The "thank goodness I have a cool principal" post

The lesson is this: never give your students material you haven't already read for yourself. Today, I was sharing a chapter from "The Poet's Companion" by Dorianne Laux and Kim Addonizio. The chapter was about writing from an illogical point of view, not worrying about sense. It touched on dreamscapes and the subconscious. I played out a lesson I've known for a long time only because I did not have enough time in the day to prevent it. I decided to trust two of my favorite poets and their book. The beginning of the chapter was fine, a little esoteric and full of college words. But, I thought to myself, "This is good, I'm stretching their minds and giving them a taste of what college is like..." Then I got to the poem that was excerpted as an example of following a dream into a poem. It was called "You've Changed, Dr. Jekyll" by Jan Richman .

I'm reading aloud to the class a poem I've never read or even heard of, and with each word I am becoming more tentative, wishing I'd taken that extra five minutes last night to skim the chapter. I get to the phrase "your uncircumstance" and I'm afraid. But I continue until I'm reading "While your left hand/ conducts an under-the-table ejaculation, your right flips the rusty tongue of a Dream Date lunchbox." Oh no, what have I done! I refuse to look up at my small class of seniors. I'm grateful about five didn't show up today because I just said ejaculation and my face must be bright red. They say nothing. Not even a snicker, but the silence tells all. And at that moment, the door opens and in walks my principal for a surprise observation. There's nothing to do but keep reading even though I want nothing more than to slam the book shut. These are seniors. They can handle it. I want to prepare them for college level discussions, right? But why now with the special education support teacher and the principal here to witness it? Then I say the rest of the poem: "Herr, Doctor, Mr. Dad, you've handed/ down a scratchy decree, this cushion on which I sit to jerk/ off in the meager poem of your hiding place. Five hot minutes/ on the phone with legacy equals a cup of serum..."

Ohmigosh, what have I said? What have I done? The students are still silent. Maybe they missed it thanks to the line break that separates "jerk" from "off." But I can sense that they get it, loud and clear. I move through it like nothing happened, like we are absolutely all adults and there's nothing to be embarrassed about. But inside I'm wondering if this is the second time I've blown it with poetry. Two summers ago, I asked a poetry class to write down a list of favorite words or expressions. Many were culled from hip hop songs I knew and some I didn't know. One expression was "slob my knob" and while I got the gist of the meaning, I didn't pursue the definition. I encouraged the students to put all of the words in their poem. A week later at the staff meeting the issue of not encouraging students to write about sex was brought up. Guilty party? Me.

Poetry is meant to be read with the body. It is not of the brain. This is exactly what Laux and Addonizio were arguing in the embarrassing chapter about self-satisfaction. Poetry likes to slide into the sensual, the sexual, and sometimes the baudy. And I want my students to have full access to the artistic expression and to their own desire and understanding of their body. And yet...

Later today I checked in with the principal to see if she had been bothered. She said, "Oh no. You don't have to worry about that with me. In fact, it was amusing to see what the students did. They looked up at you, up at me, up at each other, and then puzzled went back to the reading."

Had this been my ninth grade class, I might never have recovered.