Tuesday, September 24, 2019

They're Always Ours

     There are four of my former English teachers I keep in touch with through Facebook, women whose impact on me extends well beyond inspiring me to become a teacher myself. We don't chat or get together in person, but we watch each other, occasionally exchanging likes and comments. We are familiar with each other's major life events.

     My sister-in-law is ten years younger than I am, so she recently started her junior year at the two-year boarding school my husband and I attended. Two of the first people she met were those former English teachers, Dr. Smith and Dr. Nagelkirk. We exchanged pictures and anecdotes, glad to continue to be connected to each other. I figured that would be the end of it.

     But then, a few weeks later, my mother-in-law told me something that withered me. She had met Dr. Smith, my AP Composition teacher. She had asked if I was still writing poetry. She remembered reading it, admiring it, sharing it with other faculty members. I was ashamed.

     You see, the truth is, I don't write poetry anymore. Not seriously, anyway. There was a time when writing was a part of my everyday life, a time when I was never without at least one notebook, often several (one for fiction, one for poetry, one for miscellaneous notes, etc...). But that time of my life was in the past. I went to college; I suffered the indignity of formal "creative writing" classes (never again). I got married, got a job, got a house. Other priorities took over.

     And yet, here was Dr. Smith, ten years later, wondering if Grace Casimer was still writing those beautiful words. But Grace Casimer doesn't legally exist anymore, and neither did my writing habit. I never got in touch with her to answer the question. I couldn't bear to tell her the pathetic truth.

     I was, as the kids say, "shook," but life pressed on. I had lessons to plan, a house to clean, grades to enter. It was 9:00 on a Sunday night when I got to the last student notebook. As a signal to me, students dog-ear the pages of their writing they would like me to grade. The last five pages of this notebook were marked. Each one contained a gorgeous, roiling poem, full of color and life and extended metaphors! It would have been impressive writing from an adult, let alone an eleven-year-old. It was the best student writing I had ever read.

     I left my student effusive praise and then sat with her notebook in my hands for several minutes. It would be a crime of the greatest magnitude if this little bard grew up to never write a poem again. If, fifteen years from now, I asked her the same question my teacher asked, if she let life get in the way of her writing, I'd be crushed. No matter how old she gets, no matter how far she goes or how often we speak, I will always be rooting for this young poet.

     And then, the irony washed over me. All these years later, Dr. Smith was still rooting for me, waiting for news of my literary successes. And what was I doing?

     Years ago, in her Introduction to Poetry class, I wrote that I didn't think the poem we were reading meant anything, that the poet was simply trying to create a beautiful image. On my paper, Dr. Smith wrote, "This is lazy." I was furious with her, outraged, scandalized. Until I realized she was right. I needed to spend more time and energy with that poem. Hearing that she had asked about my writing gave me that same defensive, exasperated feeling. I had been lazy. I needed to spend more of my time and energy on my writing, something that was once more important to me than eating.

     The students we teach are always ours. It doesn't matter how old they get. Until this week, those words were merely a platitude.

     But now, here I am, writing this blog post, buying new notebooks, dragging myself out of bed to write down story ideas before I forget them, frittering away my only plan period with writing instead of planning lessons or analyzing student data.

     Now, I get it. I know what I have to do.


6 comments:

  1. "The students we teach are always ours." It's so true. I love that your teacher asked if you were still writing poetry and that has nudged you into more writing. Grace Casimer (or whoever she legally is now) still has beautiful words. It's just time to find them again.

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    1. I don't think I read your blog in March (too many bloggers with never enough time), but I'm always delighted to follow another sixth grade teacher. Out of seventeen years of teaching, I spent twelve of them in sixth grade and loved it!

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  2. Your teacher remembered. I hope you find in you the poet who was hidden behind all the other roles that took the stage in your life for the past years.

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  3. This is such a beautiful and powerful reflection/slice. Thank you.

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  4. These lines really resonated with me:
    "But Grace Casimer doesn't legally exist anymore, and neither did my writing habit. I never got in touch with her to answer the question. I couldn't bear to tell her the pathetic truth."
    Grace Casimer may not legally exist anymore, but it seems her is still very much here.
    Powerful slice!

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  5. I love these words and this idea, that the students we teach always belong to us, at least in part. And we belong, in part, to all the teachers who crossed our paths. So glad to have read your Slice today. Keep going, Grace!

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