FIRST NOBEL PROZE FOR POETRY SINCE 1996

I would like to take a moment to praise Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer for being the first winner of a Nobel Prize for Poetry in 15 years. Our world, it seems, has still found a place for a wonderful literary form. I hope to see more poets and playwrights distinguished by the Nobel Committee in years to come.

Odd Addendum

My mother was going in for a surgical procedure this week, nothing serious just a routine, but my father was going to drive her to the hospital and wait until the procedure was over just in case the doctors needed him on hand.

“[Son], what do you know about The Great Gatsby?”

"I know quite a bit,” I said, looking at him across the dinner table the other night.

“Well, is it any good?”

My father is 56-years-old. My father loves to read. My father is one of the people who taught me a love of reading.

MY FATHER HAS NEVER READ F. SCOTT FITZGERALD'S THE GREAT GATSBY.

“Well,” I said. “It is considered by some to be the perfect example of the modern novel. And many consider it to be the greatest novel of the 20^th Century.”

“You have, like, three copies around here somewhere, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, give me one of them before Wednesday. I’ll read it while your mom is in surgery.”

I excused myself from the dinner table, went to my room, opened my bookcase, and returned with my weathered old copy right then and there.

My father read The Great Gatsby through in one sitting today. And when he came home, leaving my mother semi-doped out of her mind in the recovery room, doing well by all accounts.

“So, I read The Great Gatsby,” he said after giving me the obligatory update on mom. “I’m 7 pages from the end.”

My younger brother, a bartender, was with us as we prepared to go out for dinner.

“Why did you read The Great Gatsby?” He asked.

My father pointed at me. 

“I made him lend me a copy.”

“Yeah, but haven’t you read it before?”

My father shook his head. 

My brother looked at me. My brother is the person in our family who NEVER reads fiction out of a strongly-professed belief that it’s not practical.

“Dad, I’VE read The Great Gatsby! I HATE to read, and I read it all the way through in High School.”

Dad just shrugged and went out to the car. 

 In that instant my brother and I both shared the same “this is the strangest thing we’ve ever seen” look before we both followed our odd-ball old man out to the car and drove to the next town to get our 92-year-old grandfather and head to Buffalo Wild Wings.

So, e-hem, that is my Odd Addendum before signing off. 

My father read the greatest American Novel of the 20^th Century today and I still don’t know what he thought of it. He’s saving his book report for when mom is sentient and back in the fold.

I will keep you posted.

The Best Laid Plans: Reflections On Teaching "OF MICE AND MEN"

It has come! After weeks of discussion, planning, toiling, worrying, and general disarray, I stood up and began teaching the class. What am I teaching them?

We are reading a modern novel. John Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men.

Our first day of notes was over the era of the novel, published in 1937 during the great depression, it depicts in play-like terms the events surrounding the now immortal friendship of George and Lennie as they work bucking Barley in the Salina’s Valley of California.

BUT WAIT! I’ve already done this!

One of the things I love about this placement is the substitutes who I sometimes find in place of my indispensible Mrs. T. Before beginning this exercise and teaching this unit on OMAM, I’ve already “driven” and managed to keep the kids somewhat engaged.

I’m falling in to the natural rhythm of the class, and Last week, very nearly ended up staying through the passing period following the hour I normally observe to take up Media with a group of AP Seniors who thought I was their substitute for the day.

Taking on a cooperative Job in the afternoons and observing in the mornings, I am already getting the feel of working full days with familiar students, engaging in banter about their lives outside of class, tracking their progress, through the semester, hearing about and encouraging their own personal writing projects… For the first time I am actually beginning to feel capable of smiling and leading as opposed to shrinking behind my CT and crying.

As September has given way to October, I found myself at Parent Teacher Conferences last week, attending out of a since of curiosity. I met students from other hours and their parents. It was an enlightening experience and I am so pleased to report that Parents are not as scary as their children have led me to believe.

I’m learning names (I’ve got everyone down except the two quiet girls, you know those ones that are really very brilliant on paper but never seem to speak up in class). I’ve even walked with one or two students down the hall and through the building to their next class, talking about the health and wellness of extended family, uncles in the hospital, grandfathers just getting out.

And I’ve gotten used the group of talkers in class who never seem to understand that “pair up” does not mean “get into groups of five.” They finish their assignments I think, none of them copying off the others.

My CT trusts me enough sometimes to leave me alone with the class. I’ve rigged her computer so I can hook up my blackberry and play music. Bob Dylan seems to work well for focusing, mellow music. I find I’ve gotten good at bartering.

“Mr. Smith, can I play my music?”

“If you show me a finished assignment and we’ll see.”

Kids are asking me for passed days assignments, knowing I won’t glower at them.

Kids are asking me how to spell things and I’m more than happy to spell words or fetch a dictionary and “hook ‘em up.”

So now, each day, taking out the slender novels and passing them around, I ask them if they want to popcorn read or pair up. We have an astounding reader in the class and most of the students like the way he does the voices of George, Lennie, Candy, Curly, and Slim.

I honestly think they’re having fun and that is making my job seem fun in the class. I don’t feel stressed or scared, but at the end of the days I find I am feeling tired.

I seldom sit during class, walking circuits, keeping busy, making eye-contact… I’m not even aware of the fact that I haven’t set down until I finally do and my whole body just sags with the heaving of a big sigh. “I worked today,” I seem to say a lot to myself before taking of my socks and shoes and hanging up my slacks, exchanging them for jeans and sneakers.

I look forward to tomorrow. We’re getting into chapter three and I’m passing out some essay questions. Next week there will be in-service, and that might break off finishing the novel if I can’t hurry them through it by next Wednesday.

Something about these reflections seems a touch random. It is as if trying to remember things in order of occurrence has become difficult when looking back. My brain is too forward-thinking and it makes relating the past much more confusing and difficult.

I guess I’m just tired at the end of the day, but it’s a good kind of tired—the kind that’s pleased to sit back and type a bit before switching it up and putting on my writing cap. I’ve got a new play I’m working on in the back of my head while life is all school, work, and family up front. It’s amazing to find I’ve become a multi-tasker somewhere in the past few months.

Anyway, I’ve rambled and roamed my way through this reflection. I’ve got drafts of my next Genre Reflection to type up and a test to edit before the weekend.

I’ll finish with a question I was asked today after being left to teach a Geometry class with a substitute at my Coop job. They were a goofy bunch, throwing dried spaghetti, some of which I’m still finding in the pockets of my brand new jacket. The sub and I said our goodbyes at the end of the hours as they stampeded through the door and out into the world post 3:10 PM.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” She joked.

“I’ve worked with worse,” I said, cleaning up the wads of paper and finding a binder some student forgot.

I’m not even a Student Teacher yet and I’m already capable of smiling when I talk about the third tier Algebra class from hell.

“Those kids are just goofy,” I said. Sometimes you get angry or violent kids who throw punches instead of spaghetti, or fake a body checks to see if you’ll flinch. I’ve had those kids in class and to my chagrin I’m still here, still working on this degree, and still imagining a classroom of my own with posters from my favorite movies and a big ironic sign over my desk, hopefully disguising my “push-over” nature by declaring me, in bib bold letters a “COLD-HEARTED BASTARD.”

Shakespeare decompression

I find at night, after a day that seems long, watching my little DVD library of Shakespeare films pulls me through. If I don't do that, I end up watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 and laughing at little robots making fun of dated or poorly done B-movies.

I guess it's odd that my break from working on the rules of writing and the aspects of story-telling is watching great examples of English drama and comedy or laughing at a from of creative criticism. Of course, sometimes I have my adult beverage in hand, but I think this is my true unwinding therapy.

So, a question for you, or maybe you can use it with your students... "What's your therapy after a long, terrible, no-good, bad day?"

Genre Reflection #1: A Breif Play about 18 students in 24 desks

Day: ONE

(or)

Wait time

A brief play

By

Ben R. Smith

CAST of CHARACTERS

1

2

3

4

6

7

8

9

11

12

13

14

15

16

18

19

20

21

22

23

Teacher

Setting: Interior, Classroom. The floor is of high polished wood that is old and creeks unforgivingly. A path flows from the SMART board, cutting though rows of desks arranged in a way similar to a theater in the round. The audience is a bookshelf with a proctor’s desk and a few posters of the teacher’s favorite movies, and some personal photos showing his two dogs, his first car in high school, and his teaching certificate.

START

At Start: In the darkness we hear a bell ring, there is the sound of students in the halls, lockers slamming, the squeaking of floorboards and after a few minutes the sound of the teacher in the dark, greeting students as they enter his classroom. Students enter in the dark and take their places about the room. Music begins to play (“Either Johnny B. Goode” by Chuck Barry or “Flight of the Bumble Bee”) as the lights come up and we see 17 students occupying 24 desks, each one holding a plain white Popsicle stick with a number written in felt-tipped ink. Though the audience may not be able to tell, each number on the sticks corresponds to numbers laminated or taped to each desk in the class. On the SMART board is the word “CONFORMITY” in bold caps. The teacher is only slightly visible as he is in the process of encouraging each straggler in the hall with phrases like “hurry along” and “get to where you need to be.” Two students enter holding white Popsicle sticks the teacher handed them as they passed through the door. They’re a bit confused but the student in seat 12 explains.

12:

The number on the stick is supposed to be where you sit.

(The two students are obviously best friends—or BFF, as they might say—but sadly one ends up in seat 22 and the other ends up in seat 7. The music comes to an end as the teacher takes a final sweeping look out in the hall before closing the door with a flourish and facing his class. He wears jacket and slacks and looks like a professional. PAUSE 1-2-3.)

TEACHER:

(Looking thoughtfully at the class while seeming to play idly with the 5 remaining Popsicle sticks.)

I’m missing one.

(PAUSE 1-2-3-4.)

Well, I guess I’ll have to / (take roll after all)

(With a thump the door opens and the student walks in before the teacher finishes his sentence. This student wears headphones and a t-shirt from a Disturbed concert he went to over the summer. Metal music is audible to the whole class as the kid finds the first open seat and drops his bag beside it. PAUSE 1-2-3. The TEACHER looks down at the white sticks and picks out the one with the number 2 on it. He walks over and politely offers the stick to the student. The student looks up and takes the stick confused. The Teacher taps his own ear, smiling. The student takes out the earbuds and turns off his iPod.)

TEACHER (con’t):

Thank you.

(Clears his throat.)

Well, you’re all here!

(He puts his coffee cup with the sticks on his desk and looks at the single word projected on the SMART board.)

CONFORMITY!

(Turns to the class.)

Anybody care to give us a definition?

(PAUSE. 1-2-3-4-5.)

Conformity.

(PAUSE. 1-2-3.)

Okay, how about I use it in a sentence? Conformity. All of you, as one mass, looking at me with blank stares, waiting for me to answer my own question are engrossed in an act of conformity.

(Sinister smile/PAUSE. 1-2.The teacher turns a moment to grab something from his lectern. A few students share looks or whisper. #2 slips his earbuds back in, discreetly and turns his music back on a “slightly lower” volume. The Teacher, meanwhile, is again facing his students, still smiling, holding up a second coffee cup. This cup is full of rainbow-colored Popsicle Sticks, again numbered. He plays with them idly as he talks.)

Nobody ever wants to be the first student to answer the first question asked on by the new teacher on the first day of school. This is a natural occurrence and I am not surprised or upset by it. But, I’m curious, why do you think it happens…

(He draws a stick)

Number 7?

(His eyes fall on the poor girl.)

Don’t be afraid. What’s your name?

7:

Marcie.

TEACHER:

Marcie. Why do you think everyone’s reluctant to answer?

MARCIE:

Well, um, maybe they don’t know?

TEACHER:

How do they know they don’t know?

(MARCIE looks to her friend across the room. The TEACHER smiles and holds out his hand for her popsicle stick.)

I think they’re afraid that I’ll put them on the spot like I’m doing to you right now. Thank you, Marcie, for being my first volunteer.

(Turning back to face the other side of the class.)

For all you know I’m one of those sadistic, mean, grumpy teachers who likes nothing more than to humiliate and debase my students for the mere reason that I wasn’t hugged enough by my parents. You’re afraid you’ll be wrong and that I’ll shout at you and call you stupid or useless or I’ll point and shout “STOP WASTING MY TIME!”

(The Teacher has hopefully done his best impression of an overly melodramatic curmudgeon-like character. Should by now have his first laugh, if not he should be sweating because this is going to be a long year and he’s scared to death.)

Or maybe you’ll give me an answer and I’ll say “well, maybe…” I used to hate those teachers. I mean, am I right, am I wrong, how close am I, hot or cold, hot or cold! HELP ME!

(Teacher should be studying his audience carefully enough to notice Number 2 doodling on his binder with his headphones in.)

Or maybe I’m that hard ass? You know the one. The one who sees you every time you sneak those headphones back into your ears and can’t wait to steal himself a new iPod touch.

(He walks over to Number 2, waves, taps his ear again, smiling. Number 2 takes his buds out again.)

What band is it?

2:

(Mumbled)

Slayer.

TEACHER:

Speak up, bud. I blew my eardrums out in my Freshman Science Class when I was being forced to listen to the most boring old man on the planet drone on about beansprouts and onion root cells. Put it away for now, I might let you listen to it later in class.

2:

K.

TEACHER:

Thanks. What’s your name?

2:

Trent.

TEACHER:

Trent, what is conformity?

TRENT:

Um, doing whatever everyone else does. Like a zombie.

TEACHER:

Thank you, Trent. You can give me that back now.

(Takes popsicle stick.)

It’s how I know you kept your A for the day. Trent is right, and so was Marcie. All of you, when you first walked into this room took these Popsicle sticks I forced on you, sat in the seats I assigned you, and then uniformly waited patiently for me to turn you all off and put you ever so sweetly to sleep with my boring English Teacher voice. “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Poetry Sucks, and when’s lunch?”

(If they’re not laughing now, hide!)

So, is conformity a good or a bad thing? Let me see hands. How many you think it’s a good thing?

(Quick survey. 1-2.)

And how many of you are rebels at heart, non-conformity is best no matter what? Okay. You (15), what’s your name?

15:

Virgil.

TEACHER:

You had your hand up for conformity being bad. Why?

VIRGIL:

Because it is.

TEACHER:

Why are you in my class, then? Every one of you, this is your Junior year, you’ve been in English classes every semester since you started high school. You come in, you sit down, we do the bellwork, I introduce the daily assignment, we discuss George Orwell or Mark Twain or you take turns giving me oral reports on Suzie Collins or Jack Kerouac or Busta Rhymes—who by the way is an excellent poet. What’s different? Desks, marker-boards, book bags, pens, pencils, paper…

(Putting his hands to his chest, indicating himself.)

Teacher who talks too much. It’s all here. You’ve seen it before.

(PAUSE. 1-2. Addressing the question to the entire class.)

But is it bad?

(1-2-3-4-5-6-7.)

Virgil, you’ve still got you’re A, but I’m curious. Why did you come to school today?

VIRGIL:

My mom made me.

TEACHER:

Well, thank her for me. I’m glad you came! But, yeah, I know what you’re saying. My mom was like that. I used to be able to make myself physically sick so I wouldn’t have to go to school. She eventually caught on. “Mom, I threw up.” “Go to school!”

(PAUSE. 1-2-3. He takes VIRGIL’S white stick.)

Thank you, Virgil. Some of us, maybe, like school. We like the people. We have friends. But not everybody is like that. Some of us are not morning people and school starts so freaking early. Some of us prefer to be by ourselves and work by ourselves and listen to loud music while we think our own thoughts. And we curse “the man” for getting in the way of us doing what we’d rather be doing. I feel your hurt, Trent. We want to sit where we want to sit. Why do we have to have assigned seats? Answer: It’s just until I get your names right. I’m already making progress. Marcie, Trent, Virgil… and what is your name? Number 12…

NUMBER 12:

Sally.

TEACHER:

Sally, which side are you on? Conformity, good or bad?

SALLY:

Um, well, it’s not always good…

TEACHER:

How do you mean?

SALLY:

What if everybody’s doing something bad and you conform.

TEACHER:

Like “If everyone was jumping off a bridge?” How many of you know that saying?

(Pointing to a random student with his hand up.)

Number 8, how does that saying go, please?

8:

If everyone was jumping off a cliff would you?

16:

Depends, is there a ferocious hungry tiger forcing everybody to?

TEACHER:

(Turning.)

Right! Who said that?

(Number 16 stands)

What’s your name?

16:

Robbie.

TEACHER:

Okay, tell us what you mean.

(The teacher keeps his attention on Robbie but walks back to number 8 and takes his stick while Robbie explains.)

ROBBIE:

Well sometimes you don’t have a way out. You can either jump off a cliff and die or you can get eaten by a tiger and die.

TEACHER:

A lose-lose situation. Very good, Robbie. And before I forget, you sir, number 8, what is your name?

8:

Xander.

TEACHER:

Thank you, Xander. Toss me your stick, Robbie, you kept your A. So, we’re all of us on a cliff together. There’s a vicious, ravenous, ferocious tiger blocking us from any escape… So we’re all stuck, trapped, no escape, doomed if we jump and dinner if we don’t. What would you do?

(PAUSE, 1-2-3).

Take out paper.

(TEACHER moves to the SMART board and opens an example MLA heading.)

In the upper right-hand corner of the paper write your name, what hour you’re in, and my name… I’m Mr. Smith, by the way, as you can see in the example. Anyway, once you’ve got that all down in proper MLA format, I want you to write across the top line “BELL WORK” and then put “DAY ONE” on the first line (PAUSE. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7.) Raise your hands when you are all ready for me to give you the question.

(Waits for a majority of hands.)

Okay, when faced with an option of leaping to your death or being eaten by a tiger, which would you chose and why. Six to Eight Sentences. And when you’re done…

(He demonstrates, walking over to the baskets by the windows and lifting up the one for hour one.)

Come over here by the window to the Hour One Basket, toss it in because I want to read your awesome prose today, and then

(Setting the basket down, and crossing the room to pick up a packet and a from two piles by the door.)

Come over to the table by the door and pick up a copy of the syllabus and this pink sheet of paper containing some homework for your parents. I’ll give you three minutes, four if I see you’re using the time effectively, and then we’ll talk about what we’re going to be doing this semester. Okay? Any questions? Okay, on-your-mark-get-set-go!

END OF PLAY.