Oh, The Suphering

As a note to yesterday's post about students submitting some disturbing and violent creative writing, I feel the need to recount my own history of such behavior. A couple of years ago, while rummaging through old Childhood Stuff at my folks' place, Mary and I unearthed a treasure: a collection of stories written and illustrated with care by my kindergarten-aged self. Many of these stories were about the X-Men or Power Rangers. All of them involved characters fighting. Now, they were hardly troubling; my inability to spell or color within the lines made them hilarious, actually. Still, one story was about "Rock Man" who killed people with rocks, making them "supher" (what can I say, I was a young poet).

So I drew pictures of people dying, scribbling all over the page with a red crayon, and described mass amounts of suphering. Does that mean I needed counseling at that age? Absolutely not. To this day, I have never been in an actual fight. I just liked comic books and Star Wars. I had an imagination. Had an adult told me that what I was doing was wrong or inappropriate in any way, I would not have taken it well. It would be like telling me that I couldn't eat pizza or watch Saturday Morning Cartoons. Children can have twisted imaginations, but I am living proof that such a thing does not necessarily mean the child will grow up deranged.

PS I also touched on the depressing nature of high school literature yesterday. One such universally read bleak and gloomy classic is Great Gatsby. If you've read it, you may find THIS funny.

Teaching Teens to be Troubled

It's fun teaching honors students. This is my first year doing so, and it has been really rewarding. These are honors freshmen, the perfect demographic: smart enough to hold a sophisticated discussion on literature, but young enough to still be eager to learn. It's one time in my week where I know for certain I will have a good time in class, which is certainly not something many teachers are able to say. Considering this, imagine my excitement in assigning my students to write short stories. Many of these students actually enjoy creative writing in their free time and certainly read for fun, so I expected them to have more original ideas and a better grasp on narrative logic than my other students (not to knock on my other students, they can come up with some very creative stuff, too). I left the assignment open ended intentionally, allowing my students to write something they would enjoy.

I have now finished grading these stories (And all of the other essays I had to grade. You can't see it over the interwebs, but I am smiling about this). Some of these stories were real gems: poignant, suspenseful, or fun. I had one student write from the perspective of a mathematician trying to decide whether or not to ask a girl out on a date who solved his predicament using the same logic used to solve a geometric proof. It's these sort of stories that made me excited (yes!) to grade an assignment. Other unimpressive stories covered topics I expected; stories about relationships and prom and other mushy stuff. No less than six involved being asked out by a boy with "piercing blue eyes."

However, almost half of the stories submitted to me involved something I did not expect: violence. Now, I knew that I would have some stories with a little bit of violence, but this bordered on disturbing. Here's the general plot outline of one of these stories: A teen and his girlfriend accidentally allows his younger brother to drown while he was supposed to be watching him. Out of anger, the teen's father attempts to murder him for his negligence. In the ensuing scuffle, the teen accidentally kills his father. When the teen returns home, he and his girlfriend are murdered by his mother in anger. THE END. Another involves a teen who is obsessed with a girl in his class, seemingly romantically. In an ironic turn, once he gets her alone, the boy kills the object of his obsession and skins her. That one made me light headed. It did not help that I had been grading for hours when I stumbled upon it.

Teacher instincts said to talk to these students in private to make sure they did not need counseling. That was my plan until I finished, violently disturbing stories numbering in double digits. That means that this is a far reaching problem, not an individual one. Sharing this with Mary and friends, they reminded me that these kids are surrounded by violent media. They all go home and watch marathons of CSI. I have to admit, I can relate. At that age, I was a huge fan of Braveheart and Boondock Saints. These are the stories many adolescents are surrounded by, so it makes sense that these are the narrative they would weave themselves.

Part of me wonders if I, as an English teacher, am partially to blame. It's not that I make my students write about violence, but let's face it, literature read in high school is always depressing and often violent. I am concerned about my students writing about teenage violence, yet we are currently reading a play about two teenagers who commit suicide in the end. After reading Of Mice and Men, Lord of the Flies, and 1984 next year, I'd be surprised if they could write an optimistic story if paid to do so. "Great literature," on the whole, is full of books that are total bummers.

I'm not writing this post to say that I am against that. I certainly don't think that William Golding should have gone to see a psychiatrist because he wrote about some little kids who murder a fat nerdy boy (though it might have done the guy some good). There's some good in writing about the dark parts of the world, and literature helps us come to terms with it. In reading these depressing stories, students are able to confront life's ugliness and process it through discussion in a safe environment. After reading these stories, though, I do worry that they are failing to see the parts of life that aren't all that bad. Oh well, maybe they go to church for that.

Now that I'm caught up on grading, I'll return to Marquez, who surely won't write about anything disturbing like war or incest.

Dang Technology

I woke up fairly early today to grade papers. I have many many essays and short stories to grade, and I was looking forward to getting them off my plate. Trying to be green and tech-savvy this year, I have decided to use turnitin.com to grade all of my papers. Instead of collecting physical copies, my students submit their papers online, I grade them online, and they get feedback and peer edit online. It allows me to make more substantive comments on their papers without spending the entire class after papers are returned translating my handwriting. For the most part, it's worked like a charm. I get to essentially bring home 100 papers without carrying a heavy bag full of paper cuts waiting to happen.

Today, when I logged on to turnitin.com to get my grading done, this message:

Turnitin is currently down for routine system maintenance and upgrades. The service will be available again at 11:00 AM Pacific Standard Time (6:00 PM Coordinated Universal Time).

Looks like I have a leisurely morning ahead of me. Hey, I tried.

Shaking the Spear

I am tired. It's been a busy year. I have a stack of papers to grade stalking me. I am very much in need of some extra enthusiasm and energy. Wizard needs food badly.

Today, I got just what The Doctor (the one with the TARDIS, not a stethoscope) ordered: my Shakespeare unit started today. Oh, teaching Shakespeare to freshmen. It's why I got into this biz. We have so much fun performing in class with fake swords, biting our thumbs at each other. Romeo and Juliet! The passion! The tragedy! The sexual innuendo! The crappy DiCaprio movie! Epic. This is the stuff book nerds' dreams are made of. I hope every year to hook someone the way I got hooked on this stuff when I was their age. At the very least, I know that I'll be having a good time.

Have 80 minutes to spare and looking for some entertainment? If you've not seen it, watch THIS VIDEO. It's the complete works of Shakespeare in one performance. Still remember all of the jokes from watching it in Ms. King's class. Genuinely funny.

First Thoughts on Marquez

As I mentioned yesterday, I'm three days into One Hundred Years of Solitude and thought I could give some first impressions. It may be a while before I write about the book again because my reading is about to be interrupted by about 110 essays that will need grading starting tomorrow. I mean, what genius scheduled papers due from ALL of his classes on the same day? This leisure time for reading and writing is about to get cut a tad short.

I'm enjoying it. It's certainly not a page turner. Like Bolano's 2666, another Latin American novel I recently read (most of), Marquez has a thing for drawing out his story with detailed descriptions of seemingly not-so-important events. This is not a complaint - I actually like it when authors fully develop the world of the novel, unafraid of details that do not explicitly move the plot forward. This is a book about a family, and the only real stumbling block so far is getting the names straight. For instance, so far there are three characters all named Jose Arcadio. It's realistic that traditional families would pass down names like this, just not super-convenient for the reader.

What sets this novel apart from 2666 is that it's not all about gritty realism. Marquez is the most famous example of an author who writes in "magical realism," which, from what I can tell, translates into awesome. In otherwise realistic stories, elements of the fantastic are thrown in without explanation. In my favorite part of the novel so far, an entire village catches the "disease" of forgetfulness. Nobody can remember what anything is, so labels are attached to everything. For instance, that unfamiliar mooing quadruped chewing grass out in the field is labeled with a nice helpful sheet of paper explaining that it is, in fact, a cow, and that it needs milking every day. A gypsy comes to town with a tonic to cure the forgetfulness. No other explanation is given, and the story of this very real family continues. I love it. Growing up on fantasy literature, I have always had a fascination with these sorts of stories, and I'm already in love with the way Marquez weaves these magical elements seamlessly into the deeply emotional lives of this family. Unlike many fantasy novelists, Marquez does not feel the need to explain exactly how/why all of these fantastical events work; the effect is mysterious and subtle. Makes me want to look into more magical realism books.

Some favorite lines so far:
-The way this book talks about sex is great, hilarious at times. Marquez describes one boy's first sexual encounter by telling the reader that the boy now "understands why men are afraid of death." When the boy's younger brother asks him what sex feels like, he responds, "It's like an earthquake." It's just such a serious and dramatic way of talking about sex that I can't help but smile, even if that's not the desired effect.

- This book covers 100 years, so we begin quite some time ago, probably in the mid 1800s. The invention of the daguerreotype, a precursor to photography, comes into the village (when thinking about daguerreotypes, my mind always pictures THIS famous daguerreotype of Poe). The mother in the story refuses to have her picture taken. Her reasoning? She "did not want to survive as a laughingstock to her grandchildren." Ha. So true. I'm reminded of the Ghosts of School Picture Day Past that haunted my aunts and uncles from my grandparents' fireplace mantle. Embarrassing 70s eyeglasses and haircuts. Laughingstock indeed.

Anyway, I look forward to reading more, even if my pace will be slowed by my mound of student writing. Possible venting in the forecast. Stay tuned.

Page Turner

Just started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude yesterday. I've started here in my quest to be better read for a few reasons: 1) It is regarded by many (including some coworkers) as the best novel written by a living author. 2) My experience with literature written anywhere other than America and Britain is severely lacking. 3) I already owned a copy.

I first heard the title mentioned my freshman year at SLU. I was in the course all honors students were required to take called "Crossroads," a vague name for a vague class. The room was filled with adolescents fresh from their respective private high schools. Being in the honors program, even if everyone there was not eager to learn, they were eager to please the instructor and get an A at all costs. This was where I first met Frank, the class where he notoriously ruined a group project (in which I was a group member) and got in a shouting match with the instructor.

The professor in question was Dr. Smith, a man who was my first favorite college professor (he left the university soon after my taking this class). He was a classic wimpy dude: short in height, hair neatly combed, squeaky voice, an English teacher whose specialty was in women's literature. Fighting against this effeminate demeanor: his goatee. He was the sort of man whose facial hair made no room for lips, where his mouth was unframed by the usual pink skin. When he spoke, his mouth came from seemingly nowhere between his mustache and goatee.

On this particular day, Dr. Smith was attempting (unsuccessfully) to lead us in an engaging discussion about the personal writings of Ignatius of Loyola. Frustrated by his unenthusiastic "honors students," he asked us why we were so bored with the book. One student sarcastically spoke up, "Well, it's not exactly a page turner." Smith, with genuine curiosity, asked the class, "What kind of books would you consider a so-called page turner?"

My mind turned to the books that employ the quality of page turners. Books like early installments of the Harry Potter series and The Da Vinci Code fit the mold: simple descriptions, the plot always shifting to new and exciting moments in quick succession. My response was the Amber series by Roger Zelazney. I'd quickly devoured all five books in a weekend the previous school year. One classmate responded that they had read One Hundred Years of Solitude and found it to be a real page turner. Dr. Smith raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh, come on," he said, "It's a good book, sure, but not exactly a page turner."

It seemed that several students in the room, all freshmen in college like me, had read the book in school and enjoyed it. Though I enjoyed my high school English classes at the time (and have that enjoyment to thank for my current profession), I look back on it now as insufficient in many ways. Yes, I certainly came out a better writer, very adept at reading short stories. However, I was taught high school English out of anthologies and read only a handful of novels the entire four years. I teach each class a minimum of six novels per school year now. Starting college, I felt self-conscious as an English major who had not read many books in his high school classes. One Hundred Years of Solitude was put on my mental list of "Stuff I Feel Like I Should Have Read by Now." I've read many books on that list since that afternoon in my Crossroads class. Not sure how I made it through high school without reading The Great Gatsby or To Kill a Mockingbird, but I've read them now (and am glad I did).

Now, still on that mission to have read all those "important books," I've finally started One Hundred Years of Solitude, the book adored by my former classmates. 50 pages in, I'm certainly enjoying it, but I must side with Dr. Smith here. Fascinating? Yes. A page turner? Well, certainly not in the traditional sense.

Frog Season

The Missouri Botanical Garden is one of the best places in the city. One of the best places in that best place is what Mary and I affectionately refer to as the Frog Spot. It's located in the English Woodland Garden, just over a little bridge. This spot consists of a tiny pond (almost a glorified puddle) whose only real defining feature is a statue of three skinny naked women. Most people look at it, shrug, and walk on. Those people are missing out. This is where all of the toads like to hang out in the Garden. Amphibian Party Central.

Walking through the Garden in the summer, Mary and I would always go out of our way to visit the Frog Spot, getting into a competition of who could see the most frogs. You must understand, it's harder than it looks. The water in this pond is a dark reflective green, and the frogs (which are huge, by the way) are approximately the same color, camouflaged so that nobody can gig them and deep fry their legs, I suppose.

Summer turned to winter eventually, and the pond froze over. The three naked statuesque women were not only surely freezing, but also lonely for their usual croaking company. I know nothing about amphibian biology, so I have no idea where frogs go during the winter. Do they hibernate under the ice? Do they do a migratory hop south? Do they all die off? Whatever the case, quiet Garden walks in the crunching snow ensured that our frog spotting game always ended with the tie score 0-0.

Today, the Garden was alive like it hadn't been since all of the leaves fell off of the trees. Green is sprouting everywhere. Tulips and flowering dogwoods have taken over. The parking lot is full. It was a pleasant stroll through the new warm season. I knew to expect the new bright colors and crowds that come with 76 degree weather in the Garden.

What I did not expect? We spotted frogs for the fist time in the Spot. 8 total. Welcome home. Welcome to Spring.

In Which We Meet Our Hero

Being a high school English teacher, one lesson that I am forced to reteach every few weeks is the definition of a thesis statement. My students inevitably forget between each essay, so I find myself saying at the start of each writing assignment: "A thesis statement is the main idea of your essay. You need to let your readers know what they should expect from the rest of the paper. Why are you writing the paper? What are the major topics that you'll be covering? Your audience should know the answers to these questions before they continue on to your second paragraph." This is good advice to budding writers, many of whom struggle with focus and organization in their writing.

Beginning this blog, I felt a need to provide answers to these very questions with my first post. Why is this blog here? What will this blogger be writing about? There's so much junk out there on the internet I could be looking at to better waste my time, why should I waste my time reading this?

This blog is a place for me to write. Sound simple enough? I like the idea of journaling, of writing down my thoughts and ideas. I even love actual physical journals. Beautiful and unused Moleskines lie around my apartment becoming unhealthy in their slothlike existence. Here's the thing about writing in those wonderful books: I don't write all that much by hand. Actually, I write much slower and much less legibly with a pen. There's no chance to do a quick search of a journal to find something I vaguely remember writing months ago. There's nobody reading my journal, which gives me no incentive to make my written reflection coherent, polished, or entertaining. While I'm not sure that this is a blog that will be of particular interest to others, it certainly serves my own purposes well.

Okay, so I'm just here to write. But what will I be writing about? In the fall, I'll be starting a MA in Literature program at UMSL. This means that I intend to take my reading and writing to the next level. Because of that, I need someplace to simply write. Write. About anything. To be a better writer (a personal goal)I need to write more. I intend to write for at least 30 minutes per day about anything that comes to mind. Some days, I'll write about something I heard on the radio. Other days, I'll write about interesting conversations I had with my students. This summer, I'll probably write an awful lot about seasonal vegetables and walks in the Botanical Gardens.

Primarily, though, this will be a blog about books. The title of this blog is actually a quote from Richard Burton. He's an actor I remember fondly from movies viewed in various high school classes (Anne of A Thousand Days in World History and Taming of the Shrew in English Lit). My favorite project of his is the BBC recording of Dylan Thomas' enchanting radio play, Under Milk Wood (I have an MP3 of it, should you like a listen). The quote has a lot of truth to it. This May will be the first in five years where I will not be moving to a new place. Moving is a painful process that I look forward to not taking part in anytime soon. The only fun part of that process? Unpacking boxes of books. I am the sort of person who doesn't like having lots of "stuff," but I love having so many books. Taking stacks of them out of boxes and shelving them in alphabetical order immediately turns a structure full of blank walls into a home.

Since I'm starting grad school soon, my current project is to fill in my reading gaps. I've been on a real contemporary fiction kick lately, and been very much enjoying it. Highlights have included Atwood's Blind Assassin, McCarthy's The Road, and MacLeod's Island. However, now it's time to start jumping into classic literature that I've missed out on over the years. Faulkner, Hemingway, Melville, O'Connor, Marquez, Dostoevsky,and Dickens, here I come! I'll be reflecting about my reading often. I won't take it personally if you find those bits boring, I just need to get back into the habit of writing about what I read. Feel free to skip those bits.

In The Maltese Falcon, the notoriously plump and appropriately named Mr. Gutman tells the hero Sam Spade, "I like talking to a man who likes to talk." This will be the writings of a man who likes to write. Feel free to drop in. Don't worry, one way I hope to improve my writing in the coming months is to be more economical with my writing.