Winston Churchill, a prolific writer and historian, once said there was nothing more frightening than beholding a blank piece of paper. I'd imagine the sight of an empty gin bottle frightened him too, but that's beside the point: this shows you the dedication and determination with which he approached writing.
Consider this, then: Conversely, there's nothing more
exhilarating for a teacher to behold than a blank lesson plan book. Before school actually starts, that is. One day (hell, one
hour) into the school year is a different story. But those magical minutes before the year actually begins are priceless.
This summer, I've spent hours putting together schedules, drafting lessons, selecting materials and researching learning standards. I spent a month in a teaching institute. And, yes, in between all this I managed to squeeze in some quality time with my family, with friends, with my dogs and with several books I'd been dying to read. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should also add that I drank several beers for breakfast.
Hey, it's still vacation now, right? Going on eight o'clock? Hmm. I'll be right back...
Before the students actually file into the classroom, a blank lesson plan book is a beautiful thing. In the past two months, living like a human being without lugging around a hundred and fifty essays to grade, I've managed to forget their peccadilloes and, with the misty-eyed lens of nostalgia, emboss their finer points and construct my teaching accordingly.
In the week or so before the students actually arrive, I'll set up my room. I'll receive my attendance lists, and for the most part, they'll just be names on a page. I'll know a portion of them from previous classes, but even then I'll tell myself knowingly, Well, it's been a couple of months. People change. They're blank slates. Who knows what they'll be like now? Colleagues will scan my rosters and offer to fill me in, but I'll shake my head kindly, or perhaps condescendingly, and inform them, sorry, but I'd rather find out myself. Bentley? A smart-mouth? That's fine, I'm sure you can tell me all about Bentley, but I'm sure he and I will come to an understanding.
I will arrange seats randomly. I will throw up William Dyce's
King Lear and the Fool in the Storm on the back wall, imagining the questions I'll get and preparing answers preemptively in my head.
On the first day of school, I will walk into that classroom confidently, with the weight of years of experience and know-how armoring and empowering me. I will introduce the class to the curriculum. How can they
not get pumped up about this? The content will sell itself. We'll be studying rhetoric and persuasion--it's all around you guys and you don't even know it. Seriously! "The first step towards wisdom is admitting that one knows nothing." Socrates. Look, take a look at this advertisement. How many ethical appeals are in there? And what do they do to mass marketing trends? You'll be making full-throated arguments about that not even two weeks from now! Poetry? Oh man, there's poetry in words, in images, in the manipulation of words and images. Children, children, I'm not here to tell you what to think. I'm here to tell you what to think
about. And trust me on this, doors are about to open for you.
Literature? Why study literature? Well, why would you
not study literature? Here, look at this: "Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam / Awake me to a world like this?" Byron. Stop and think about that for a minute. Why would truth be something we hate? When do we cling to illusions? What does that suggest about how the poet sees the world? And what does he mean by calling it a beam, anyway? Now, now, don't everybody raise your hand at once. There are no definitive answers to these questions, we've got one hundred and eighty-five days together, and I promise you, you'll all get your chance.
I will go home that evening, a fresh batch of introductory paragraphs to read through, excited and thrilled about getting the chance to interact with this group of fine young minds. I will hit the gym on my way. I will have a glass of wine with dinner in celebration.
Then, after all this, I will undoubtedly win the Lottery and discover the cure for cancer under my couch.
Message to my good buddy Winston Churchill, wherever he is: You're right about that blank piece of paper. But it can be worse. What if the paper talked
back? Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin once wrote, "I love writing, but hate starting. The page is awfully white and it says, 'You may have fooled some of the people some of the time but those days are over, Giftless. I'm not your agent and I'm not your mommy: I'm a white piece of paper. You wanna dance with me?' and I really, really don't. I'll go peaceable-like."
He could just as easily have been talking about my second hour class, Winston. Times thirty.
Plus, in this era, booze on your breath before noon makes headlines and gets you in trouble. I know, I think it's stupid too. Too early to drink? Who
stops?
Speaking of which....
Reality is a bitch. There's no profession in the world in which that is not the case. An elected official has all kinds of plans for changing the world...until she's confronted with the reality of chasing down thousands of dollars per day just for a
shot at staying in office. Lawyers often enter public service with the best of intentions, and then struggle to hold on to those intentions and actually do some good, all the while weighed down by an indifferent bureaucratic machine and the misbehavior of their clients.
On the first day of school, I will introduce the classroom schedule and notice right away that their eyes are not blazing in interest, and I'll curse myself for not remembering that they're
high schoolers, that you've got to
sell it, that I was no different, that I'm up against a culture of microtrends that's taught them to cherry pick and sift their information, not slowly digest and reexamine. I will not get any questions about Lear on the back wall except, "Are those two gay or something?" That damn Bentley. Smart-mouth. I'll have to change his seat.
I will quote Byron and I'll get some hands in the air and I'll see most of them folded on the desk, passive, and I'll see a few under the desk, texting their friends down the hall about who has which lunch period. At least, I think they're texting; I can't see for sure. Am I supposed to call them on it now? Speak to them after class? Just ignore it until it becomes blatantly obvious, as it always does? And I'll remember that I forgot, quite pleasantly, that kids tend to text during class if they can, and they'll sleep, and they've got their own lives and issues outside the classroom door to contend with, not to mention a vacation hangover of their own, and the fact that they're not devouring what I'm giving them right only means I've got to hone my presentation of it. And yes, they'll pass notes and mouth off and shrug sullenly and drift off, the way we all do when we're forced to work at something for long periods of time, sitting still while outside the birds sing and the grass blazes green against a brilliant blue sky. Or so we would imagine. No windows in Room 153, after all.
I will go home that evening, a stack of introductory paragraphs already weighing my bag down and interfering with the book I'd prefer to read instead. I will skip the gym, which is a mistake, but a mistake I'm quite adept at making. I will be exhausted, jet lagged. I will have two glasses of wine with dinner. Eh. Make that three.
I'm not complaining here. No more than anyone else does who has to work for a living, anyway. Or if I am, it's a gentle, rueful, self-effacing sort of complaining. I am employed. My school has done well resisting the weight of the recession. The hallways are not rife with metal detectors and gunfire. My lessons are not unrealistically ambitious, just my expectations of how they'll be received. And once the year gets into swing, I'll find a way to see the sun in winter time, as Big Country sings.
After a while, I'll adjust to not being able to read the paper over coffee in the morning. More importantly, I'll adjust to the students, as much as you can, anyway. I'll remember, when they show up dragging, or bored, or distracted or emotional or belligerent, that there's a million things going on in the world and I'm just here to slug away best I can, which can always be better. I'm not an Oxford don; I'm not a Sermon on any Mount. I'm just a high school teacher. A glorified mechanic of the words. A sawbones of the English language.
But for the moment, I'm going to marvel at this blank lesson plan book, where I've envisioned thirty hands raised over Lord Byron's poem where I've planned on eager, hour-long discussions of the
chiasmus in modern political discourse. My classroom is a sanctuary, texts our templates with which to measure the world. There is no such thing as a cell phone, and if there is, they don't have texting capabilities, and even if they do, nobody will be texting during
my class. Bentley? Bentley who? Never heard of him, sure he's a nice kid.
We will learn. We will discover. We'll all of us be somewhere further than we were when we started, and my doors will always be open to you and shut to the cold beam of truth.
Now. Who wants to be the first one to look up
antiphrasis in your handbook? Nope, no reason at all we're starting with that one. I'm just saying. Let's get our learn-on. If hating the truth is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.
