The first day of class, half way through the afternoon session, one the 16 students in my writing class raised her hand and said, “Can I go home now?” The word “querulous” was invented for this girl.
Caught off guard, yet ever articulate, I asked, “Home as in back to the dorm, or home as in home home?”
She collapsed onto the table, her arms out, head down. “I don’t care. Just not here.”
Springing up again, she went on. “I just think I don’t deserve to be here. I should be home swimming at the pool, playing Pokemon and writing my fan fiction. I’m being held against my will. I didn’t want to come here in the first place. I …”
I cut her off. Told her that if she would please wait until three o’clock, I’d be pleased to let her talk to someone about it. But until then, we are in discussion. My thoughts were, “You bet. I’ll call home for you. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Yet I resisted.
She was back that evening for study hall and the next morning. She took exception to John R. Stilgoe’s essay, “Beginnings,” from his book Outside Lies Magic. The piece urges the reader to “get out,” as in get out of the house, go wandering (not power walking or jogging) go alone, and go without your ipod plugged into your head, without your cell, without texting. The same student declared that Stilgoe “has a serious grudge against technology, and I don’t get what’s wrong with technology, I love technology, that’s why I hate being here, without my technology. I want my …” And once again the instructor cut her off. “Thanks. I understand how someone might think that.”
She sat and fumed. Interrupted another student in our discussion.
“Do I have to stay here?”
Well, yes, actually you do.
“I’m not going to listen, then. I’m just going to sleep put my head down on the table and sleep.”
Which she proceeded to do.
Things got even more interesting when we started to read Thoreau. Any writing that implied that humans might do well to reconnect with the natural environment and rid themselves of material trappings as well as technological gizmoes set off alarm bells in her head. This time it was, “I’m not listening. I hate this guy.” And she proceeded to shred the photocopy of “Where I Live and What I Lived For” from Walden.
At some point during the discussion, she rebelled further, informing us that she’s always right and anyone who disagrees with her is always wrong, and she hates people who are wrong and disagree with her, and this book should be burned.
Wouldn’t be the first time that someone suggested burning a book by Thoreau. The novel part was that this was coming out of a 13-year-old. Quite a bright 13-year-old. But still.
It occurred to me that perhaps I have neither the demeanor nor the temperament for the classroom. My immediate reaction was to get rid of her, get her out, there’s the door, here’s your hat what’s your hurry. Go. Devil – git out!
*
Most writers that I know agree that algebra class was a painful experience. I secured a passing grade in college algebra by missing the first test, stealing the answers, acing the make-up test (with the stolen answers), attending all the labs (for which I earned points), and ending up with a solid D. Helen Johnson drove me to this. As the high school math teacher with a 30-plus year tenure, she taught all of us Westersons and Petersons and Andersons and Swensons and, and, and. Baffled by anything describing one train leaving a station at 3 p.m. the other at 2 p.m. etc., I sought her help. The meeting ended with her shooing me out of her classroom with the admonition that I understood this perfectly and quit wasting time and get back to study hall. I still believe that I could score 100 percent on an algebra test with the right tutoring. In fact, I believe that I could learn calculus with the right tutoring. These beliefs, these delusions, they persist.
*
Defacing books was never a sport. Coloring in letters, the spaces in the O or the P or the A or B – that was the extent of it. Purely innocent. It took me years to actually highlight or underline in books, and I remember thinking what a great idea that was, especially if the author was not considerate enough to provide boldface, italics or vocabulary words at the end of the chapter. In this classroom, kids are encouraged – yea, instructed – to read with a pen or pencil in hand. Not a highlighter – you can’t write questions or comments with highlighters. Use pens. Use pencils. Question. Participate.
*
Right now we have three days left of the second three-week session. Today, we went on our last field trip to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, a fabulous place located on Cannery Row in Monterey (yes, we’ve been reading Steinbeck). The Aquarium has preserved part of the Hovden Cannery and provides interpretive information about it. This group could not have been more bored with the entire thing. I don’t recall ever seeing 14-year-olds who preferred to play in the sections designed for 5-year-olds. They would rather have done that had we not urged them on. No, I don’t think I’m particularly well suited to the classroom. I can’t say “come on, let’s go” one more time. Obviously with this current group I’ll have to say “get your asses over here.”
Four days to go. Just four days.
