Poetry Is...

Today, my freshmen English classes dived into our study of poetry. Actually, we jumped back into it. We have examined poetry through the year, from Shakespeare to songs, metaphors to meter, but this is our actual focused "unit" of study into poetry.  As an English nerd, I am excited. It is my goal to pass some of that excitement on to some girls who lack confidence when they should be proudly speaking out and some boys who can easily shatter the stereotypes so many young people allow themselves to fall into. 

We looked today at the quote, the verse, above from Thomas Gray. I came across the line while looking for something else last week (I have no idea what I was looking for now), and it grabbed my attention.  "Poetry is thoughts that breathe..." So simple, and yet it fosters such an image. So cool. First, it prompted my students into a discussion of whether a plural or singular verb was needed based on the structure of the clause. We have the pleasure of studying that part of English as well. Then someone pointed out the activeness of the verb, the personification. It's alive! Alive. In a freshman English class, sometimes alive is an admirable goal. Usually, my guys and ladies step past just alive, and often, they impress me with what breaths those thoughts exhale. 

I like the second thought of the piece even more: "...and words that burn." The kids saw so many ways that this line can be read. Some resurrected the classic "That 70s Show" exclamation uttered so many times by Kelso, bringing up the idea that words can destroy a person. Others focused on words filling the role of candle wax, wood, or gas, serving as the fuel that allows the flame to ignite and grow. Some equated words with the flame itself, spreading and growing on the page and in the mind. One even pointed out that you can burned by, of all things, water, which led to being burned by dry ice, which is on the other end of the spectrum, and yet no less painful in its effects. We examined how flame and water, while so often seen as opposites, actually have so much in common, symbolically. In the 1997 version Romeo and Juliet, water is used throughout the film, and the young minds in classes settled on the fact that water is necessary for life, and it allows us, and everything to flourish. However, if uncontrolled and in excess, water can drown and destroy. Love, or in R&J, lust, is the same type of force. So is fire. Without it, we would shiver and die in the cold. Some people would shrivel and waste away without fire to cook our food. The stench of adolescence would become unbearable in our classroom were it not for the flames that heat the water needed to bathe. However, if that flame escapes and grows unchecked, it will consume everything it licks with its flickering tongue. One student hearkened back to the words of the Friar and paraphrased that advice he gave Romeo concerning passion, using as his example honey, which, though sweet and nourishing, becomes loathsome when taken in excess. In the end, one young man took the conversation all the way to milk, or as he said, "malk" (thanks Julian Smith).

All of that discussion sprang from a nine word verse. That is one of the qualities of poetry that I love. It feeds thought, and that feeds discussion, which in turn, feeds more thought. It also prompted some deceptively strong lines to be written in the form of parallel poems in response. That was even more interesting than the poem itself. I was proud of many of their shaky, hesitantly penned thoughts, which blossomed, morphed, and sometimes choked on the page. I know not all of my kids were enthralled by the exchange, but a several were, and most were at least listening, soaking it in. I also know that I cannot turn every kid in my room on to what poetry has to offer, but some will catch the verse virus, and it will incubate in their minds, in the souls, and someday, it will spread from them to others a well. I am not naive enough to think that every person who can read or hear will one day fall in love with reading or writing poetry. However, poetry comes in so many forms, there is something out there in the realm that can appeal to nearly everyone. As the saying goes, "If you don't like it, you must be doing it wrong." That was about reading, wasn't it? No, I think the saying is actually "If you say you hate reading, you just haven't found the right book yet." 

So, we will continue on, hoping to find the right poem, the right lines, that will hook each of my kids in its own way. In the words of Billy Collins, we will "press an ear to its hive", perhaps "drop a mouse into the poem and watch it probe its way out," or maybe even "walk inside the poem's room

and feel the walls for a light switch" (Collins). That would be neat.

*Collins, Billy. "Introduction to Poetry." The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996
University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, Ark.

Marshmellow

Pets hold a special place in a family, one which people who are not pet-people cannot grasp. A cat or a dog is a member of the family. They are there and love you unconditionally. They have their own personalities and approach their humans in their own ways.  As a kid, we had Mittens, a large cat who somehow made his way into our house despite the fact that Mom claimed to be allergic to cats. My sister brought him home as a stray kitten, and Mom agreed to let him live under the backporch, where we could feed him. Then, as the year progressed, we would return home from school to find Mittens had made his way into the unfinished basement. Then, the door to the upstairs would mysteriously be left open. Soon, Mittens had free access to the house, and he would perch on the back of the couch or curl up around your head on the pillow. He was gentle, friendly, and one of us. He passed away while I was at college, and Mom waited to tell me until I came home that spring. She did not feel it was right to tell me over the phone.  It is hard to lose a member of your family. If you are blessed enough to be a pet person, you get that.

My family had to let go of a family member named Marshmellow this week. Before you think it, understand that that name is not misspelled. It is entirely accurate and correct. When we moved from Liberal, Emily had just finished 3rd grade, and she had wanted a kitty for some time. She was not entirely happy that we were moving, and we told her that since our house in Hutchinson was bigger and had a basement, she could have her kitty. We found Marshmellow on a farm northeast of town. He was part of a litter that had a mixture of different colorings, and he looked the most like his mother. Heidi and Emily chose him for a number of reasons, but, as women sometimes do, they chose him mostly because he was pretty. If the picture in your head, based solely on the name Marshmellow, is a puffy, white kitten, you are slightly off. Actually, you are way off. Marshmellow was a shorthair kitten, with a coat of caramel swirls and sort of off-white, one that can only be described as the color of a perfectly-toasted marshmallow. His coloring, like him as a whole, was unique. 

The spelling of his name was initially unintentional, but it was appropriate. Marshmellow was one of the most mellow cats ever to claim a house as his own. He was never in a hurry, and he was amazingly tolerant of just about anything. He let Emily haul him around without complaint. He did not protest when Heidi brought home a dehydrated and starved little black and gray kitty who would eventually jump all over him, bother him as he tried to chill in the window seat, and follow him down the stairs so he could jump in front of him when Heidi filled their food bowls. Occasionally, we would see the little bugger, named Chocolate, sent rolling across the floor by a massive Marshmellow paw. Marshmellow had huge paws, because Marshmellow was a big dude. You could only truly appreciate just how big he was when he would stretch out on the livingroom floor, front paws out before him and his back legs completely extended back behind him, or when he tried to curl up in bathroom sink, overflowing the vessel that held him so well as a kitten. 

It did not take long for Marshmellow to earn his spot as our cat. He would curl up in the bathroom sink and just look up at you if you needed to brush your teeth. He perched himself on my nightstand and waited if I stayed in bed past 7:00 a.m. He would visit me in the morning in the bathroom, just to say, 'Hello" and start the day off right.  This cat, despite the fact that he had free reign over the house and did not need to ask permission to go anywhere, would walk up to the couch, look at me and cock his head to the side, before "Mreowing" his request to share the couch. I usually had to clear any throw pillows off the middle section so he could lay there, but he always made sure it was ok first. 

All of this is everyday and unamazing for those of you who do not know Marshmellow. They were just a glimpse of who this fluffy friend was. This winter, Emily got sick. She stayed in bed for a couple of days. Marshmellow stayed right with her, curled up on the right side of her bed, keeping an eye on his girl. They had grown up together, and he was going to make sure she was ok. In the fall, when my sleep schedule gives way to grading papers and watching film, Marshmellow would come downstairs after Emily had fallen asleep, and he would sprawl out on the giant ottoman next to my couch, usually just about when I was ready to toss a stack of papers across the room or put my face through computer screen. He would "Mreow", wait for me to pat the ottoman, jump up, and reach a paw out to so I would scratch him behind the ears. He seemed to know when a little perspective was needed, and he was there to provide an instant stress relief, "chill by osmosis", if you will.  I honestly believe he really felt as if this was his house, and he was responsible for us. If you came out of the bedroom early in the morning, you would usually see him, with Chocolate sitting just behind him, sitting on the hopechest in the hallway, or up at the corner of the wall of the kitchen across from the hopechest; either spot allowed him to see both kids' rooms and our bedroom, and he was on watch. We were his people, and he was keeping an eye on us.

After the vet diagnosed Marshmellow and gave us the news, he was able to come for a few days, and immediatley went into Emily's room. He spent two days there, on her bed. Thursday, he came out and sat in the window seat with Chocolate. He looked tired and sad, and he had stopped eating, but when I walked in the livingroom, he slid down from the window, moved across the room, sat on his honches in front of the couch, and asked for permission to jump up next to me. He had lost quite bit of weight at this point, and he was pretty weak, but as soon as I patted the cushion, he leaped up and laid down on his spot in the middle. He sat there with me for over an hour, and then went back into Emily's room to watch over her for the night. 

We were all able to say goodbye to Marshmellow. He said goodbye too. He nuzzled up to Emily right at the end, burying his head in her under her neck, as he had done so many times. The loss probably has touched Emily most, partly because she is so tender-hearted, and partly because the two really have grown up together. The passing has bothered me (I have been a little embarrassed by how much, until I found that others have felt just as I do when they have lost a pet), but as a dad, watching my little girl feel the loss is something completely different. 

There is a kids' movie called All Dogs Go to Heaven. I have never seen it, but I am sure it is a good flick. I don't know if all pets do go to Heaven, but I guarantee to good ones go somewhere where they continue to watch over their people. If reincarnation actually exists, I would have to guess Mittens might have found his way into Marshmellow. Or maybe they are hanging out together somewhere now, mellow as can be, watching the hyper little cats that bounce around, in a hurry to get, well, nowhere, but who had perfectly fit their respective families, too, the two of them purring contently because they have it all figured out. The big cats, they don't have rush around like that. It's not who they are.

"It's Just One of Those Days"

*I actually wrote this a couple of weeks ago, but never published it. It was just an exercise for me. However, as I was skimming the posts in "Ramblings" today, I saw it and figured, "What the heck? Throw it out there." So, here it is.

There is a song by the group Limp Bizkit [sic] titled "Break Stuff". It may contain a salty word or two (or more), and it is definitely not appropriate for younger audiences. The song gained widespread fame when the band performed it at Woodstock 99, prompting the crowd to dump over porta-potties and burn vendors' booths. For some reason, they also used the area running downhill away from the landing where hundreds of those porta-potties had once stood as a giant slip and slide, which reveals something about the attendees of the festival. The scene, broadcast far and wide on MTV, lacked the"peace and love" vibe that Woodstock usually stirs up in the mind.

So, while am I informing you of the existence of this little nugget of music fool's gold? While it is not what most would term musically redeeming, the song has a clear and concise message: some days are just not very good, and in the end, you just want to break stuff. Or scream. Or lift. Or write. Something. Anything to get the cloud to dissipate. As the the song says, "It's just one of those days."

I feel that way today. I am not sure why, but I started to feel that way last night, before I went to bed, and I felt that cloud pressing on my when I woke up at 1:30 am, and even more so at 5. It has ridden on me through the day. Emily must have sensed something because she has visited my room more often today than usual. She has always been that one, the one who picks up on this type of thing and feels drawn to do something. She is the one, when she was little,  who would, for no apparent reason, put down her toys and walk over to you and give you a hug, usually when you needed it most, and then just go back to playing. Job well done. Dylan, well, I think he still knows I live in the house. He always thanks me when I cook. He's become a teenager.

But I digress. Anyway that state of mind is where I am today, and I do not like it. It is counter-productive and generally, well, yucky. So, I worked out, lifted a little, hit the abs. Got my pump on, as they say. That did help a little. The other day, while I was driving home, "Hey, Ya!" by Outkast came on the radio. It is nearly impossible to be in a bad mood after blaring that song loudly as you cruise on down the road.

No such luck on this gray afternoon. Just Lorde, commercials, Lorde again. So, now I write. And it is helping. So, between Em, the weightroom, and rambling here (plus looking up "Hey, Ya!" on youtube), the skies seem to be clearing. After all, in the grand scheme of things, I have it pretty good.
That is what I have to remember. In the end, it's just one of those days.

I Am a Nerd

Hello, my name is Jason, and I (deep breath, collect myself, find my center, my safe place, and push on) am a nerd. There, I said it. Well, I typed it. Now, I do understand that for those who know me, this is not news. However, this about me, not you, so shut up. I am trying to make a breakthrough here. 

All right, that was a little out of line, a little extreme. Sorry. 

I am nerd though. I had this discussion with my dear wife this evening. She argued that I am not a nerd, but I think she just does not want to admit that she married a huge, helplessly nerdy nerd. But she did, and there is nothing she can do about it now. I fooled her long enough to pull her in, and now, she will just have to live with it. Wife of a nerd. It seems like a cruel thing to do to someone you love, but when a nerd manages to marry a pretty lady, he is not going to let it go. 

The evidence is overwhelming. 

Exhibit 1: I am writing a blog. For free. Just for fun.

Exhibit 2: I spent my lunch time today discussing wha we should put on our ELA Team Grammar T-shirts. I have no idea if anyone outside of that room would grasp why any of the numerous suggestions were funny, but we were laughing.

Exhibit 2A: I seek out these people to discuss puns, satire, irony, and archetypes. Sorry folks, but you are nerds too. Check the bulletin board for the next meeting. 

Exhibit 3: I had to hurry to make it to my 5th hour class because I was staring at a projecotr screen, counting out iambic pentameter in lines that appeared on the screen. The rhythm was fairly inconsistent, but with some simple inversion of word order, it could be close.

Exhibit 4: When Ms. Porter quotes a Facebook post, saying "I stopped reading your status update after the third grammatical error", I will admit that I shared that post on my timeline.

Exhibit 5: When I overhear Mrs. Williams next door talking to her AP class about George Bernard Shaw, I think fondly back to one of my favorite college classes The Plays of G.B. Shaw.

Exhibit 6: In Beetlejuice, when the ghosts go to the afterlife and there is a NO EXIT sgin above the door behind them, I actually understand the allusion, and I really like the play.

Exhibit 7: I know what an allusion is.

Exhibit 8: I lost my seniors about two minutes into an analysis of Jay-Z's verse in "No Church in the Wild", but I think I pulled a few of them back when we pulled Socrates and Jesus into the discussion. 

Exhibit 9: I took part in a discussion of preferences regarding use of computer or paper and pencil for writing poetry versus expository pieces. 

Exhibit 10: I know what a gerund is.

Exhibit 11: I can rattle off the Personal Pronoun Case charts. Don't hate.

Exhibit 12: When I watch a film such as The Departed, I cannot help but examine if Billy or Colin should be considered tragic heroes, in a classic sense.

Do I have to go further? 

However, I am not ashamed. I am willing to embrace my status as a nerd. I have been one all of my life, after all.  And we are many. I was driving home yesterday, and CBS Sports Radio had an interview with Eddie George, the former NFL running back. He was a six time All-Pro and won the Heisman Trophy at Ohio State. Stud. After retiring from the NFL, George struggled to adjust to his new lifestyle. He battled through and found a new outlet. What is he doing now? He is performing Shakespeare, filling the roles of Julius Caesar and Othello. NFL Superstar. College Football Legend. Nerd. 

So embrace your true selves, all you nerds out there. You should be proud. I know I am.

Jury Duty

I had a new experience this week, and I believe it worth sharing. A few months back, I received an envelope form the Federal District Court of Kansas in Wichita, Kansas. For some reason, I never am excited about opening envelopes like that one. It contained notification that I was in the pool as a potential juror for the Federal District Court. Yippee. No biggy though, right? What are the odds I would come up? Well, a while later I received a letter stating that I was now on call for the month of January 2014 and was to call every Monday evening to get instructions. January is a good month to be on call though, right? It is not football season. It comes right after the holidays, so the lawyers will not be pushing to try cases, right? I don't know why I thought that, but it made me feel better.

So, I called each Monday, releasing a sigh of relief each time the recording said I did not have to report. Then, for whatever reason, I forgot to call. Luckily, Heidi realized it around 4:30 on Tuesday morning, and she called in for me. I was to report the next Tuesday morning at 8:00 am. At least I had that news to wake up to.  I had the common reaction I have heard most people express when they find out they have the pleasure of reporting for jury duty: "Well, crap."

I won't bore you further with the details of my selection to actively serve on the jury. However, I will tell you that this became one of those experiences that starts out in a completely negative light, but actually develops into something worthwhile. Notice that I did not say "enjoyable" or "satisfying". It was neither. What it was was worthwhile. I performed a duty, one which each of us as citizens of the USA are expected to fulfill to best of our abilities. I was not part of a group too stupid to get out of jury duty. An engineer, a zookeeper, a business owner, a retired insurance adjuster, and many other professionals and otherwise intelligent people occupied the chairs in that box. People try to get out of jury duty every day, and I do not fault them, not the slightest bit. We all lead busy lives, and the disruption of those lives is a significant reason to ask to be excused. I know teachers and other educators who have asked to have their service deferred until summer, when they can perform their duties without having to miss school. There are few professionals who would do that. "Judge, I would like to have you recall me in a month or two so I can schedule my vacation and spend it in jury duty." I probably should have asked for that consideration, but for some reason I didn't. When the prosecutor asked me if missing school was going to be a severe hardship that should not be inflicted on me or others, I answered as honestly as I could: "We have substitutes, and I have written lessons plans. I would rather be there, in the classroom, than here, but I understand my duty to serve if selected." Asking to be excused is fine. Lying to do so is another. That is a rant I won't go into right now. Maybe later.

As I was saying, it was worthwhile. I will be trying to catch up for the time I missed for about 3 weeks, if I am lucky. However, it was worthwhile. As part of the selection process, this thought was presented: If you (a doctor, a teacher, an engineer, a mother, etc.) were sitting accused, would you not want someone like you, someone with your busy life full of important responsibilities and significant actions on a daily basis, sitting in that box, considering if the evidence presented by the United States government was sufficient enough to determine if you should be punished for a crime? I had not considered it from that point of view.

It was worthwhile. Was I bored from time to time as lawyers sometimes, in words actually used in the courtroom, "beat the dead horse"? Yes, I was. Did I get frustrated when a witness continually tried to frame her answers so as to make her actions appear justified or righteous? Definitely. Did I sometimes marvel at how the tall, lanky defense attorney with glasses and low, deliberate voice had an odd resemblance to Gregory Peck, but failed to live up to that Atticus Finch image, mainly because the client was not as worthy as Tom Robinson? Um, yes. Was my mind screaming at times when the lawyer would not ask the question I wanted him to ask? Oh yeah, more than once. But those instances were all part of the process. I found myself thanking Mr. Marsh in my mind for the job he did in government class my senior year. His lessons gave me the basis for an understanding of what was going on, and why.  I learned very quickly from the judge that if I even entertained the thought of following in Henry Fonda's footsteps, footsteps that led him to purchase a switchblade from a little junkshop, I would not become the hero of a classic screenplay, but instead would have committed juror misconduct and face the wrath of a longtime federal justice. I learned that individuals in their 50s sometimes act like high school sophomores, and that is frustrating. Sophomores do not usually know better, or sometimes even know what they are doing. These adults should have known better.

Most importantly, I learned that jury duty is worthwhile. Not enjoyable, although I did meet some very interesting people and shared some very enjoyable lunch conversation. Worthwhile. Our system relies on us, as citizens, to perform this duty to the best of our abilities. We are nation of laws; as John Goodman's character in The Big Lebowski screamed, "We have rules here! It's not Nam!" And wouldn't you want you sitting in that box if you were accused of violating one of those (or seven of them), and you were not guilty?

I will admit, however, I will probably still groan sigh, "Oh crap" if that envelope comes in my mail again. That is human nature, and of being human, I am guilty as charged.