Yesterday, I circulated around my classroom to see my seventh graders' selections for their third marking period Independent Reading Project. I allow my students to read whatever they want in hopes they will read a book they enjoy. I smiled as I noted copies of John Green and Mike Lupica books and sighed when one of my student's held up a copy of Of Mice of Men already bookmarked. I squealed with delight when I saw Pride and Prejudice and told my student she was going to meet and know my all time favorite heroine in literature, Elizabeth Bennet. As I walked past the last grouping of desks, one student proudly held up her book and said, "This is the third time I'm reading this book." I frowned and asked, "Why don't you pick a new book? Maybe one by the same author?" With the exception of the books I teach, I rarely return to books I've already read. Mostly because there are far too many books I want to read and not nearly enough time. I have multiple lists of books I want to read on Amazon, Pinterest, and in my library account, and as an English teacher and former English major, I have an ongoing mental list of "classics" I have yet to tackle.
I know this may sound ridiculous, but another reason why I don't revisit books is out of fear. When I was in tenth grade, I read Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. It was the first book I read that made me realize the power of words. Albert Camus said "Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth," and To Kill A Mockingbird revealed many truths to me. Whenever someone asks me what inspired me to become an English teacher, my experience with that novel is one of them. Last summer, I finally forced myself to re-read it. I found the same copy I read when I was in tenth grade; its yellowed pages only amplifying my growing fear. What if the book I so loved at fifteen turned out to be overhyped and mediocre? As I read the first few chapters, I felt anxious. It was good, but worthy of inspiring my future career? I was nearing an existential meltdown, worried my life was based on a a lie. But a few chapters later, I remembered what I felt over twenty year ago and closed the back cover a few days later with my truths in tact. When asked why she never wrote another novel, Lee responded, "I said what I wanted to say and I will not say it again." Perhaps Harper Lee and I share some similar fears.
I did recently re-read, Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar for my book club. I did not feel the same sense of trepidation I felt with To Kill A Mockingbird, but I did spend a lot time reflecting on my previous two visits with Esther Greenwood. I first met Esther when I was twenty years old while vacationing with three of my friends in Ocean City, New Jersey. After my friend finished reading the book, she passed the novel, sodden with sand, off to me in the middle of our trip. As I lay on the beach, I felt a close connection with Esther. While I did not relate to Esther's battle with depression, I completely related to her feeling stifled. Like Esther who excelled at academics, I too had excelled as a model member of my religious community, but like Esther, I began to question my motivation. Was I motivated by faith, or perhaps just by my own intrinsic desire to excel? Like Esther, I balked at the expectations of my "society" to get married and then be in subjection to my husband. Like Esther I wanted more than a Buddy Willard telling me my opinions were foolish and worthless while raising his children. Like Esther, I felt limited by the "infinite security" set before me.
Five years later, Esther and I met again. She had remained the same, but I had not. After making some difficult choices, I was finally hitting my stride as a teacher and one of my new students who had already read The Catcher in the Rye felt she wanted to read something different for our "Coming of Age" unit. I suggested we do an Independent Study on The Bell Jar together. As we read the novel and discussed Esther's plight, I believe she found a truth in the novel which I hope she still carries with her.
My most recent visit with Esther will most likely be my last. The Bell Jar isn't exactly middle school material. But as I finished reading The Bell Jar for the third time, I thought about the person I was and the person I am. More than fifteen years later, I still loathe Buddy Willard. I still feel an immense compassion for Esther and the polarizing literary figure who created her and was her. And I still remember thinking of that moment at the beach, as Esther contemplates drowning herself in the ocean, she hears her heart beating "I am I am I am." And I still remember thinking in that moment "Who I am" and all the infinite possibilities.
Even though there are too many books and too little time, I think I will be overcoming my fear and dusting off a few book jackets to remember who I was and who I am.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Sunday, January 11, 2015
This I Believe
As I was scrambling this past week to create a writing assignment for my eighth grade students, I weighed my options. Option #1 was yet another five paragraph essay. While my students can certainly use the "practice," I sometimes fear I may single-handedly destroy what little enjoyment they may find in writing. Option #2 involved my students writing short stories which I fear would single-handedly leave me hating short stories for the next few months. As I racked my brain for ideas, I remembered a writing assignment a former colleague of mine gave her seniors. I vaguely recalled the assignment, but with the help of Google, I quickly found the inspiration--This I Believe. In the 1950s, during the height of the Cold War, Edward R. Murrow, the famous radio broadcaster, solicited his listeners to write essays about their personal beliefs, "the rules they live by," in an attempt to overcome the pervading feeling of fear that seemed to have permeated America. These essays became a beacon during those days of fear and reminded Americans of the goodness in our world. In 2005, NPR revived the program for a few years, and now there is a website devoted to the idea called This I Believe.
Whenever I give my students writing assignments, I always contemplate how I would write the assignment. When it comes to five paragraph essays analyzing a piece of literature, well, I could write one in my sleep. But as I contemplated my own response to my latest assignment, I couldn't formulate my response on the spot. I quickly recognized the assignment requires thought, self-reflection, and sincerity which make me feel a little uncomfortable-- or maybe a lot. And in all fairness, when I ask my students to write about a topic which makes them uncomfortable, I feel it's only right and fair I participate.
I began to ruminate on what I believe and made a mental list. I believe everyone can and should be a little kinder to one another. I believe any action movie where Liam Neeson maims and kills terrorists, criminals, or bad guys is going to be spectacularly entertaining. I believe I would be much happier if I were ten pounds lighter. I believe brownies are the best food EVER. I also believe my belief in brownies may be (in)directly responsible for my inability to achieve the happiness of being ten pounds lighter. While I probably could easily write about all of these topics, I don't believe any of them truly reflect my core belief.
So what do I believe?
This I Believe--I believe in rainbows after the rain. And I believe sometimes those rainbows take years to find, but they eventually appear. In 1993, shortly after Thanksgiving, my grandfather was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. We had the fortunate blessing of having a few weeks to say our good-byes, and two days after Christmas he passed away. Up until that time, I had never experienced the grief of losing a close relative, and seeing my luminously, radiantly happy grammy crushed by her loss made it doubly heart-wrenching. Although my grammy learned to cope with the loss of her second husband and managed to gain back her optimistic outlook, her joy and enthusiasm for life never quite returned to the vibrancy she had while he was alive. The morning of his death, my grammy asked me to take down the decorations on the Christmas tree. As I carefully took down the ornaments and lights, I asked my grammy how she wanted them organized. She told me it didn't matter; she would never put up another Christmas tree.
The pain of losing my grandfather lessened, but December 27th remained an inauspicious day until 2012 when my beautiful nephew was born. As a mom, I can honestly say the depth of love I feel for both of my boys is boundlessly equal. But as an aunt,while I love all four of my nephews and would do anything for them, I absolutely favor my nephew Gavin. Last month, we went with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and my nephews to cut down our own Christmas trees. As we slogged our way through the muddy, waterlogged tree farm, Gavin tripped over a tree stump and face planted in the mud. Covered from head to toe in mud, he pathetically raised his arms in the air and cried, "Up, please." I didn't hesitate for a second to scoop him up. Had it been one of my own boys, I most likely would've have felt annoyed pressing his dirty coat against me or have made him walk, but not my little Gavey. Perhaps my affection for him stems from the afternoons I spent snuggling with him on the couch after my sister-in-law returned to work. Perhaps my undying affection stems from his charming, endearing spirit. But I think on some subconscious level, he is my favorite because he is a rainbow after the rain.
While my grandfather's life may have ended on December 27th, the love I felt for him did not. I still carry the memories and the affection we shared for one another and count it a great privilege to have known and cared for such a kind, wonderful loving man. Although it may be a coincidence that my nephew was born on December 27th, the significance and implications of this coincidence remind me of what is important in this life--to continue the cycle of love.
My grandfather was a farmer his entire life and attuned to the natural world. He respected nature and the beauty of its cycles. After the Winter Solstice, he would always cite the old weather proverb, "As the days get longer, the cold gets stronger." The winter he passed away was one of the coldest with 93 days of continuous snow cover. For my family, the coldness of that particular winter had nothing to do with the temperature. But eventually, the light eclipsed the cold, spring came, and my grandfather's orchard burst with blossoms, despite the harsh winter.
December 27th is no longer a cold day for me. It's a beautiful reminder of the cycle of life and the importance of loving people as well as one can while one has the opportunity. And in December, when rainbows are scarcely seen, I can always find one.
Whenever I give my students writing assignments, I always contemplate how I would write the assignment. When it comes to five paragraph essays analyzing a piece of literature, well, I could write one in my sleep. But as I contemplated my own response to my latest assignment, I couldn't formulate my response on the spot. I quickly recognized the assignment requires thought, self-reflection, and sincerity which make me feel a little uncomfortable-- or maybe a lot. And in all fairness, when I ask my students to write about a topic which makes them uncomfortable, I feel it's only right and fair I participate.
I began to ruminate on what I believe and made a mental list. I believe everyone can and should be a little kinder to one another. I believe any action movie where Liam Neeson maims and kills terrorists, criminals, or bad guys is going to be spectacularly entertaining. I believe I would be much happier if I were ten pounds lighter. I believe brownies are the best food EVER. I also believe my belief in brownies may be (in)directly responsible for my inability to achieve the happiness of being ten pounds lighter. While I probably could easily write about all of these topics, I don't believe any of them truly reflect my core belief.
So what do I believe?
This I Believe--I believe in rainbows after the rain. And I believe sometimes those rainbows take years to find, but they eventually appear. In 1993, shortly after Thanksgiving, my grandfather was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. We had the fortunate blessing of having a few weeks to say our good-byes, and two days after Christmas he passed away. Up until that time, I had never experienced the grief of losing a close relative, and seeing my luminously, radiantly happy grammy crushed by her loss made it doubly heart-wrenching. Although my grammy learned to cope with the loss of her second husband and managed to gain back her optimistic outlook, her joy and enthusiasm for life never quite returned to the vibrancy she had while he was alive. The morning of his death, my grammy asked me to take down the decorations on the Christmas tree. As I carefully took down the ornaments and lights, I asked my grammy how she wanted them organized. She told me it didn't matter; she would never put up another Christmas tree.
The pain of losing my grandfather lessened, but December 27th remained an inauspicious day until 2012 when my beautiful nephew was born. As a mom, I can honestly say the depth of love I feel for both of my boys is boundlessly equal. But as an aunt,while I love all four of my nephews and would do anything for them, I absolutely favor my nephew Gavin. Last month, we went with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and my nephews to cut down our own Christmas trees. As we slogged our way through the muddy, waterlogged tree farm, Gavin tripped over a tree stump and face planted in the mud. Covered from head to toe in mud, he pathetically raised his arms in the air and cried, "Up, please." I didn't hesitate for a second to scoop him up. Had it been one of my own boys, I most likely would've have felt annoyed pressing his dirty coat against me or have made him walk, but not my little Gavey. Perhaps my affection for him stems from the afternoons I spent snuggling with him on the couch after my sister-in-law returned to work. Perhaps my undying affection stems from his charming, endearing spirit. But I think on some subconscious level, he is my favorite because he is a rainbow after the rain.
While my grandfather's life may have ended on December 27th, the love I felt for him did not. I still carry the memories and the affection we shared for one another and count it a great privilege to have known and cared for such a kind, wonderful loving man. Although it may be a coincidence that my nephew was born on December 27th, the significance and implications of this coincidence remind me of what is important in this life--to continue the cycle of love.
My grandfather was a farmer his entire life and attuned to the natural world. He respected nature and the beauty of its cycles. After the Winter Solstice, he would always cite the old weather proverb, "As the days get longer, the cold gets stronger." The winter he passed away was one of the coldest with 93 days of continuous snow cover. For my family, the coldness of that particular winter had nothing to do with the temperature. But eventually, the light eclipsed the cold, spring came, and my grandfather's orchard burst with blossoms, despite the harsh winter.
December 27th is no longer a cold day for me. It's a beautiful reminder of the cycle of life and the importance of loving people as well as one can while one has the opportunity. And in December, when rainbows are scarcely seen, I can always find one.
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