Crashing into Writing (and Teaching)

Public speaking is by no means my forte, but the idea of talking to a small group of my peers that I am supposed to teach makes public speaking look like a cakewalk.  I've taught 2nd graders, but high schoolers are a unique animal. Luckily, I had one of my favorite things and one of my favorite people to help me out.

This week, my friend and I taught a Creative Writing Crash Course as part of Agora Days, a school wide tradition where students, faculty, and other members of the school community can teach classes on any topic they wish. 

Many of my friends (and favorite writers) ended up signing for the class, and so when my fellow teacher and I walked in the classroom on Tuesday morning, we were greeted by a (very tiny) sea of familiar faces. One very nice thing about teaching a creative writing class is that when your students are writing in class, you can also write. I didn't realize this on the first day, so I scrounged up a green colored pencil and wrote some things in the back of my Biology notebook. I also had an excellent excuse to share a beloved website responsible for 100 hours of exceedingly productive time (iwritelike.com).

A short short story (originally in green colored pencil):

 

The Road Tripper's Nightmare

Garage door left open -- instant menagerie

Teaching wasn't nearly as difficult as I imagined it to be, especially since I spent a ridiculous amount of time planning classes out. I even wrote a diagnostic survey asking each student to discuss their familiarity with/preferences regarding creative writing and planned lessons accordingly . My favorite activities were all the group writing ones, including a  poem we wrote together as a class (one line per person):

She laughs citrus at clouds in the sky

She listens for drops of sweet rain in the dim light

they fall purple, concentric rings of lilac fading into plum

They gleam and wink at her eye

Sounds come together, vibrating somewhere behind her eyes, buzzing, a dull ache:

the thunder and clang of the northern pacific

the whistle of merciless gulf streams

waves endlessly breaking upon the shore, within her skull:

eroding, always eroding.

The rain begins to fall finally

leaving droplets behind on the window

she glances outside very quickly

and pulls back upon seeing the shadow

Fingers pale, blood like moonshine circulating

Greasy with pollen claret, botanic blood and floral gore

and as the drops of water race down her back passenger window

similar drops fall from her eyes, though not consciously at first

they stick to her lashes, golden like

crystallized honey, her eye a tiger lily's

coffin.

Luck Has Something to Do with It

Last night, I stood on a Poetry-Out-Loud-sponsored stage, in front of  a café-like setup of tables and chairs. The lights weren't blinding enough, and though I was reassured by my English teacher's smile, the judges off to my right and competitors two feet away were not as comforting. The previous performer was tall (at least taller than me, which is not hard to accomplish), and so much microphone adjusting was required.

"'The Lake Isle of Innisfree' by William Butler Yeats," I began, and I breathed the poem out. The judges faded away. I was not on a stage. I floated away; I was with Yeats, going to Innisfree. Midnight was "all a glimmer," "noon just a glow" -- I heard it "in my deep heart's core."

Ten minutes later, I was back up there, only this time with "Sheltered Garden," by H. D., my tried-and-true performance poem. The poem is beautiful (albeit kind of long), and I felt every word pulsating as I spoke the poem aloud. Once again, the audience dissolved -- it was just me and the poem. As I made my way back to my seat, my teacher whispered, "One of the judges gave you a thumbs-up."

There was an interlude of snacks and score-crunching, and then the moment of truth. There were only four competitors (one school's performers were unable to come to the competition), so numerically, I had a good shot at being one of the top two placers (and go to state competition!). However, reason didn't prevent me from trembling as the announcer read off the names. "First runner-up..." Not me.

"The regional winner..." I heard my name, and it was surreal. I felt so lucky in that moment -- lucky that I had the support of my English teacher, lucky that my little brother was willing to listen to poetry practices for hours on end, lucky that the numbers had worked out in my favor. After four years of being invested in poetry performance, I had something to show for it. And the best part of it was that I loved my poems, and the judges were able to see that.