For the Fortunate Teacher, a Time to Grow so as to Give

So. I begin our conversation as Seamus Heaney opens his new translation of “Beowulf.” Earlier versions of this Anglo-Saxon epic poem begin with the engaging command: “Listen!”

“So” is a settling-in word. We have been talking of other things; now we move to this. We know some things; we admit them and now start from that base. It sounds like we are friends. The dinner dishes are cleared. We can talk.

So. Perhaps my absorption with this small word reveals me as a teacher. Can’t I let it go? It’s July. What do teachers do all summer? Friends eye me enviously and, I fear, judgmentally. I must account for my hours for I am, after all, your public servant.

I am most happy to tell you what I can.

I know I am one of the fortunate teachers since Agoura High School is not on a year-round schedule. While I am not paid for these many weeks, still there are nurturing rewards that will enrich next year’s classroom.

Teaching teenagers, as I do, demands alert energy and creativity. When one links the world of books to a teenager’s world of cars, sports, boyfriends and clothes, the rewards are astounding. To be there at just the right moment with the perfect match of story and life is the great trick. It takes concentration every moment of every day, always casting about for the telling hook. It is exhausting work, but wonderful.

In September, I ask my seniors what they want to know. What questions must they have answered to live full lives? I promise that I will teach only works that will help them get those answers. They want to know if they will be loved, be able to love. How will they handle setbacks and sorrow? Will they be satisfied? Will they matter in the world? Can they face death? And what comes after death?

Do not discount teenagers as shallow and self-centered. Well, yes they are, to a degree, but they also dive into King Arthur’s lake seeking swords with which to do battle in their lives. Like all of us, they worry and fear and hope.

One text that speaks clearly to my young people is Hamlet. The young prince just wants to go to college but must face the death of his dad, a rocky time with his girlfriend (who is acting, like, so weird), an amazingly oversexed mother and a request to commit murder. Quite a plateful. My students read his words so intently, so quietly that I know they are looking into his dilemmas for answers to their own. Is violence ever justified? How much do I owe my parents? Why is everything happening to me now?

As they struggle, I hold them in “my heart of hearts” as Hamlet cherished his best friend, Horatio.

A few days into my summer, I went to see the new film version of Hamlet starring Ethan Hawke. I went alone. I wanted to come to the play with fresh eyes and learn more about my favorite Shakespeare character. I did.

Hamlet’s deceased dad floats out to him from a Pepsi machine in a back corridor of a Manhattan high-rise office building. That is the way of pain, isn’t it? You just want a soda and here comes anguish right out of nowhere.

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My dad haunted my classroom this year in the same way. He died in April 1999, and this was the first year I had tried to teach Hamlet since he passed away. The play is full of longing for a special parent, regrets at things not said, comparisons to other people. Hamlet really loved his father and notes, “He was a man, take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again.” Those are the words I said at the funeral.

I like to play “In the Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics and let the lyrics speak for Hamlet. “Say it strong, say it clear, it’s too late when we’re gone.” This year, I popped the tape into the player without thinking much, and as the song floated out, I knew I couldn’t do this. It was too close, too strong, too hard. I stopped the tape and told my class how I missed my dad and that the song was just too much.

We stopped the play and talked about our parents, the fear we share of losing them, of trying to please them and always wondering if it is ever good enough. They really knew what that was all about.

We became closer friends that day by being honest with each other. We worked through the entire play as equals seeking some answers. When one boy contemplated suicide during the course of our reading, I emphasized the reasons to be, to always be. I think it helped him a bit. He smiled and hugged me at graduation.

So. That is what we do. We teachers let life flow over us and use summertime to reflect, grow, find new gifts to give in September. By nurturing my own soul and roots to become whole, I will be able to divide myself into 160 pieces in the fall.

At the end of July I will spend a week at UC Santa Barbara, working with young teachers in the South Coast Writing Project. I want to tell them to bring their own lives into their classrooms, to enjoy their students every day and not let the rigors of the year overwhelm them. I want them to see what a special life they have chosen so that, like Chaucer’s Oxford clerk, they will “gladly learne and gladly teche.”