A Writer's Treasure

I have always been a collector of quotes. I find myself in them, lose myself, get reaffirmed, encouraged, comforted, and sometimes, assured that I'm not crazy, like this one from F. Scott Fitzgerald: "Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person." If the fabulous Mr. F. felt that way, then maybe I'm not so weird. If you've ever lived with a writer, then you know what I'm talking about. We're a unique breed. I find comfort in the knowledge that I'm not the only one who struggles with focusing on one project, sticking to a deadline, finishing that manuscript before seeing another shiny project just waiting to pull me off task and write it, instead, and of course--the piles of paper. Back in the day, I kept file folders and spiral notebooks and would fill them with my story ideas, observations, catchy dialogues, and character notes. Now I use a cool app on my phone when I remember I have it. Going back and looking at them months or years later is hilarious-and puzzling. What in the world did I mean by, "Antique tractor. Whiskey. Labrador"? Is there some blockbuster lurking in those cryptic notes? Did F. Scott look back on his "idea journals" later in life and wonder what he meant by some chicken scratch note he made? I'd like to think so. 

The other day, my students became so intrigued with the idea that I have a black belt in taekwondo. That always sparks conversation. Suddenly I'm a ninja to them, and they afford me a new level of respect I didn't have before. This crew took it to a new creative level and came up with a story line for a movie about me, the English teacher by day who moonlights as a contract hit man; it stars them in various roles. It was actually quite good--good enough that I've tucked it away in my cool phone app for later. I may even get to it this summer if I don't finish the project I'm on and get distracted, that is. At my request, they even gave me a love interest, the father of one of the boys, our student body president, who is intent on playing himself in the movie as soon as he gets buff. Hey, I might as well have at least a fictional love life, right? One brilliant student suggested Gerard Butler's name for the role. How did he know? That student is getting an "A" this semester. Priorities. 

When I die, my children inherit at least six large boxes of spiral and composition notebooks, torn napkins, loose papers, and a cool phone app full of my weird story ideas, poems, diaries, character sketches, dialogues, and observations on life. I've thought of compiling them more neatly into something cohesive, but I fear losing the context in which they were created. That scrawled poem from the forlorn fourteen-year-old whose crush went unrequited takes me back every time; all I have to do is see those words and I am transported to junior high, and I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Laughing at or having compassion on my younger self is good therapy. To throw them away or digitize them might reduce their value, somehow, either sentimentally or perhaps realistically in some Christie's auction after one of my novels becomes the next Hunger Games or Twilight. I wouldn't want to deprive my children of that inheritance, now would I?

Teaching in the Trenches

   

Another good but emotionally-challenging day in the trenches of teaching at-risk youth. I overheard a student tell another teacher that his mother was an addict and used to put cocaine in his baby bottle.
On my planning period, I read through some pages of their autobiographies and took in an account of a drive-by shooting. The sweet, quiet girl in the back of the room has witnessed more bloodshed and bodies scattered on the floor than some cops I know. 
I did a writing blitz day where I kept my class writing, in various activities, for 90 minutes, and in one of the activities, I had these stations with writing prompts on them. The kids rotated and wrote for three minutes on each poster. The one about fighting was twice as full as the one about kissing. I commented on that, and a student said, "Guess there's a lot more violence than love." 

   One of the comments on the "Learning to Kiss" poster said, "Ask a whore." I said, "Did any of you learn to kiss by watching movies?" And one responded, "You mean like porn?" Uh.. no that's not what I meant. One student asked, "Which fight should I write about, the one yesterday or the one last week?" 

     Before class, I stopped "R," who I adore but who is extremely sarcastic and delights in trying to get me off task or rattle me. Yesterday, it was, "Miss! What'd you do to your hair? Have you lost weight? You look skinny. What's different about you? You look really pretty today--do you have a date after school?"  I looked him in the eyes and I said, "R", maybe you and I should start today's class with a hug. Whaddya think?" And he leaned in and said, "I think we should start EVERY class with a hug." I melted, threw my arm around that boy and hugged him. Class went smooth as glass. Now I know. Hug "R" every-single-day. 

For many high risk students, spring is a semester full of anxiety. They leave the security of a structured school day with mentors who pour into their lives and hold them accountable, two hot meals, friends, and support, and they have to live through an entire summer without some of those things. No structure, no schedule; for many of them, it's the law of the street. It's especially frightening for seniors. Graduation should be a time of liberation and independence, but for some kids, it's a sentence.  

If only a hug took care of all of them. I think of that starfish the boy in the story threw back. "It matters to that one," and I know that a hug, while it may not be much, mattered to that one, and for today, that's what I can do. Tomorrow is another day.