple syrup might spice it up a bit. Really not hungry. No matter.
When I was bad, though, when I’d get into mischief, Mom just plopped it, SPLAT, into my cracked bowl and I’d try to pretend it was cotton candy.
This mind mischief is tricky, sometimes.
* * *
I’ve been saving up my sleeping pills. Hidin’ ’em. See, they make me dream dumb things, like I can fly, or the crowd is cheering, and then they’re gone, all in a moment. The little freckle-faced girl in the third row is now way over by the center ring. How’d she do that?
Even worse, I see Maisie drop in a crumpled mess. . . and there’s a gasp. . . and she’s dead. . . and I can’t live with that again.
“Tears and fears and feeling proud to say, ‘I love you’ right out loud. . . dreams and schemes and circus crowds, . . . I’ve looked at life that way,” and I wake up in a sweat and now chills, and no one, not even Henry, is here.
So, if I throw ’em away, the pills, I can dream of clouds. Clouds don’t hurt like people do. They’s jes’ “floes of angel hair. . . I’ve looked at clouds that way. . .I really don’t know clouds at all.”
Couldn’t taste the oatmeal, whatever it had on it or in it. Not sure I could taste Sriracha either. Everything’s sorta outa sorts. Not feelin’ so good.
I ring for Joni.
Maybe she’ll come.
Maybe somebody knows I’m here.
* * *
She comes, all in costume, with that temperature thing. Finally, it beeps. . . Loud as Clarabelle’s horn. Took a while.
Then she tries it again. She asks me to open my mouth wide. I do.
She calls Dr. Simon. He’s got a clown suit too. And a white coat. Why is everything white? Vanilla. They do the nose thing again.
“But now old friends are acting strange. . . They shake their heads. . .
They say I’ve changed.”
Maybe Zach could hear what they say, but I can’t. They rush out of the room, but not before they both shed their costumes and dump them in the garbage. Hats, gowns, gloves, shoe things, and shut the door with the big red sign on it. Pieces of their suits land on the floor, like they’re angry. Like I did somethin’ they dislike. I notice things like that.
They’re really up to some mischief now. Or maybe they think I am. Cloud’s illusions.
I try to sleep. I’m so very tired. I don’t need sleeping pills. They’ll find mine someday. As I doze, my mind thinks, at least I believe it does, “Well, somethin’s lost but something’s gained in living every day.”
Out of breath. . . just climbed the rigging to hug Maisie. . .She’s about to fly.
Now I have a mask, too. “It’ll help you breathe, Joe.”
I got to the high wire, almost to the clouds. Time for the big, “Ta Da!” Marty. And claps and whistles and cheers.
If I could, but I can’t, I’d take all my sleeping pills. All at once. “Ta Da!”, Marty would announce my routine’s end. And the crowds would cheer.
Not sure I want to wake up.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Then, there was a question about another contest entry where I used poems, of course, giving the sources. Ultimately, I had to remove them. This is the original story:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
MANIPULATION, MISCHIEF AND MAYHEM
Betty Whitaker Jackson
Once my satchel, (still loaded with uncorrected themes, department head agendas, college recommendation letters, award certificates, a hastily packed lunch and too-heavy water bottle) is thrown over my shoulder, my Monday-Friday high-school-teacher-life begins.
Item one, pray that my twelve-year-old station wagon starts, my teens are ready to leave, and my too-fleeting kiss on hubby’s forehead will suffice as I wish him Godspeed for his day.
Busy week ahead: Last week of the third marking period (only one more to go), grades due next Monday, 9’s complete the poetry unit and begin Romeo and Juliet next week, seniors will complete their research papers so they can graduate. We’re almost there!
It’s typical high school teacher’s life each spring term: manipulation and mayhem. This year, there’s more mischief afoot than senior prank day. Everything’s tinged with COVID-19 restrictions. It’s been a stress-filled year.
“OK, Darlings.” (Mom moment) “Emily, you have rehearsal, right?” She has the lead in the spring musical opening next weekend as a livestreamed performance.
“Yeah. I’ll get a ride. Dinner’s at six?”
“Right. Dad’s got a church meeting at 7:00.”
“David, what about you, hon?”
“Not sure yet. I’ll catch ya sometime. Think I can leave on time unless Coach calls a meetin’ or omething’. Let ya know.” They won the state basketball championship game Friday night. Unfortunately, it was all virtual. No one in the stands. But today the team’ll celebrate and walk around like tall, scrappy heroes.
School Zone. 15 mph. Oh, for another ten minutes.
And so we begin.
* * *
I grab my lariat ID badge dangling from the mirror. (call it my slave chain). Mask on. Temp check at the door. (so far so good. Just got my first vaccine shot. Feel a bit safer). Pump the dispenser. COVID-19’s still a threat. (one teacher on a respirator, one in the district died, many have been quarantined. It’s been quite a year).
Routine office stop. Sign in. Give a cheery hello to staff too busy to acknowledge.
Stuffed mailbox: two large manilla envelopes, several letters, some kid’s textbook, and a note to see the principal during planning. UGH. I needed that time today. Wonder what that’s all about.
Stop at the faculty room. I dig into my satchel, toss my lunch into the fridge, hoping my aim is good. I sort of wave and say a hasty “Good Morning” to several colleagues busy nursing their coffee cups. Obviously not English teachers. I envy the lounge lizards. Their tests are corrected by Scantron™. Not mine. Pages to read for each student, 150 of them. A bit envious, I am sometimes.
Arm-wrestling the textbook and other mailbox stuff, I juggle my purse. The now-open satchel tries to slide down from my drooping shoulder, threatening to scatter its bulging contents down the A-Wing corridor.
As I stumble toward the classroom furthest from the office, (I might add, also the faculty bathroom), My lariat hides somewhere under the manilla envelop, the textbook, and now-low-slung satchel. It holds the keys to the kingdom: one for the bathroom, one for the book storage room, one for the cabinet in A-135, and one for the classroom door. I feel extraordinarily awkward this morning, enying the coordination of an octopus, (Oh, I can use that word later in my lesson, if I remember) but being a mere mortal.
Whew. Feel fried before I even begin. And I didn’t even get near the coffee machine.
Hate the smell of disinfectant first thing in the morning. Can’t wait for this COVID thing to be over. Last spring’s shutdown stole my joy. Now, we’re limping along— hybrid learning, they call it. I call it challenging. Still no prom, no awards assembly, no concerts, no graduation ceremony for Emily or her friends. Imagine doing a musical without an audience present!
Counting my blessings this morning that at least I have a classroom and about two-thirds of my students.
Time to get ready for the day. Make sure:
- To connect desktop computer to overhead projector, lesson plan for Monday
- To log in to Google Classroom™ so I can reach kids marooned at home, by choice or quarantine.
- To write the Daily Objectives prominently on the board.
- To place the box of masks and hand sanitizer by the door
- To look up the lost textbook number. (Of course, it’s Dawaign’s, period 3. He still hasn’t put a book cover on his “Perspectives” textbook. Somehow, we’ll teach him some responsibility. Poor kid. (He lost his grandmother to COVID, his dad’s in prison for two more years, and D’s hanging on to his dream to be the first in his family to graduate from high school. I have higher hopes for him. He’s a terrific writer with insight few attain as fourteen-year-olds.)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
STUDENT DAILY OBJECTIVE (the permanent sign, prominently displayed, says):
NIFTY NINES WILL:
Complete heading for your Cornell Notes. Remember to date your page!
Three American Poets write about spring: Materials provided:
eecummings’ “in Just—”
Phillis Wheatley’s stanza 5 of “On Imagination”
Robert Frost’s stanzas 3,4,5 of “Two Tramps in Mud-Time”
Writing assignment due Wednesday. Poetry Unit Test, open notes, Thursday. Be Prepared!
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Review Lesson Plan:
Bell work journal, poems part of unit, assigned writing.
Method: direct instruction; student interaction; short film of Pan and panflute, You Tube™
Important terms: figures of speech: metaphors, symbolic language, rhyme/rhythm patterns. Allusions to mythology
New terms: Pan (Greek) Sylvanus (Roman) , metamorphosis (important theme in mythology: Arachne, Daphne, Zeus and other gods and characters.
OCTO-root, vocabulary)
Materials: teacher-produced handout, email copies— packet sent to home students;
Use of technology: overhead projector, computer Google classroom; You Tube™ clip
Ongoing techniques: Cornell notetaking; notes organized for Thursday’s test
HOMEWORK: analysis of “Two Tramps. . .” poem for content, thematic idea, rhyme, rhythm,
and overall effect. YOUR WORK, not the internet’s. I’ve read them all! Watch paragraphing, include examples to prove your point(s), due Wednesday beginning of class.
Graded for content and standard language proficiency—2 grades. 250 word limit.
Clincher: summary statement: Three poets, three centuries, three diverse writing styles, describe experiences with spring.
(Assistant Principal gave it a + with his initials.)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
STUDENT DAILY OBJECTIVE:
SAVVY SENIORS WILL:
Check all citations for correct information, punctuation, underlining and italics, dates
and times for internet sources, bibliography matches. MLA handbook rules.
METHOD: AND PRACTICE (both in person and remote) Individualized instruction with
computer time, teacher support as warranted, interactive in class and with remote learning
students.
Location of class Monday and Tuesday: Media Center
Due dates: Bibliography Page in correct form Wednesday beginning of class
Completed, typed first draft: Monday, one week from today
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Period 1, 2, 3 9th grade classes:
“Good Monday morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. Let’s begin. Copy today’s objectives into your notebook and put the heading on your Cornell note pages. You have two minutes.” (set timer)
Here’s your bell work journal: “In a paragraph, using a great topic sentence, describe your experience getting ready for school today. You may include people in or outside your family, what you ate for breakfast, something you noticed in nature, something new and unexpected, and/or your mood or emotion. You have seven minutes to write in your journals.” (set timer)
As a language arts teacher for high schoolers, this is a prescribed routine designated by the district’s standard procedure, adopted for this school, and expected as administrators evaluate teachers on observation days. This dictates structured instruction time, not a minute to be wasted, a defined agenda. “Bell to Bell Instruction,” it is called. As department chair, I initial all language arts lesson plans on Wednesday of each week (paying special attention to our two new-to-the District teachers’ plans) The Assistant Principal reviews and initials them on Thursdays.
It’s not the way I was taught. It’s not the way I yearn to teach. It’s very structured. Our District’s goal and responsibility for language arts is to get a diverse population of students to above-grade-level performance on standardized tests in language (grammar and vocabulary), reading, writing, speech, and use of technology. It leaves little time for assuring kids “love” any of it.
The mischief of COVID stretches our patience. Certainly, teaching and learning remotely,
through a computer screen this year brings to mind Nina Simone’s singing “It’s a new day, it’s a
new dawn,” and I’m not “feelin’ good.” (Nina Simone’s recording. Originally Cy Grant, Leslie Bricusse & Anthony Newley in 1965. https://genius.com/Nina-simone-feeling-good-lyrics April 20, 2021 5:35 a.m.)
As they write, I check attendance. I have twenty-two students in this class. Fifteen sit before me, spread out in the classroom. (safe distance). I have five here who first semester failed to log in on their home workstations. They failed my class, which means to every teacher, I failed them. At least that’s how we’re made to feel.
This term, the failing students are required to be in the classroom. They don’t want to be. They are angry, they are afraid of getting sick, they feel isolated even though they are somewhat doing “in-person learning,” faces half covered, eyes looking vacant and sad. But I feel blessed now to have more than ten students in seats in my classroom.
Five of my students are getting around to logging in, it seems, at home. The screen is there; the faces are not. The mischief of technology is often at fault, especially when family members interfere, the dog is barking, or breakfast sits to the side of the keyboard. I cannot wait for compliance. I mark them tardy. They may be absent for the day.
Two are no-shows—the menace of a year of instruction lost, and with it dreams of scholarships, etc. It’s how the system works. Haven’t heard from these two after frequent efforts to contact them and referrals to guidance and the assistant principal.
Fact remains, students in many states have not seen the inside of a classroom since March, 2020.
Today’s topic is the study of three spring poems for content, structure, syntax, and overall effect. We’ve looked at rap, haiku, nursery rhymes, song lyrics, and the poem read at President Biden’s inauguration, written by Amanda Gordon. This is a unit on poetic language, literary terms, figurative language, featuring American poets. March is National Poetry Month. Last month was Black History Month.
I make literature choices throughout the year on both, but the curriculum says I MUST comply with the designations. Yes, it’s manipulative. Yes, when I’m mischievous, I mix things up a bit and defy the rules with Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss, although I drew some flack this year. He’s on the blacklist for some of his early work, but I used Oh, the Places You’ll Go. It’s a wonderful motivational poem for goal-setting. Metaphors and mythology are subtopics today.
I teach students about Pan, the Greek god who was part goat, part man. eecummings uses his reference in his poem. His Roman name, Sylvanus, is used in the Wheatley poem. He is described as a mythical mischief-maker who played the pan pipes (picture and video of panpipes, if the technology works) and wandered through the woodlands making loud noises, sometimes hiding and jumping out of places unexpectedly, often scaring the other gods and mortals. From his Greek name, we get the word panic.
Metamorphosis means changing from one state to another, as in the myths we studied several months ago with Arachne, Zeus, and Daphne. Today’s lesson weaves a seamless garment, I hope, where pieces fall into place and learning meshes so it becomes unified.
Poem #1 in Just— by ee cummings (1884-1962)
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
“Let me tell you something about eecummings. Did you know, for instance, that from the ages of eight to twenty-two, he wrote a poem every day? He experimented with topics and form, until he developed his unique style. He didn’t like punctuation or capital letters, using each of these just for emphasis. He made little words like of and if into nouns and verbs. He forces us to read slowly or fast, according to the topic and where he put the words on the page. You can bet he knew grammar. He just wanted to play with language and create a new way to write. It made him famous. Teachers like me will tell you how to use standard English. And I’m sure you’re hearing about WOKE language in the news. Language is supposed to be alive, and we create new words all the time. That’s great. Who ever thought that sick would be a word of approval, and so fun instead of such fun would become so popular?
Don’t be afraid to experiment, but don’t try it on your writing exam. Promise?
Okay, let’s read this poem by eecummings. I read it, including pauses and rushes in pacing.
Leading questions:
- “What do you notice about how the eecummings poem looks on the page?”
- “Why do you think he writes ‘eddieandbill come running?”
- “Why does balloonMan have a capital letter in the middle of the word?” Why only once? Would he capitalize the god’s name Pan, do you think?
- “What are piracies?”
- “What do we learn about ‘bettyandisbel”?” Did you notice, dare I ask, the feminine and masculine activities eddieandbill and bettyandisbel played?
- Why are “puddle-wonderful” and mud-luscious’ hyphenated?
“Further questions or comments? From home, first? Here, class?”
Poem #2 “On Imagination” by Phillis Wheatley 1753-1784 Stanza 5
Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d:
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Who can tell me who she was? (Previously studied.) “Yes, we studied some of her poems last month. She was a slave who always was thankful that she was brought to America because it is where she learned to read and write. I printed the whole poem for you, just as I did the “Mud-Time” one. I’m of course hoping you’ll read the whole thing, but I want us to look at what she says about spring in stanza 5:
- Flora and Winter, and Fancy are all examples of personification, which means things that are not human have human characteristics. Notice, she uses capital letters and italics. In your notes, write these three words and what she says these “persons” are or do. I’ll give you a few minutes.
- Let’s look at the rhythm and rhyme. What do you notice?
- Find three examples of alliteration. First, define the term, then point us to where you found alliteration.
- Find examples of what she learned from mythology.
- Check out the pronouns, her, his, their. What are the references, called the antecedents? Remember, pronouns have no meaning until you specify what they mean before you use them.
Poem #3 “Two Tramps in Mud-Time” Robert Frost 1874-1963
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And fronts the wind to unruffle a plume
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake: and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn’t blue,
But he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheel rut’s now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don’t forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.
“The third poem ‘Two Tramps in Mud-Time’ is an encounter between the poet and two men who are searching for work. I’m assigning you to read the whole poem for homework. Your assignment is on the bottom of the page.
“But for now, in class, let’s look at stanzas three, four, and five. They talk about how springtime weather is changeable. I need a volunteer to read these three stanzas for us.”
“Thank you, Mary Beth. (I get the microphone to her) You may begin:
Leading questions:
- “How many lines are in each stanza?” Please write down the word In music, what is an octet? Anyone know? Octo is the root word for eight. Can you name a sea creature beginning with octo? How about a math term? Interesting fact, sort of a riddle: Why do you think October is the tenth month if octo means eight?
- Anyone have a guess? Here’s why: January and February were added to the Roman calendar. In the original calendar, October was the eighth month. It retained its name after the calendar was changed. See, you learned something new today!
- In the middle stanza: can anyone tell us what playing possum means?
- Who has a guess why the bluebird “fronts the wind?”
- Who is advising blossoms to keep sleeping and not bloom? Why?
- Who knows what a witching wand is? What does it have to do with water?
- Last line, who has figured out the crystal teeth thing?
- Was the road paved? How does this relate to the title?
“Now, just a preview of what I’m asking you to do for homework. Suggested topics are on your poem sheet. Don’t answer them as questions but write your best unified analysis of the whole poem. You know what I expect! Good topic sentence, examples, summary paragraph.
I want you to notice these things as you read the whole poem and analyze it.
- What is the rhyme scheme? Check back in your unit notes. Using the a,b,c letters, describe the rhyme scheme. Is it consistent in all the stanzas?
- Why does the poet say the tramp begins the conversation? Is it related to why the two tramps split up?
- Does the poet enjoy the work he’s doing? Why is he chopping wood?
- Is there a difference between working out of need and working because you love to work?
- Does he think the tramps know more about woodcutting than he does?
- Does the poet think they can do it better than he can? Is he good at chopping wood?
What’s your opinion (no right answer here): Did he hire the men, or did he continue doing what he enjoyed as both vocation and avocation? Don’t bother looking this up online. I’ve already read those sites. Use YOUR brain for this. We’ll talk about it. Not interested in what the “experts say. I’m teaching you to be experts! You may begin to work and ask me anything except what’s for lunch. I have no idea. Get to work.
Periods 1, 2, 3 are ninth graders. Same plan. Periods 5, 6, 7 I meet my seniors in the media center to complete their bibliography pages for their research papers, check their sources, and make sure footnotes are in order and materials are cited correctly. They know, (and I check) they will fail this final project if I discover plagiarizing has occurred.
Period 4 is my planning and lunch period. I must drop all else and head to the principal’s office. Another meeting. I’ll be up ’til after midnight tonight. Could have used that 45 minutes during my workday designed to shorten my twelve-hour days as a language arts teacher.
I never know what to expect when the principal wants to see me. I serve as department chair, so often it is an administrative matter. Sometimes it is to plan an event or to announce a contest. Rarely is it something about my teaching or one of my students, but who knows?
He begins by asking what I know about WOKE. I tell him, “I like everyone else, am following news reports, but I’m so caught up in the day-to-day of my life, that it’s just something else “out there.”
I continue, “Elections have consequences, and the “new” guy in the White House has an agenda. It’ll all get examined. Some ideas will live, some ideas will die. My philosophy: usually, the good passes, the bad dispatches.
I’m not manipulated by mischief or mayhem. I wait until it all appears as a mandate. My principle is, “If it doesn’t matter in five years, it doesn’t matter in five minutes!” If “WOKE” (whoever thinks we’ve awakened to this, it’s wrong grammatically) continues to rear its ugly head, then I’ll find a way to deal with it.
“Right now, I have ten more weeks to finish the curriculum, graduate another seventy-five students and hope our efforts at hybrid learning have sufficiently prepared them for what’s ahead.”
He nods patiently as I express my opinion. He agrees with me that eliminating personal pronouns and striking out kids’ use of family members’ identities might be going too far, but that the district wants to form a committee to investigate the topic during the summer and institute new guidelines for the coming school year. That’s what we’re being called upon to consider.
He informs me, “The School Board says it’s a matter of funding. We lose federal funds if we don’t have WOKE policies in place. They’ve just appointed a Diversity and Equity Director who will oversee our compliance. I want you to represent City High and make sure we are on the right page.”
“Right page?” I ask, in outrage. “This is blackmail. We spend our years teaching ‘standard English’ so our students are well-prepared for ‘standardized testing.’ That means they know how to setoff clauses with commas, write complete sentences, never end a sentence with a preposition, and to use formal language, including precise pronouns, singular and plural.
“Calling a student “them” instead of a singular pronoun is grammatically incorrect. We do teach stylistic language, allowing the use of slang or dropped endings of words, or single word effects like “waddyamean?” or such in appropriate dialogue, that sort of thing. Generally, our thinking as professional teachers of language arts, is that we value precision in language, not the latest fads.”
He continues to listen to my argument.
“We’ve weathered the rap movement, Ebonics, even a few curse words for effect, but generally, we teach students that their use of language establishes the level of their learning and needs to be appropriate to aspire to positions of leadership in society.”
“I hear you,” he says. “I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in had I not had the instruction you’re espousing, but I’m literally over a barrel here. We are being called upon to develop strategies to deal with this, and I need your help this summer. The dates are July 5-23. That leaves you the last week of July free before beginning preplanning on August 3rd. The first four days of preplanning, you will introduce your summer’s work to the teachers and administrators.”
“Do I have the right to refuse? Will all this become district policy?”
“That remains to be seen. I know the governor has instituted a new civics curriculum. That’s the next topic of discussion with your colleague in social studies. I know he stands against federally- controlled education.
“We may get around it somehow, but we must be prepared for what’s on the horizon. These are the terms I’m hearing: (Herein begins the mischief., I’m thinking). He’s reading from a memo to principals: “ We are to study, consider, accept or reject: Critical Race Theory, Gender Appropriation, Systemic Racism, and WOKE language changes.”
“As Department Chair of language arts, where, of course, it directly involves instruction policy and materials, I’m asking you to become part of this district committee to investigate the ramifications of these new cultural demands. And, although I value your counsel as department chair, if you refuse to do this, I will have to ask you to resign if you choose not to represent us. I know Mrs. Rayburn has already asked to be part of this initiative. She knows the person who was just hired as Equity Administrator and supports the WOKE agenda.”
(Ah, so there indeed is mischief afoot, just as I surmised.) “I need some time to consider my options, Dr. White. I respect your position, between a rock, hard place, and public opinion, but I need to have a few minutes for lunch before my next class, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course. Please let me know your decision soon. Have a great rest of the day.”
With that, I have ten minutes to pee and eat lunch before the bell rings, and no time to cry. My thirty-year career is on the line here. My family’s vacation to my mother’s home in Maine is on the line here. My authenticity as a language wordsmith is on the line here. My very personhood is on the line here. My biracial marriage is on the line here. And I have ten minutes.
Between bites of my sandwich, which is sticking in my throat even as I try to speak, I call Doug, my faithful husband and hearer of dilemmas. I briefly tell him Dr. White’s ultimatum. He’s flabbergasted.
He heard on the news this morning that our governor is saying, “No WOKE” in the state. It may cost him re-election. Dade County has been teaching African Studies and empowerment for years and instituting the changes in language and critical race theory from kindergarten through twelfth grade already. I can’t do a thing about that. After all, they have to teach in 42 languages to serve their students.
On the issue of language change mandates to please a minority population, I am opposed. While we accommodate and try to understand children’s speech patterns at home, in the classroom, I’m adamantly opposed to our county caving in to WOKE.
And Doug, a college professor, has battled its tenets from the perspective of a research scientist, but does not feel directly responsible for its implementation. He chooses his PhD candidates based upon credentials and ability and is race neutral. And as one of a few black professors, he’s battled his way to tenure in spite of some roadblocks he’s sure were based on his racial identity.
Too much to digest with my sandwich. “We’ll talk later, but I’m of the opinion,” he says, “that if you want to resign as department chair, and even go as far as giving up your position there, I’ll stand behind that decision. I love you. Bye.”
I feel like the poet in “Two Tramps . . .” Just let me do my work for once. Planning time is planning time, but more days than not, it is spent solving others’ problem, it seems.
My seniors are writing research papers, so I’m busy Googling (is that a word?) references, searching for evidence of plagiarism. Tonight, I’ll have to do that at home, as usual.
I’m pretty sure, however, I’ll spend the three afternoon senior classes at my computer, learning what I can about WOKE. There will be interruptions, students with questions, but they all have plenty to do with their individual projects and have all the materials they need to solve problems with citations. Several have no computers at home and limited time to get to the public library. I need to accommodate all of them, and they know I expect excellence in citations, format, and writing content.
I have heard several discussions on the topic of language change options at the latest conventions. The English Journal is full of articles on the topic, and of course, we’ve all heard of Grace Episcopal School in New York City, and their twelve-page School Language Guide for teachers, staff, and parents. They have charts:
Instead of using Mom and Dad, say grown-ups, folks, or family; Instead of saying parents, use grown-ups, folks, family, or guardians. Instead of husband, wife, boyfriend, or girlfriend, use spouse, partner, or significant other. When addressing or referring to boys, girls, guys, or ladies and gentlemen, use gender neutral terms such as people, folks, friends, readers, mathematicians, etc., and when referring to something we are reading in a book, rather than saying “the boy/girl” on the page, use the term child, person, or character. Finally, abandon endearment terms such as sweetheart, honey, or similar pet names.
I watch a few of their teaching videos. I keep a running list for future reference: “Implicit Bias: Peanut Butter, Jelly, and Racism,” “What is Cisgender?” “Gender Identity and Pronouns,” “Range of Gender Identities,” “Are You a Racist?” as a start.
Spring and change are inevitable. Conflict accompanies change. It is a springtime of change. Will it be flowers and sunshine? Will it be tornadoes and floods?
Charged terms and divisive terms like racism, white supremacy, gender identity, cisgender, gender pronouns, inclusion, and equity are societal topics engaging academia, media, and conversation.
This is much too complex to be considered in a hectic schedule of a teacher with 150 students in the final days of a COVID-compromised year. Yet, it is happening in the spring of 2021. I call it manipulation, mischief, and mayhem. What say you?
-=-=–=-=-=-==-=-=
After removing the poems, except the titles, the piece was accepted for the anthology. The first piece was revised using old hymn tunes, public domain, instead of Paul Simon and Stephen Sondheim.
Thereafter, a whole discussion about how to access artists like these two lyric writers ensued. Their works are owned by Sony and another large corporation. It is virtually impossible to get copyright permission from the original writer. This remains an open discussion with the Space Coast Writers’ Guild and is promoting much controversy. I have previously used citations for websites. This is acceptable use. But in a short story, apparently the rules are different, and very controversial. Nonetheless, it is a learning experience as an indie writer. I have no big publishing company to go to bat with me, and although I read published writers all the time breaking the “rule,” I am chastised for it, perhaps rightly, by one judge of a contest which, in the long run doesn’t matter one whit, except to my pride.
Second issue: two eye procedures: one to remove “clouds” from my lens following my retina and right eye cataract surgery, and the removal of the cataract on my left eye. That’s taken several weeks of recovery.
Then, I was attempting, and succeeded, in publishing my 27th book,”Seashell Saga,” set in Florida, as an entry in the Don Argo award category for the Space Coast Writers’ Guild competition. It is a coming-of-age story about a teenager’s summer, and includes her interest in writing, acting, surfing, and her family’s purchase of their favorite cafe, expansion of it to a community center, and the potential adoption of a foster family of four siblings. The characters interact with a variety of people, and in November, I plan to write the second book in this series.
Third, because our son and daughter-in-law and daughter had to report to their teaching duties on August 3, we babysat our grandchildren for six days. That meant leaving the house at 6 a.m and returning home close to 5 p.m. for six days, except for half a day when I had eye surgery. To say this eighty-one-year old was exhausted is an understatement.
Then we had our usual volunteer dutes at two concerts the weekend of August 1st. One of the venues was changed at the last moment, which added additional stress on all of us. The kids’ rehearsals were Friday night and Saturday morning. Then we supervised the children for both concerts. (a complete joy, by the way. The concert featured rousing music honoring the Olympics and films of past Olympics, some dating back to 1920, and including the awesome hockey game between Russia and the USA in 1980, five days before Paul was born. I remember it as if it happened yesterday, but playing the Shostakovich Festival Overture as accompaniment, was absolutely exciting beyond measure.
Tuesday the children and teachers returned to school. We had dinner together. Yesterday we had our small group meeting at the house and virtually. This morning was a follow up eye doctor appointment, and tonight the family is coming to the house for pizza while the three adults rehearse for church service on Sunday.
Somewhere in between all this, I failed to write daily entries. Apologies. For those who have missed them, thank you. For those of you who didn’t give a darn, I’m back and will try to do better.
About the Author
