Illuminated Manuscripts
This hard work paid off, and by the second year of grad school, I was recognized as an exemplary teacher based on my student’s performance and evaluations. The department gave me the option of teaching an undergraduate class outside the bog standard composition courses. I could choose an elective. Looking over the list, I was tempted to choose something related to my discipline, such as a survey of early medieval epics like Beowulf and Sir Gawain. However, almost as a lark, I put my name next to the introductory poetry workshop. I’d learned quite a bit about meter, rhyme, and form through the course of my studies, and I thought a rigorous historical approach to art would build a proper creative bedrock for any student. Though the primary reason I wanted to teach the course, I told my department head, is that I thought it’d be fun. This perceived flippancy of mine gained me the ire of the other graduate students who wanted to teach that course, especially ones in the process of earning a poetry degree themselves. I tried to steer clear of department gossip, but it was hard for me to ignore the murmurs that followed me as I walked through the halls of the English Building—accusations of nepotism and amateurism, snide remarks, anonymous complaints to the provost. I funneled all feelings of inadequacy into preparation, learning all I could about teaching poetry in the weeks that led to the start of term, holing up in a dark windowless study carrel at the top floor of the library that towered above the quad, a green expanse of lush grass replete with leafy oak trees beginning to turn orange in the fading summer sun, a cool breeze cutting through the warm air of the prairie signaling the arrival of fall, young lovers picnicking, young men playing sports, townies walking their dogs, parents waving goodbye to their children for the first time, and grey squirrels eating what they could out of trash cans.
I introduced myself to the poetry class as a professor, though that technically was not the case. I was merely an instructor, but the students didn’t question my authority and called me professor for the rest of the hour, indeed for the rest of the semester. The classroom was more intimate than the ones I was familiar with—it was in the center of the English Building proper,
Take, for example, the group’s reaction to one of the first poems I brought forth to study (I had scheduled the class so that the first half of the semester would be spent dissecting the works of the masters while the second class would be spent writing poems of their own): The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock , one of the first poems I ever admired. The students had great debates dissecting the imagery in the poem, their favorite turns of phrase, the symbols, the historical context. I would insert myself and guide the conversation when needed, but my joy was in watching the discussion unfold. Nicole thought the refrain of Michelangelo was meant to evoke feelings of faith and devotion. Adam said the some of the imagery reminded him of what a Sunday evening felt like. Maria asked everyone if they knew what it meant to disturb the universe. Eric told a joke about balding that made everyone laugh. After class, as we spilled out into the hallway beneath the atrium, some students running to the other side of campus, others mingling around trying to be social, I heard some groups continuing the conversation on their own accord, speaking in casual voices about what I’d chosen to teach. I felt far more fulfilled than I ever did pulling teeth in composition classes, and I walked back to my apartment that night wondering if my vocation lie not in scholarship but in teaching.
As the semester continued, my own academic performance suffered. I turned in papers late, I was despondent in lectures, and I slowly withdrew from voluntary reading groups. I still cared about the subject—I found studying illuminated manuscripts to be personally rewarding. Despite years of studying the past, I was still enamored with the small details of lives that could be uncovered through research, like stipulations to a law, acts of worship, family registries, inventories of goods, strange proclamations; all things that mean nothing to us now, but meant a great deal at the time. I felt a sense of reverence studying these forgotten things, honoring the dead as I questioned how much we were alike and how much we were different, wondering what it meant to be human, wondering if we fundamentally changed over time. This was nurturing to me. However, I began to question if my path was useful outside the academy. My peers and I all wanted one thing when we had first submitted our applications to graduate school—we wanted to become researchers ourselves, and if not that, full professors. When we finally had the chance to meet esteemed people in such positions, it was clear openings into their cloistered world were not forthcoming and none of them planned on retiring any time soon. Once we’d had that peek behind the curtain, our energy went just as much into our schoolwork as it did trying to find reputable publishing partners, angling for eventual post-doc procurements, and otherwise building our CVs. I played this game, too (everyone does), but one cold November afternoon
By the beginning of December, my students were writing poems of their own, too. I structured the workshop with staggered due dates, so we had a constant stream of poems to critique and praise. They were encouraged to write about anything and in any style, though I advised them that it was often better to know the rules first before breaking them. The first batch of poems were in standard couplets. They were sonnets about first love, reflections on landscape, even poems that strived to be epics about warriors and knights and the cosmos. One student wrote what could have been the script to an action movie, yet somehow he made the entire poem rhyme—Kicking the gunman into the cellar/“Tell her it’s been my pleasure”/He ran to the churchyard in the dark/To kill the evil matriarch. That one raised logistical and practical questions, but I was impressed with how far he stretched the concept, just as I was impressed with the young woman who wrote about a childhood memory of seeing planes cut through the clouds after it rained. I could smell the wet cement of her driveway and feel the warm reflective glow of the sun setting against a truck’s windshield. I’m also pleased to say our class discussions were productive. My students were measured with their critiques, being sure to tell the poet in question what worked as well as what didn’t, the effect the poem had on them as well as what they felt was missing. The poets wrote furious notes while they were in the hot seat, and I was always proud of the grace they displayed listening to something so personal be analyzed so coldly. At the end of each session, I’d take a few minutes to sum up my view of the discussion as well as giving a few words of my own, sometimes agreeing with the general consensus, other times pointing out overlooked aspects, homages, echoes, and intentions. I’d try to leave each student in a place of support but with a clear path ahead. I’d save my harshest criticisms and most encouraging sentiments for the written feedback I’d hand out at the end of class. I thought the students would like something to reflect on as they wrote their next poems and continued thinking about poetry in the future.
By the second round of workshop, there was an obvious divide of talent in the class. Some students, including those I didn’t expect, excelled at poetry, with a natural grasp of language paired with a capable vision. Other students may not have had a knack for poetry, but their naivety gave their work a certain charm and honesty that even the most sophisticated poets lacked. Other students still fell somewhere in-between with sheer work ethic being the
It was our third-to-last class before the long winter break that marked the end of the semester. There was a feeling of excitement in the air, but also one of nervousness. The students would get to go back home and see their families and old friends for a month, but it was also a time of exams and long nights spent studying. Poetry class served as a small reprieve for them—something to immerse themselves in, but without a grade to worry about. There were two students whose turn it was to workshop that day. One who liked to write about football, and the other who usually kept to himself and wrote inoffensive, forgettable odes. The football one went first, and the discussion was expectedly short. The one who went next wrote a poem of which I later made a copy of so I could quote it verbatim when needed:
You were always there if I needed someone to talk to
You were always there to play catch with me in the yard
When you walked in a room, everyone smiled
You liked to eat my leftovers
I loved to see you when I got home from school
I loved the secret handshake we had
You had beautiful brown eyes
You never judged me, you were always on my side
When people yelled at you, I wanted to stick up for you
But I didn’t know how, I was too young back then
I’m older now, and all I want to say is I miss you
I miss you both, my dog and my dad
The poem was touching if not prosaic. To tell the truth, I expected class to end early, as the poet did not participate much in the past when we critiqued other student’s work and that same level of energy was typically returned. Part of me wished for that scenario, as I had other things on my mind that day. I didn’t have enough money to fly home for winter break, a girl I thought I’d been seeing on a romantic basis turned out to be strictly platonic, my advisor had recently called me by the wrong name and had forgotten my thesis topic, and some of my
After the student finished reading his poem, I looked around the room and saw misty eyes and teared cheeks. The stunned silence was broken by one girl, the most talented in the class, who simply said the poem was beautiful. That broke the dam and what followed was effusive praise mixed with revealing stories about loss and recovery. The poet assumed a dignified posture as they listened to the praise, every now and then offering a nod of agreement. When the discussion finally came to a natural end and it was my turn to speak, I felt a course correction was in order. Not only because it was fair (far better poems than theirs had been critiqued in pursuit of artistic growth), but also because I was feeling impish. Maybe because at that point in my life I had yet to lose my own father and my own dog, thus failing to see how both figures occupied a similar place in the heart despite their complex differences (though now that I have had both experiences, I can still say my view of the poem in and of itself has not changed). Maybe because I was merely in a bad mood. There are so many consequences in life decided by mood, it’s scary to think about for long.
In any case, I gave my honest opinion on the poem. Namely, I said it wasn’t good, lacked an obvious aesthetic value, and did nothing to further penetrate the shape of emotion, instead choosing to provide a glossing of first-order thoughts. At the same time, I praised the poem for it’s vulnerability and willingness to experiment with style. I even admitted to being pleasantly tricked into thinking the poem was about one person until the reveal at the end.
The class demeanor shifted and the atmosphere became awkward. I didn’t think much of it at the time, chalking it up to us running slightly over time on the Friday before the last week of classes. I went home and spent the weekend finalizing my grades for the semester, searching the internet for career advice as well as researching causes for the strange stomach ache I’d been having and finishing some required papers for my own degree on a Sunday night. I had took a brief break after nightfall and met the member of my cohort at the bar near my apartment. Since I lived on the residential side of town, I could walk to the bar. A light snow was falling as I passed the wooden white church with warm, yellow globes of light dotting the path to the front door. Through the windows of the professor’s houses along the sidewalk, you could now see Christmas trees, fireplaces, families watching television. The ice in the road glistened in the moonlight. The neon sign of the bar lit my face in a cinematic red. Inside, it was empty save for the member of my cohort, drinking beer. We both talked about being lonely in grad school. They did not intend to return for the next semester.
My first poetry class of the last week before break was empty. This was notable, but did not cause any alarm. That morning has been unusually cold, even bursting the pipes of an older building on campus. I marked everyone as present and debating sending a funny, knowing email about it to the class but ultimately decided against it because I preferred the camaraderie of a secret.
The last poetry class of the last week before break was in full attendance. All of the students were there before I arrived, which was more notable than their full absence in the class before. They all stared at me when I sat down, and with a bit of a laugh I asked if there was something on my shirt. That’s when they told me how unhappy they’d been with my performance as a teacher that semester. The poems I’d chosen to teach in the first half were
I told the group of students that I understood, and thanked them for their time. I dismissed the class and told them the administration would be in touch about their grades. Some of the students apologized to me as they left, one student even tried to shake my hand. Other students stayed in their seats, as if the catharsis they wanted had yet to happen. The most vocal students of the group, including the talented one, left as quickly as they could. I had classes to attend that day, including an oral exam, but I skipped them. I went back to my apartment instead and spent the afternoon in bed, constantly refreshing my phone to see if I’d receive an email from the department head, or perhaps one of my students offering an especially profuse apology. I regretted not taking the time to decorate my apartment throughout the year, as surely a nice painting on the wall or potted plant on the shelf would have been a welcome distraction from my phone screen at that moment, especially as the sharp winter light cut through the glass windows cloudy from years of dust and grime that I neglected to clean just as it cut through the dust that fell from the ceiling when the central heater kicked on as the temperature outside dipped below the number my landlord felt was too cold to bare, the loud hum of the heater drowning out the footsteps of the neighbors that lived next door to me.