love letters

the ninth graders are still working on memoirs. their stories have been unusual, far more emotionally focused than in other years. they know a good story when they see one and even though most of them are not quite able to write a good story, they're able to write something that tells you a good story is crammed in there somewhere. so i have been throwing out random memoir topics and having them write. the uproar is impressive. they fling themselves facedown onto desks, make sounds like small animals witnessing atrocities. they take seven minutes to tear off the spiral edges from their pages. they stare blankly at blank sheets of paper. laboriously write names on top corners. ask me again what the topic is (a time you were kind to someone. the meanest thing you've ever done. a time you knew someone loved you. etc.) write down the date. ask loudly about what day it is. erase date. write down new date with extreme care.

but then, in spite of themselves, they end up, almost every one of them, writing these lovely descriptive snapshots of tiny moments. they struggle to show the story because they know if they tell it instead i will not read it. they describe and describe until they don't have any words left. they stand up. throw out gum. slap someone on the head as they walk back. cough. get up to get a tissue off my desk. kick someone's backpack as they walk to their own desk. sit down. rearrange the single page on the desk. look at it. shake out the last few words they know. hold it up and yell across the room to me, "is this long enough?" i always say no. huffing. stomping. slamming of paper onto desk. i'm always surprised how loud they can slam paper. "you didn't even read it!" the truth is i dont' even have to look at it to know i want more than what's there. glareglareglare. one more slam of paper onto desk. rearrange paper. sharpen pencil. sharpen some more. accidentally break off pointy sharp lead while walking back to desk. return to sharpener for a very successful third time. hunch over paper. glare around the room. write. writewritewritewrite.

but today is the last day of school before an eleven day holiday. most of the tenth, eleventh and twelfth grade kids didn't bother showing up. but ninth grade is different. at least twenty kids showed up to each class, all asking questions about movies and games and parties. these are not things i do. i have mentioned before that this is not so much about being a good teacher as it is about not knowing how to handle chaos or downtime. it unsettles me in my personal life and unsettles me even more when i'm in a room with twenty or thirty shrieking teenagers. and although they ask if we're seeing a movie, it's clear they know we're not. the grumbling when i point to the assignment on the board is minimal. at this point, they're just hoping i don't give them homework. they are fully expecting homework. i worry for a small but loud second if maybe i'm a horrible person. the moment passes and i point to the board again.

they know it will be another of those horrible memoir stories. they read quietly the instructions.

1. think about something small a family member taught you when you were little. how to tie your shoes. how to ride a bike. how to make toast. that's the obvious thing.

2. now think about the subtle things you learned from that same event. that your dad really thinks you can do something brave. that your grandma loves you. that your mom wants you to be proud of yourself.

3. write a letter to that person. describe your memory of the event in detail. thank them for what they gave you. thank them for the obvious stuff and the more subtle stuff.

4. roll it up like a scroll and tie it with pretty yarn.

5. for homework, deliver the letter.

and they write. about the sorts of things ninth graders always write. about grandpas and moms and brothers who gave them small but magnificent gifts. faith in themselves. a desire to succeed. they cannot believe i am serious about the homework. one girl shoves a page in my face and insists i read it. she watches me to see if i will cry. i do not, but this is because i have had years of practice not crying when kids write stuff so honest it makes time stop. but she is happy enough watching my face tense up as i read. another girl yells, "it will make him cry if he reads this!" she is talking about her dad and she is right. i tell them they don't have to present them publicly, that they can give them in secret. those who celebrate christmas are already thinking about where under the tree to put these scrolls. they do not want private weeping and love. they want it big and in front of everyone. it may be unfair that i'm helping them learn to manipulate others, but come on, isn't that what writing is about?

but one clever boy says, "how will you know if we do it? how will you know what grade to give?" and i go with what has always worked before. "i just will. i'm like that. magic. i'm like santa." from the back of the room someone yells, "santa isn't real!" now, teenagers are faithless and you just can't argue them into sense so instead i say with a smile, "i'm like santa only real!" and some part of their brains is absolutely sure i am lying. they know they can walk out and toss those scrolls in the garbage. but i look at them packing up to go, carefully wrapping yarn around small tubes of paper, gently tucking those letters into backpacks. because although they know i am lying, they just can't be sure.