This story is going to sound cliche. Because it is. But it’s true. Every word. Even the adage, “Ya just never know.” We say that a lot at school—when it comes to kids...and not knowing what they might be going through at home or in their heads.
I got a big surprise yesterday and I’m still trying to figure out what to do (if anything) about it...or how to follow up with it.
I have three classes of pre-IB sophomores–that means they’re about 15 years old. All about social development and hormones and being terrified of “exposure.” Takes a lot for these kids to risk revealing who they really are: rejection is real and devastating, they fear.
Since the first week of January we’ve been working with poetry. Started them off with performance poetry as a path to studying structured poetry, trying to make it more accessible , more friendly. We’ve read and tested on Mary Oliver’s Handbook of Poetry and every day we’ve watched videos I’ve carefully selected of slam poetry, performance poetry, and spoken word poetry. After each poem they are asked to write their impressions, not just of the content but of the choices the poet has made to deliver their words effectively. Volume, cadence, word choice, prosody, pacing, sound, metaphor, internal rhyme, sensory imagery, body language, gestures, all of it.
They’ve been working in solitude as well as small groups to develop their own performance poem. I’ve encouraged them to pick topics that tap into their passion about ... something, anything. You guessed it—that’s everything from ice cream, to loss, to pollution, to shoes, to relationships, to self image...all of it.
One of the aspects of teaching at South Fork that I love is how many cultures are represented through these kids. They are Irish, Scandinavian, African, Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, Mexican, Guatemalan, and more. This is the kind of assignment that sometimes taps into those identities in unexpected ways. One Vietnamese boy wrote of his sorrow at seeing how leaving Vietnam has been so painful for his parents and how his identity is fractured by it.
Another student, a very quiet young man, Hispanic, never ever says a word. Nice, respectful, mostly lost in an English Literature class and struggles with it all (not the language, but the study of literature and analysis). I’ve spoken with him a couple of times since August, trying to find a way to support him, get him help with it. He’s holding his own, but he seems so disengaged. I was afraid he wouldn’t have much to offer–he keeps to himself so completely. He has friends, he’s well-adjusted, he’s just not socially connected with the kids in this class (except maybe three other guys).
Yesterday was his dress rehearsal—they have this opportunity to see how well they’ve internalized their material, hear what it sounds like while delivering to an audience, test out their plan for body language and gestures and pacing. His turn came up. Yes, I confess I do pray at those moments because more than anything I don’t want the experience to add to their fears or any negative experiences of similar assignments. He took a deep breath when I gave him the cue to start. He had nothing in his hands—most kids keep their poem with them in case they sort of melt into stage fright and blank out. He stood, rubbed his hands together and started his poem. There was gentle internal rhyming, vivid images, deep emotion. It was a poem honoring and apologizing to his little brother. He spoke of how his mom told him not to be like his older brothers who have been in trouble with the law. He spoke of how his mom introduced him to his baby brother when he was brought into the world and encouraged him to be a better big brother to him—to love him, protect him, help him grow up. He confessed — and was specific — about times he’d failed his little brother. Times he was mean to him. How sorry he was, how he hopes that recent changes have made a difference for him. How he kept his emotions in check is beyond me, he frequently covered his chin and stopped speaking for a brief moment, tears brimmed in his eyes, but he kept going. This young man, who had never said more than 10 words in class since August, delivered his poem for over 5 minutes in front of class full of 15 year old kids who sat in rapt attention. That’s 25 kids in that classroom. No one even looked away.
He finished, everyone clapped, like they had done for all the others. And he sat back in his seat—front seat of the second row. He was the last of the rehearsal list and I was a weepy mess. I made some comment about how there wasn’t a dry eye in the room and that this was an amazing piece of work. Then I told them all to stand up and stretch a little bit, take a small break. NOBODY went up to this kid. Nobody. They huddled in twos and threes, walking around to each other and chatting. I confess at first I was surprised until I recalled their age, and their lack of maturity in knowing how or what to say—vulnerability is a dangerous, bottomless pit. I went up to the kid, put my hands on his shoulders and leaned over toward him, my forehead to his and said, “That was awesome. Amazing. Thank you.” And he nodded.
Ya just never know.
I learn a lot about courage, pain, hope, and the power of the human spirit from these amazing young people. Deeply grateful for them.
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