Pedagogy, Puberty, and Poetry
There is perhaps no period of one's life that is more awkward than the delicate years between eleven and fourteen, as indicated by this photo. Like most of my peers, I struggled to find a place, and in my search I alternately cut my hair off, dyed it every color imaginable, took up (and quickly abandoned) skateboarding, pretended to play the bass guitar, and threw my little weight behind social causes. It mattered to me to write in those years. I sent letters to the editor of the local paper and to my congressman, wrote stories with my friends, and handled petitions for the Kalamazoo Animal Liberation League - a group I joined with my dear friend that afforded us our first bout of participating in protests in front of circuses and the M.P.I. Research facility. Our mothers took turns dropping us off at the end of a line of picketers, and we'd gleefully bound out of their cars, placards in hand. I was eager to write for them, for the cause. I was zealous in my exploration of my own creativity. And then I got to school.
I remember simultaneously liking and fearing my sixth grade Language Arts teacher. She was loud and tough and wore more accessories on a daily basis than I thought it possible for any one person to own in a lifetime. She drilled public speaking and revision. She made me use my voice, answer questions in front of the class, tallied the "ums" when I gave a speech, and in her classroom I was able to do all of those things. Her intensity was motivating, if abrasive.
By the time seventh grade began, I had lost much of the confidence I felt in her room. I became sullen and withdrawn as I was absorbed in dramatic social circumstances I hadn't the coping mechanisms to sort out. As far as I can recall, our writing practice was typical, regimented, and heavily focused on grammar.
There were two eighth grade Language Arts teachers at North Middle School: one was an over the top bubbly, sincere, spiritual woman, the other a bespectacled, cranky, hilarious, traditional man. My primary Language Arts instructor was the man. His broad smile and frequent teasing made his classroom occasionally unruly. When we whined or complained, he would rub the tips of his thumb and index finger together and say, "You know what this is? It's the world's smallest phonograph playing, 'My Heart Bleeds for You.'" Our complaints were rendered futile; his mocking made us laugh.
We began classes with Mr. Glenn by copying grammatically incorrect sentences out of a book and then correcting them in our notebooks. It was a grueling task, so very reminiscent of the D.O.L. we had all done in third grade, only this time there was no exciting promise of using overhead markers and the stakes were high. Once our allotted correction time had ended, he would select a student with whom to start the humiliating and nerve-wracking exercise. That student would stand and identify the first error in the original sentence and how to correct it. If they were wrong, the student behind them stood and attempted to correctly pinpoint the mistake. Then the next student in the line of desks would stand and make an effort to accurately identify and correct the next sentence error. This process went on around the room until all of the sentences had been corrected and a third of the students had been embarrassed. It is a wonder any of us ever liked Mr. Glenn after going through this procedure day in and day out, but his redeeming qualities overwhelmed this antiquated pedagogy. Tellingly, I cannot remember a single other activity that took place with regard to writing in his class.
I remember simultaneously liking and fearing my sixth grade Language Arts teacher. She was loud and tough and wore more accessories on a daily basis than I thought it possible for any one person to own in a lifetime. She drilled public speaking and revision. She made me use my voice, answer questions in front of the class, tallied the "ums" when I gave a speech, and in her classroom I was able to do all of those things. Her intensity was motivating, if abrasive.
By the time seventh grade began, I had lost much of the confidence I felt in her room. I became sullen and withdrawn as I was absorbed in dramatic social circumstances I hadn't the coping mechanisms to sort out. As far as I can recall, our writing practice was typical, regimented, and heavily focused on grammar.
There were two eighth grade Language Arts teachers at North Middle School: one was an over the top bubbly, sincere, spiritual woman, the other a bespectacled, cranky, hilarious, traditional man. My primary Language Arts instructor was the man. His broad smile and frequent teasing made his classroom occasionally unruly. When we whined or complained, he would rub the tips of his thumb and index finger together and say, "You know what this is? It's the world's smallest phonograph playing, 'My Heart Bleeds for You.'" Our complaints were rendered futile; his mocking made us laugh.
We began classes with Mr. Glenn by copying grammatically incorrect sentences out of a book and then correcting them in our notebooks. It was a grueling task, so very reminiscent of the D.O.L. we had all done in third grade, only this time there was no exciting promise of using overhead markers and the stakes were high. Once our allotted correction time had ended, he would select a student with whom to start the humiliating and nerve-wracking exercise. That student would stand and identify the first error in the original sentence and how to correct it. If they were wrong, the student behind them stood and attempted to correctly pinpoint the mistake. Then the next student in the line of desks would stand and make an effort to accurately identify and correct the next sentence error. This process went on around the room until all of the sentences had been corrected and a third of the students had been embarrassed. It is a wonder any of us ever liked Mr. Glenn after going through this procedure day in and day out, but his redeeming qualities overwhelmed this antiquated pedagogy. Tellingly, I cannot remember a single other activity that took place with regard to writing in his class.
In eighth grade, we undertook our first poetry unit. For this, we went to Mrs. DeLong's classroom. To introduce the unit, she spent two days weeping as she read Jonathan Livingston Seagull to the class and gushing about the importance of poetry. She gave us confidence pep-talks that were heart-felt and well-meaning, but impersonal and trite. She cried just thinking about great poetry and how much emotion she hoped we would put into our work. My friends and I assessed the situation. This unit promised to be excruciating and Mrs. DeLong was easy prey.
We wrote every day during that unit. We wrote in class and at home whatever style of poem she assigned for the day. When we had something on the page, regardless of need for revision or editing, we turned it in as though everything we ever put on a sheet of paper was not only good, but finished on the first try. She collected our pitiful pieces and then read them aloud to the class. I assume her rationale for doing so was to spare shy students from having to read their work to their peers. What resulted was that none of us ever had to claim anything. In absence of ownership or revision, we learned that our poetry was not worth any time or investment and because she was the one who anonymously read our work the class, we never owned those words. What should have been, and was meant to be, and emotional, self-searching endeavor turned into a rote activity done for someone else with little thought or personal investment. By virtue of passing off our work so quickly, we were never forced to work at it. The process of writing was gone, and with it the personality, pride, and creativity. Furthermore, the pass-off made it so that the only voice we ever heard in the classroom was Mrs. DeLong's. And she spent much of that time weeping and beside herself with praises for writing that we knew for the drivel that it was.
Eventually, a melodramatic selection of those poems was assembled into a book with a series of photos intended to mock the whole project. Naturally, I got an "A." I imagine we all did.
We wrote every day during that unit. We wrote in class and at home whatever style of poem she assigned for the day. When we had something on the page, regardless of need for revision or editing, we turned it in as though everything we ever put on a sheet of paper was not only good, but finished on the first try. She collected our pitiful pieces and then read them aloud to the class. I assume her rationale for doing so was to spare shy students from having to read their work to their peers. What resulted was that none of us ever had to claim anything. In absence of ownership or revision, we learned that our poetry was not worth any time or investment and because she was the one who anonymously read our work the class, we never owned those words. What should have been, and was meant to be, and emotional, self-searching endeavor turned into a rote activity done for someone else with little thought or personal investment. By virtue of passing off our work so quickly, we were never forced to work at it. The process of writing was gone, and with it the personality, pride, and creativity. Furthermore, the pass-off made it so that the only voice we ever heard in the classroom was Mrs. DeLong's. And she spent much of that time weeping and beside herself with praises for writing that we knew for the drivel that it was.
Eventually, a melodramatic selection of those poems was assembled into a book with a series of photos intended to mock the whole project. Naturally, I got an "A." I imagine we all did.