I Loved To Teach

I had said, “Let’s get your feelings out into the open. My shoulders are broad. I can take it.” But they had more bitterness than I could have imagined, and it went on longer than I should have allowed. Even then I am sure I would have been fine if twins girls, juniors, hadn’t stopped by my desk on the way out of class.

“I hope you noticed that only four people did all of the talking. I’m not going to say any more, but look at my hands. My fingernails have dug into my palms while I attempted to hold myself back.” Then they hurried out. I had, indeed, not noticed and had felt the feelings were universal and perhaps not without a lot of merit. Now, my second-period juniors and my sixth-period speech class were the highlights of my day, and suddenly I was reluctant to face a class. I started English 11 with an apology for my arrogance, and suddenly I had to leave the room. I had no warning that my eyes were going to “tear up,” but they did. I had always felt that if a teacher cried in front of a class, it would be a show of weakness and would imply that the kids had the upper hand. I thought of the lady in my high school study hall. But that moment was the turning point of my days at Southwestern because students rose up to champion my cause without my even knowing it. No one ever challenged my play selection again, and the next play had the best students and the finest athletes in the cast.

I think I explained that incident best much later after a shocking news broadcast that told of an airplane crash in which the entire Evansville College basketball team had lost their lives. I decided I had to write a thank-you note to a former student who had not tried out for the play his senior year but had been in my speech class play. He was a gifted athlete who turned down several college offers to play basketball.

POST-MORTEM TO AN ATHLETE FRIEND

I had long thoughts last night, dark thoughts,
When I heard of the plane that crashed
And took the lives of one whole college team.
It wasn’t fear for you that made me stay
Awake into the night and think
How important your friendship was to me.
No, you didn’t go off to college right away
But disappointed us and took classes
Of specialized study at a school nearby.
When you confided recently
That if you could turn back those years,
You would go to college instead,
I felt confusing guilt for the part I had not played.
I had not pushed for what I felt was right for you.
I chose, rather, to accept you as you had once chosen to accept me…

When you were a senior, I was new here
And not well-liked;
I thought too highly of myself
And made unreasonable demands.
One day my students chose to vent their anger
In class discussion, since I “could take it.”
Suddenly, the next hour,
My voice broke and there were tears;
So people knew I was not happy here.
I guess you heard of it.

Late that afternoon on the stage alone
I was drowning my sorrow in a labor of love–
A complicated, stenciled design for the scenery
Of the play I was directing against the current.
Suddenly I knew that you had been standing,
Watching longer than I knew. Looking up, you said,
“You need a friend!”
“You’re right, I guess.”
“That’s why I’m here (or some such words)–
To be your friend. Those idiots…”

And of all the friends I ever had,
You are, perhaps, the only one I’ve never tried to change.
I think it is either because, in gratitude,
I chose not to see your faults
Or else that you have had none.
Anyway, when you, with your athletic prowess
And physical achievements so much admired,
Chose not to play more ball,
I didn’t prod or question,
But Evansville is where I would have had you go.

Your life was spared;
You were not there
When that promising young team and coaching staff
Were burned alive last night.
I lay the whole night long, almost,
Awake and wondering
How those who’d lost their athlete friends
Could bear that grief
And what they could do to ease their pain.

So I just chose to write these lines to you today
Because I never knew how to say,
“I’m glad you are my friend,”
Even before you chose me,
I loved you in the special way
That teachers love the special few.
And if you ever see the day
When you too “need a friend,”
Just turn around, kid,
And discover someone
Who has been standing here, looking up
…longer than you know.

December 14, 1977, for Jerry Parmer

*        *        *

This play, Cheaper by the Dozen, was the last class play until I left Southwestern. After the last performance, the head maintenance man congratulated me, “I have seen every class play during the eighteen years this school has been in existence, and this was the best one.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Absolutely. Far and away the best.”

“Well,” I countered with a laugh, “that gives me some comfort. Be prepared for them to get better. This was the worst main stage play I ever directed.”

In the English/drama/speech classroom, the shelves around three sides of the room are deemed absolutely essential. A dictionary must be on the desk or within easy reach, and many books (yes, real books) of great poetry, short stories, humor, and novels should be available for student use. The poetry of Robert Frost, in his complete works, is introduced with an invitation, in “The Pasture,” to join him on his own turf, saying, “I sha’n’t be gone long,—You come too.”

Now you might pretend that this writer is a poet, inviting you to go on a little stroll because he means for you to share the intimate moments of what he feels makes teaching high school students in America the happiest profession.

POETRY MUSE

Sense suffocating loneliness, gloom,
Silent as the violin on the wall of our fireside room,
Strung, but out-of-tune,
Out-of-reach, untouched, a boon,
Yearning, like the bow,
Neatly slanted a few inches below.

Feel the tremors within it moaning,
“Take me down! I will not consent to being ornamental,
An embellishment, a turn, a grace note merely–NO!
Tighten a turn or two the horsehair bow,
And render into tune each string;
Rosin generously and let me sing!

“Caress cold ebony of my chin piece–bright,
Black curves reflecting a bold fire’s light.
Grip me closely, pressed against your shoulder.
Release soft melodies which soon grow bolder
As resonance fills the chambers of my chest
And the music of the muses swells your breast.

“O, stir my strings with nimble, tremulous touch.
Vibrate into life silent pages with passion such
As only prayer and poetry can proffer–
Pain and happiness your fleeting memory must offer.
Place your cares like logs upon the fire across the room
And warble sacred mem’ries from your journey to the tomb.”

Replace the bow with care upon the wall when done–
In the probable event another such a one
Stops here for warmth with sagging soul so coldly grand.
Loosen its strings and leave the rosin close at hand,
And, just as you might close your fondest book,
Hang the fiddle quickly back upon the hook.
It is not soundless, though muted now like a melancholy word
Upon an unturned page, awaiting reader, lonely, and unheard.