Point

"What's the point?!?!" I hear. Every semester, without fail, a voice pipes up from the back of the room, usually accompanies by a snicker. Sometimes punctuated with "This is stupid."

Not many words bring me pain the way these do. I am not an English teacher because I got good grades in English when I was in school. I am not an English teacher because I love grading essays and assignments. I am not an English teacher because I wanted summers off (that's a myth, actually). I am an English teacher because I love language. I love to read, I love to write, I love discovery through the written word. I love the fact that, throughout history, writers have put quill to parchment and pen to paper and created enduring works that speak a language larger than themselves.

To the question "Why we gotta read this?" (which is painful in its own way) I respond "Because you will be a better person for doing it." Human nature knows no century, no social class, no genre. Regardless of place or time, characters live on in volumes of greed, desire, madness, loss, love, and hope. There is an inherent immortality in writing that is the reason we peruse the stories of Beowulf and Hamlet.

Words = knowledge = power. People don't hesitate to feed their cars, their egos, and their wallets. Why on earth would someone choose not to feed their heart, mind, and soul?

Boxes (an expansion)

Four giggling girls,
Three decks of cards,
Two watermelons,
One refrigerator box.

All day we played in that old raggedy box, smothering in the southern August humidity. We laughed the day away, sweat-frizzled and grubby-footed from multiple trips through the yard to fetch popsicles and corn dogs.

Is there a greater gift to a child than a big, empty box? My daughter just had her first birthday and she has already experienced the joys of boxes. Beaten like drums, turned sideways as caves, scooted like sleds, and propped open like traps, her boxes were the highlights of her first Christmas.

Her talking puppy, constantly bleating "Hug me!" and "You're wonderful!" was a wonderful and amusing toy. Her new blue stuffed elephant was a cozy pal for cuddling. The dancing chicken doing the chicken dance was a fabulous distraction. The boxes, though, were magnetic, enchanting her fledgling imagination and drawing her into their infinite possibilities.

Boxes are the healthiest toys. They promote physical activity and stir the sense of wonder we all have within ourselves, whether we're infant children or adult children. They transport us to other worlds in an instant. What else on the shelves of Toys 'R' Us can accomplish that?

Bad

Bad girl.
Bad dog.
Big Bad Leroy Brown.
Bad News Bears.
Michael Jackson was Bad.
Bad writing.

There we go...

Bad writing. OK, kids. Here we go. As a teacher of Creative Writing, it is excruciatingly difficult for me to "grade" work. It's entirely too easy for someone to say "What's with this grade? It's CREATIVE!! How can it be wrong?!?!" Good question.

In art, there are techniques to learn and if those techniques are not executed appropriately, the final product is genuinely wrong. Same for music. There are chords that work and chords that don't and if they don't, the final product is, again, genuinely wrong. While there are techniques for writing, some of the "rules" are so ambiguous it's hard to draw the line between right and wrong. I can say that I've read some writing that was so horrendous, I felt like I lost IQ points after reading it.

How is a reader to know, though? Where is the line that divides the brilliant from the beastly? The genius from the gibberish? Consider if you will the uniquely burdensome position in which I am placed every time I have to grade a piece of writing. In my opinions and on my shoulders rest the grades of my students. I'd like to think I'm a good judge. It's rare that I toot my own trumpet - usually I'm my own worst enemy - but I am confident about my writing resume' and my ability to sift through the debris and find the nuggets worth keeping.

Writing with no coherence between characters, plot, and setting = BAD.

Writing made up of a string of disconnected sentences = BAD.

Writing dialogue that sounds less natural than daytime soaps = BAD.

Writing a lot of words that essentially say nothing = BAD.

Writing that contains foul language just to try to get away with it = BAD.

When I am grading student work, I ask myself these questions continuously. It's rare that I will place something in the truly BAD category, but if I do, it is not done lightly.

Repeat

I admit it. When I was in high school, I had to repeat two classes due to no one's fault but my own, seriously cutting into my fun time. Thankfully, I ended up loving those two classes but it still would have been nice to have gotten them right the first time.

In my sophomore year, I failed Algebra II Honors. Miserably. There were no overly indulgent counselors at my school, so I was pretty much stuck with my choice. I guess I was in honors because all of my other classes were in honors, but I am far from an honors math student. Mrs. Carter taught it like it was a college class. Lightning speed, and if there were any questions, the answer was the same. "That's just the way you do it." No pause for explanation whatsoever. Needless to say, my one and only "C" in that course was the bright spot in a sea of "F"'s. I had to retake the class and I waited until my senior year to do it. (To my credit, I waited so I wouldn't have Algebra and Chemistry at the same time. That would have been a sequel of disaster.)

Senior year with Mr. Roca was such a polar opposite, it's still amazing to me. Not only did I pass with straight A's, I actually helped some people pass. The slower pace combined with a relaxed teacher (sometimes too relaxed) who actually answered my questions made a universe of difference. I can still hear his echo... "Come on gang. Are y'all cheating? Don't cheat." I think about the way he helped me frequently now that I'm a teacher.

Junior year marked another moment of shame in my academic history. I failed Mr. Paine's American History class, also miserably. It wasn't the same as math, because my ability wasn't up to par. I simply couldn't stand the man. He droned on and on for 55 minutes a day, and I spent those 55 minutes doodling on my desk. "Angie loves Todd." "Angie loves Juan." "Angie loves Jeff." (Isn't teenage love grand?)

Another senior year slot was then taken by a second attempt at American History, this time with Mrs. LeBlanc. She was one of those teachers that's been teaching the class for so long she just goes on autopilot and doesn't really notice what's going on in the room. That was fine, because it gave me, Carlos, Scarlett, and Nick lots of time to visit and plan our weekends. We all aced the class anyway.

I suppose somewhere I eventually learned a lesson. When I saw myself slacking off in college, I recognized it in time to take a break and go back when I was truly ready. I can't say with 100% conviction that retaking the classes was a mistake because they were so much fun, but I did learn to take my education more seriously.

No / Know

I am a reformed know-it-all. I'll admit it. Once upon a time, when I was a wee slip of a girl, I was a shameless know-it-all. One of those intolerable little snots that you just want to pinch real hard. You know who I mean. I wasn't aware of this personality malfunction until 8th grade, when I ran into someone from elementary school.

Irwin was in class with me at St. Anthony's Catholic School from kindergarten to second grade. He saw me in our eighth-grade French class and said "I remember you. I don't like you." Wow. Naturally, I wanted to know why, and he told me a story of how I unwittingly scarred him and made myself look completely obnoxious at the tender age of 7.

"We were in Mrs. Slack's class and we were in a circle on the floor doing spelling words. She was asking us how to spell 'Easter' and I spelled it exactly right and she said I was wrong. Then you raised your hand and said 'It's CAPITAL E-a-s-t-e-r. Up till then, I kind of liked you, but you were a mean little know-it-all." Wow, again. Talk about an eye-opener. It made me flash back to other times I was an irritating little butthead. (I wish I could think of a better word, but butthead is, unfortunately, accurate.) I'd done it to teachers, to friends, to my mom, but never realized how unappealing I was making myself.

Since then, I've tempered that temptation a lot. I've been heartily thumped on the nose for my own mistakes, and have become more sensitive in the process. An oversized ego is a good thing to lose.

Walker Percy's Bayou

I sit on the bank of hallowed ground,
Absorbing the tranquility with Walker and my fellow writers.
Who else sat here
on this bend of the bayou?

I watch for a current, wait for a breeze
A fish surprises me with a leap and a splash
dancing to the buzzing, chirping choir -
soul-stirring music for this Southern girl

Louisiana sun makes my skin tingle
while the vibes
from Walker and my friends
stir my heart
and my pen

Class of '94

A lock of hair, a lunchbox lid -
A ticket stub, a homecoming bid -

A speeding ticket, a Converse tag -
peeking out from a plastic bag.

Prom pictures and news clippings
fading with time -
Jumbled together,
no rhythm or rhyme.

Flannel shirts and Kurt Cobain,
and pictures of girls dancing in the rain...

Provocative

pro-voke (verb) 1. to arouse a feeling or action 2. to call forth

I was once asked to choose a word from a list that describes writers; my eye immediately fell on "provocative." Regardless of time or genre, every writer has the ability to nudge their readers' thoughts into his or her desired direction. I find the entire idea provocative.

The power wielded by a writer is immeasurable. The potential is limitless. Writers have been provoking their readers for millennia. Socrates was such a potent writer and speaker, he was sentenced to death for corrupting the young. The Harry Potter series is frequently accused of bringing young readers to a "dark side." Twain's classic novel Huckleberry Finn is often criticized for its portrayal of racism, even though it accurately reflects the time and setting. Writers have the ability to arouse the entire range of emotions that make up the human experience: laughter, sorrow, joy, anger, empathy, regret, bitterness, hilarity, fear, wonder, confusion...we can do it all with our words.

The first time I officially thought of myself as a "writer" was during a workshop in which I read an original piece of my fiction. It was just a short story, one that I had written in an afternoon, but I liked it enough to share with my group. When I finished reading it, I saw something unexpected in my audience. They were angry! "You need to change that ending!" I heard. "That's terrible!" I heard. I was thrilled! I knew I didn't write a happy ending and that some people may not like it, but they were actually mad at me! Now that's power, I thought.

All creative endeavors of any genuine quality will grasp people in a visceral way. Beethoven once discussed the power of music with a student of his. The student claimed that the power of music is that it "stirs the soul." Beethoven called him an ass. He said that the power of music comes from the composer's ability to make their listener waltz, march, sleep...whatever he chooses...depending on the type of music he writes.

As writers, we possess and should embrace that same influence. Creating real emotions that grab our readers in a genuine way is nothing to take lightly. Writers influence people in countless ways, obvious and sometimes subtle. Novelists, advertisers, journalists, speechwriters, editors, songwriters, screenwriters...even if a person isn't a self-proclaimed "reader," he or she is still provoked by writers.

Move

I want to move home...I want to move home...I want to move home...as long as...

I can bring my students, I can carry my coworkers, I can pack up my new friends, the coffee shop, and General Tanuki's kobe burgers.

From the minute I stepped into the 26-foot long, banana-hued Penske truck, I've wanted to pull a fast u-ey and head for the elegantly crumbling decay of New Orleans. It's so hard to be over a thousand miles removed from a place that's home to me in both the literal sense and the spiritual. It's not that I dislike "here." I'm irrevocably connected to "there."

The day we move back will be a bittersweet one, whenever that may be. It will be a rough goodbye, and I'm not looking forward to it. I'm glad we moved here, if for nothing else but the realization that home is home, and this is nice, but it's not my "forever" place. I think everyone should go through that experience. If you've spent your whole existence in one community, one culture, one lifestyle, how can you truly know it's the right place for you until you live life in a different place for a while. Vacations don't count.

We considered moving to Savannah, Houston, Memphis, and a dozen places in between, but in truth, my compass will always point to the Deep South. I was born literally 20 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, in a hospital next to a bayou teeming with alligators and nutria. It's the kind of place that seeps into your soul and doesn't let up.

While both Maryland and Louisiana have their perks and have their flaws, only one will ever be my home. Cajun Country. The Crescent City. The Big Easy. La Nouvelle Orleans.

Who am I?

I am a feathered boa, floating on a humid breeze.

I am flaky turkey pastries served by the light of a Christmas tree.

I am a Delta accent that gets more pronounced when I get mad.

I am a horse and buggy, toting friends and sharing stories.

I am cypress knees, stubborn as mules, supporting my limbs through the toughest erosion.

I am a Second Line, dancing through loss to celebrate new beginnings.

I am crawfish, tender and firm, savory and spicy, and at my best when in hot water.

I am Mardi Gras, a celebration of joyous proportions, a gathering of friends, a reason to dance in the street.

I am a child born of jazz, blues, big front porches and bigger family gatherings.

I am the bayou, the French Quarter, and the ancient swampland in between.