Oregon Writing Project

Assignment #4

Hart, Shannon

July 12, 1997

The Teacher 's Symphony:

A Heroic Epic In Four Parts

 

Part One - The Fall

The students make their way into the English class. Their chatter is heard through the clatter of books and pens rattling against the wood and steel desks. It is the fall, and the first day of school, and for their teacher, it was just another day in a life's battle against boredom and ignorance.

Now, it wasn't that he was jaded, nor were his skills faded, but his broad grin didn't quite reach from ear to ear anymore, and at night, though he would never mention it to anyone, he would sit and look at his stacks of travel brochures (his latest obsession), and dream of lifting the burden from his back, quitting his thankless job, and taking a cruise somewhere. Anywhere.

The teacher had a wide assortment of the latest gadgetry and his head was full of the best education could offer in jargon and manipulation techniques. Yet, holding himself high, he could feel the doubt that settled deep in the crevasse in his heart. The spark he needed to light fire to their minds was not there.

As the teacher stood before his class, with sixty anxious eyes awaiting his assistance, he felt a lump rise in his throat, realizing that he was not ready. He was not prepared. He had not changed. He would disappoint.

 

Part Two - The Dream

 

I am in a dream.

I stand, flailing, hands and fingers outstretched against the folds that press in around me.

I am alone.

The heat is unbearable, like swimming in a stream of warm water; washing over me.

Drowning me. Caressing me.

I cannot breathe.

Mouth agape and chest exploding, I push with all my effort against the ever-closing walls of my surroundings, but they close in around my arms and legs, over my face, enveloping me.

I am bound.

My movements slow as my body and my thoughts lose the struggle. The incredible heat subsides and turns to numbing cold. I stop.

I am overwhelmed.

 

Part Three - Epiphany

The class has taken on a strange mixture of students sharing knowledge, and mercenaries plotting strategy. My eyes have literally been opened to the art of teaching writing. How wonderful it has been to take apart that which was seemingly familiar, and to replace it with something that has the potential to be even more fabulous and fantastic. We have seen the meshing of old and new world thinking; of technology and good, old-fashioned put-it-down-on-paper. As I look around the class, I can't help thinking that only good can come from this. We took something that was dark and mysterious like the egg of some extinct dinosaur, and have cracked it open, unashamedly letting the yolk pour over us and seep into our skin.

I have learned that the teaching of writing is not so much a mystery as it is part battle, and part wit. You must arm yourself, but you must be able to think, too. Have a strong mind and strong body, and you will go far.

I have seen that all students can be reached, by guile and by preparation. We can write like newspaper reporters, or we can find new places to travel to, whether by mind or by "web." We have learned to combine sentences, and to explore ourselves through writing and art. I am reborn with the knowledge of hundreds of years of experience, and I shudder at the thought of how I am now a different, better, teacher and person.

I feel as if I am a greyhound, and the rabbit has been let loose. I want to tear out of the gates and race for the prize. My students may streak around that track as their lives depended on it, but I am fast and on a mission. I will not let them get away. I will catch them.

 

Part Four - Resurrection

The teacher ascends the pulpit and stretches out his hand as a sign that learning is about to begin. In unison, the students' pens and pencils, once poised and ready to strike, move to the paper, and the words flow like a choir singing the Hallelujah chorus. They make glorious music that seems like gold showers cascading over their teacher's eyes and ears. From the fire he found in his contemporaries, he has become a maestro, and the students are his masterpiece. He looks upward, hands held high, as their creative crescendo carries skyward to the heavens.

 

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