I am a high school teacher. Our seniors this year are getting kind-of a raw deal. Possibly no prom, and the cancellation of graduation is a shocking likelihood too. I don’t actually remember all that much about my senior year of high school, as I had transplanted from the system where I grew up into a sizeable public school district that felt like visiting another planet. I do, however, remember a LOT about my senior year of college.
One of those memories involves senior oral comprehensive exams.
Just the idea was terrifying. I was going to be in a room for an hour, facing a panel of professors from my department and representatives from other fields, subject to questions I could not possibly predict, spanning basically anything and everything from all my years as an undergraduate.
My college was a small one. Classes for certain majors had to be offered bi-annually, so it turned out that as an English major, I took Classicism, Romanticism, and Modernism all before sitting for Intro Lit. I had my introductory class as a senior, and in fact, had it the same semester as my comprehensive exams.
Introduction to Literature was a pivotal moment for me as a teacher. What should have felt like an easy, almost blow-off class, turned out to be something I enjoyed immensely! I was the only English major in the very-full room, and I had class with most of the university’s soccer team. To say they were dis-interested and made my favorite professor work HARD would be an understatement!
One of our assignments was to write a paper comparing the work and style of two major poets. I was carrying 21 hours that semester, which was insane, and I procrastinated. The night before it was due, I stayed up late at my kitchen table, sitting down with my anthologies and my word processor to begin drafting it about 1:30 in the morning. My plan was to compare the writing of William Carlos William to that of Emily Dickinson. We were also supposed to present our papers in the next session- about nine hours later.
I should pause here and explain: In the previous class, we had talked about hidden layers of meaning in Dickinson’s poetry. It was very late, and I was very tired.
I flipped through the collections, uninspired.
Then I read a poem by Robert Frost. I think it may have been “Birches” or “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” and had a thought.
It was a strange thought.
It was a random, wild thought.
It was a thing I could not un-think or un-see.
Suddenly, I found myself pouring out that multiple-page paper with no effort whatsoever.
Basically, I said that I believed I could prove that like Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost had embedded additional layers of meaning in his poetry through the use of code words. I thought that perhaps trees (and sometimes groups of trees or nature) represented women.
I blushed with the fierceness of a thousand sunburns while I made the presentation, explaining my idea and then reading a few select passages:
Whose woods these are, I think I know.
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
I immediately had the full attention of the back row of the class. Naughty poetry? They were intrigued.
Then I read the opening lines of “After-Apple Picking” and the class turned into something I had never before experienced.
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off…
Suddenly, the room which had collectively napped through presentations was abuzz, whispering poetry and turning pages, stifling laughter.
It was the first time I felt like a teacher with an engaged class. I remember how electrifying it was. I was no longer tired!
My presentation ended, and after class, I begged the professor NOT to tell the rest of the department. I could not imagine the horror of sitting in a room full of elderly men discussing the matter without imminent death by embarrassment occurring.
He made no promises.
A few weeks later, he granted me a huge favor. While I sat in front of a panel of intimidating brilliance, he told them my secret.
Eyes widened.
My face turned scarlet.
The stately, proper head of the department broke the ice. He quoted a line that was utterly scandalous through that new lens.
I barely fielded another question for the rest of the hour-long session.
My professors sat and debated the idea and quoted Frost to one another, delighted and cackling like the soccer team had.
Mortification was a very real thing, but so was pride. It was a new idea to them, one that seemed plausible and worthy of exploration.
I remember that about my senior year. An unfulfilled “promise” (that was never actually made) brought me an awesome experience I will never forget.
I can only hope the current high school seniors will be able to walk away with an equally fond thing to look back upon and cherish, particularly in a year that feels like many unspoken yet broken promises.
Wow, that’s an interesting post. No wonder you had the sports guys sudden undivided attention. I have to say I sincerely hope that was not Robert Frost’s intention when he wrote any of his poems that mention trees. I think I prefer to see his meaning purely on the surface with trees as trees and not find any layers beneath!
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Oh, how you made me laugh! What an interesting proposal. I’m sure those soccer boys never forgot it either! I have time now to reread some Robert Frost poetry. Hmmm…
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I don’t think I will ever be able to read Robert Frost the same way again. Thank you for this. Have you ever shared this story with your students?
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Nope. I have not. I taught middle school for most of my career, so I had great fun inside my own head, but I wasn’t going there!
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A new idea, indeed! And I may never read those poems the same way, either–and that brings a devilish grin to my face. What an interesting memory to share! Thanks for the levity today.
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This is wonderful for so many reasons. To see what English academics “cackle” about is one of them. Who says that procrastination doesn’t have its perks?
I feel for your seniors. Your second line made me remember my eighth graders and what happened in the wake of 9/11. We were right across the way and could see smoke from the beach. As for your kids, the landscape changed forever and with it, their expectations, both personal and societal.
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I love this! You weave so many things together: the reality of 2020, your vague memories of your own senior year, the moment you felt the calling to teach, an embarrassing and equally triumphant moment, and your hopes for the future. Wow! I admire your pacing of long sentences, your injections of Frost’s work and your short lines. They kept me reading! Well done!
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