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[This long entry leans heavily on an issue related to school writing, though it is still basically (hopelessly) about me. Instead of reading this, you may want to do some laundry, finish that homework, or trim your toenails. Sorry.] Last week one of my freshmen wrote, "I'm always worrying if the paper that I have written is good enough or if it is just plain stupid." The first thing I asked them to write in class was a description of themselves as readers and writers. There's a certain sameness that runs through them, but it's an honest sameness. Most do not read much; fewer write for any purpose other than school or thank you notes. Almost all of them feel uneasy about being judged, evaluated and graded for what they write. I know how they feel. Yesterday I wrote and submitted, for the first time, a response to something I had read on my English teachers list serve, NCTE Talk-Kitchen. They had been wondering about what students write in their journals, how much needs to be read by the teacher, how to assess and grade journals, and what to do when a student writes about suicidal feelings, physical abuse, or violent intentions. Other teachers had written that they had structured their journal assignments around pre-set topics or around the curriculum (as I do with the Reading Response Notebook). But some writers began to sound as if they would prefer that students who had such problems would just keep them to themselves. So I wrote. I basically said that it's an honor to be trusted enough by a student that he or she would confide in you, that it comes with the job well-done. And it's lucky for the student, too, because we know how to get help (and are in fact legally required to do so). But I worried that teachers (out of fear of legal complications) were cutting themselves off from their students. I wrote, "We may not be therapists, but we are human beings." My brief comment seemed clear enough to me at the time. I received a response from one of the teachers who felt that I was personally accusing her of turning a deaf ear to her students' cries for help. She presented a defense and a clarification of her point that she was trying to teach her students the distinction between personal and public writing. I hadn't intended to attack anyone; and here comes my Big Point: My first reaction to her defensive response was to feel enormously guilty and stupid. I'm back in high school, back in grade school. "Oh, she's right. I am wrong. What do I know anyhow? She is certainly a more competent professional person than I will ever be. I never should have written." I experienced this flood of self-loathing that shocked me much more than her specific response. Where did this come from? Am I still no more than this big wobbly ego so sickly desperate for some anyone's approval? How could I be so starved for affirmation? Over the past few months I have been surrounded by friends and relatives, students and colleagues, who in the wake of my move from Joliet have been flooding me with positive vibes. I'm a great teacher, a wonderful friend, an excellent (if somewhat neurotic) fellow all around. But it gets clearer by the minute that I'm still doing battle with my old demon. And I continue to understand why I still allow myself to be bullied by... bullies, or anyone who has an opinion. This morning I finally got around to taking this silly test that Chris found online. It poses the soul-rending question, "Are You A Freak?" Chris had told me that he thought I would probably score a 70 on it, which would mark me as a fairly freaky guy (i.e. nonconformist, rugged individual, Emersonian, a courageous and outrageous dude). Well, I clocked in at 31. This suggests a couple of things. 1) Chris needs to re-evaluate his perceptions of me. 2) I have constructed a persona which is seriously out of joint with my inner realities. 3) The test is a load of crap. 4) All of the above. What's to be learned from all of this? Ultimately, I am still a work in progress. I have never completely subdued the ancient monsters (which should be known to anyone who has read my high school journal). Despite our grandest efforts (and this is something Gatsby denied to the end), each of us is a continuity, a stream of crazy consciousness rolling through the world until we stop. It's harder to change ourselves than it is to change our shirts. This weekend's sports outcomes makes it clear that I am no grand football prognosticator. Carmel lost to North Chicago by quite a stretch. Joliet held out against Mt. Carmel. Following popular wisdom in these parts, I had predicted the reverse for both. I know nothing nothing nothing about Sport. Pay no attention when I pretend to speak of these things. |
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Edward Dahlberg |