Two weekends ago I accompanied a motivated, talented young student to a poetry slam. Our school does not have a slam team, nor do we have an exceptionally large hip hop culture, but he sought out the event and asked me if I would be his coach. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I was so proud of him for going after something he was interested in I knew we would figure it out together. We met once or twice a week to work on his writing and delivery. The experience seemed quite cathartic for him (as poetry often is) and I was finding some lost passion for teaching writing.
The bout (as poetry slam competitions are called) was at Columbia College. D was the only individual student to compete, and he performed toward the end of the day. I could tell he was incredibly nervous, but he got up on that stage and completely rocked his poem. He scored pretty high, but as they say, it's not about the points but about speaking your truth. Several students high fived him on his way back to our seats, and I could see his sense of accomplishment on his face. I was beyond proud.
Our new trimester began last week, and I decided to begin the course with a mini, adapted unit on poetry slams. I'm borrowing ideas from the team curriculum provided by Young Chicago Authors (check out their blog here for a glimpse into the amazing connection hip-hop and poetry can have for young people) and working in poems from our literature book. More than that, I'm attempting to get students to share their truth through the transformative, freeing power of writing. Inevitably, several students (often male) laugh at the poetry we read and write the shortest, most surface poems possible to suffice the requirements of the assignment. There's little I can do about that, but I continue to try to expose them to a variety of pieces that might affect them somehow. Another facet of this unit happened by sheer coincidence.
At Columbia College, Levi and I were roaming about the Student Commons area entertaining ourselves between performances. On a public bulletin board an anonymous letter caught my eye. I so wish I had had my phone with me so I could have taken a photo of this letter, but the gist of it was someone hurting, struggling for hope. He (I've assumed the author is male on nothing more than my gut reaction) described being diagnosed with ADD in his youth, his grandmother's passing, his parents' divorce, and his fear that there's nothing more than that pain in his future. The letter ended with a question: Have you felt this way? Please write back.
The bottom of the printed page had tear-off tabs with an email address. I knew reading this letter that I couldn't ignore it, so I grabbed a tab and stuffed it in my pocket. I wasn't sure what I would do with it, but I sensed an amazing opportunity to connect with my new students. My second hour, due to the good vibes I got from day one, became the guinea pig for this project. I described the letter to them and asked what they thought we should do. We decided to send a basic, unassuming email to the writer asking to know more. Last night, we got our first response.
"Dear Mrs. K's 10th grade 2nd hour English class,
A dream:
I am lying the basement of my house. This is where I should have realized I was dreaming, since I live in a ramshackle apartment on the far north side, and the house I was “in” was a modern California two story. It was the house from Paranormal Activity: 3, really. That movie was mediocre.
I am lying in the basement of my house on an air mattress, but I cannot sleep. I have a feeling that something is wrong, that bad things are happening and I can neither see them nor fix them. I move the pillows from the head of the bed to the foot of the bed and try to tell myself that nothing is wrong. That it is ok to go to sleep. But the clawing sensation in the pit of my stomach—no, deeper than that—in the marrow of my bones, will not stop.
When I was still engaged, young and stupid and overly excited while living with my high school sweetheart, we had a cat named Zombie that we got from a shelter.
I am lying in the basement of my house on the opposite end of the bed now, and my cat Zombie is walking around, very aloof and catlike. She is calm and composed. I tell myself that this means that everything is fine. That is something was wrong, she would be upset. I settle into the bed, content and ready to fall asleep.
Upstairs there is noise. I stand up and head up the stairs, knowing but not knowing that everything is going to change. Do you know that feeling? Where you understand instinctually that bad things are right around the corner, yet you are oblivious to what they could possibly be. I have this tattoo, on my leg, from a Bright Eyes song. The quote it is from is “It’s like walking out of a door only to discover it is a window.”
When I get up stairs, there are two teenagers robbing me. They are probably your age. They are robbing me, but I cannot see what they are taking. Possibly they are taking nothing and just using my phone. This is a thought that crossed my mind. There is a TV in the corner of this house, but they seem not to care. I grab a pint glass, a tall, curving glass they reserve for low quality pilsners, smashing the rim so that I am left with a jagged weapon. There is someone, possibly my father, who is in the bedroom upstairs. Perhaps it is not my house. I try to yell for help, but I make no sound. I try to yell again, and there is the hint of a whisper caught in my throat. In my head, I demand that my vocal cords do as I say, that they scream loud enough for someone, anyone, to hear me and help me. To save me. The whisper turns into a mumble. The mumble into a moan. As the kids are running out of my house through a broken window, I throw my makeshift weapon, my mind aching with the demand for noise and the subtle cracking of a shift in reality, and as the glass misses and shatters against a wall, I emit a final yell.
I wake up in my bedroom in my apartment, screaming at the top of my lungs at my ceiling. I am alone. I am terribly alone. My throat aches. I have probably been screaming.
This dream refuses to leave me today. Maybe not the dream itself, but the waking up screaming. I am not so sure this is normal, though that word has never really applied to my behavior before.
I am spending the weekend, a long weekend, away. Away from a romantic relationship that seems to be getting away from me, away from jobs that repress my creative talent, and away from the stagnancy that exists in a meticulously scheduled life.
Please write back,
X"
A million thoughts run through my mind upon reading that. Part of me is amazed at that person's talent. Another part of me is skeptical that this isn't real, that perhaps it's an experiment in a psychology class to see who responds, or it's an assignment in a poetry seminar to try to establish a poetic dialogue. My students are excited about the mystery, and several of them are moved by the author's pain, so I've decided regardless of its intent, we're going to use it for good in our classroom. Tomorrow's assignment will be to respond, in narrative poetry form, to X. I'm hopeful about where this might take my second hour. Updates to come.
I need some help with my fifth hour, though. I already feel completely underwater with them. They are rowdy, loud, disruptive, and off-topic. It's so difficult to rein them in and get them all to listen to instructions. I feel like I've already lost control and it's only day 5. I don't know if I have the power to crack down and do what needs to be done to fix this. I feel like it's my fault that I'm in this position. I've felt sick several times the last few days thinking about this class, and I know that isn't right. I should be calm, cool, and collected, and refuse to let their behavior dictate how I feel. It's my classroom. But why do I feel like it's not?
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