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I AM NOT A BIT TAMED, I AM TOO UNTAMABLE,
I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFS OF THE WORLD.
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 52
Freshman year is always an interesting puzzle. A difficult balance between lulling out consistent focus from sun-hazed, lethargic brains that haven't focused on written prose in months and sparking some inspiration, some passion, some conviction beyond 'Will this be on the test?'. To get at least one of them to carpe diem, to suck all the marrow out of life. It's on days like this, I stand upon my desk and call O' Captain, My Captain, to a voice no longer listening. And I beg the universe for the second coming of Neil Perry. A Neil but not my Neil. A Neil who is loved and knows it, his wings unclipped and his joy unsquandered. A Neil who would live to the end of the year. An impossible task, there will never be anyone close. Life went on, but it was never the same. That November snow settled on my lungs long ago, and it will never leave me.
I trudge through the dull backwater of my brain marked for Welton a little longer, before the shrill chime of the bell reminds me how highly unbecoming it is for a teacher to stand upon their desk. It's time to return to dry land, though I've found no different path. Time to seize the day.
The day for the most part is frustratingly unremarkable. Some bright sparks, with plenty of potential, ready to nail the syllabus, but too focused on Stanford or UPenn to open their soul to the words. Plenty in it for the credits. Plenty whose talents clearly laid elsewhere. And considering the rowdy group before me, I have little faith for final period.
"Nice Trapper Keeper, faggot"
And my gut renches.
Children can be cruel is a phrase for a reason. I recognise the responsibility I hold, a guardian and a guide for a great number of young minds and most of the time unappreciated. But the pressure and uncertainty of this time creates such a capacity for casual callousness in some people. That kind of language is not uncommon, and often used as general insult, not necessarily from specific suspicion. And yet, it hits me with a flooring force that knocks me back. Back to being 32 and met with such painful scrutiny and unbridled disgust as 'the board thinks your talents would be best suited at another school'. Being 25 and losing three teeth to a neon-lit pavement. Being 21 and looking upon my mother and my childhood home for the last time, forbade from ever returning. Being 19 and getting a black eye from one of those aforementioned cruel children, whose name he never learned. And despite himself, back to being 17 with his knees in the snow.
I have to be careful, an over-reaction here would be dangerous, any reaction a risk. No matter how cold I am, I cannot slip on the frost.
"I'm Mr. Anderson, I'm going to be your teacher for freshman English."
The shpeil is familiar, repeated several times today, a grounding baseline to get through one final period.
"This semester we're going to learning Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. Genius book. Now, who wants to get out of the first pop quiz?"
The forced pop quiz is a personal pet peeve, and considering the number of hands that fly into the air, there aren't many fans in the room. All bar one hand, curiously.
"I'm shocked. All right. Well, you can skip the quiz if you can tell me which author invented the paperback book."
I play this game for a couple reasons, firstly they probably know the name, even if they can't connect it to the question and secondly, I hope it will inspire at least attention, if not revelation. From desk to desk, with little more to show for it than some confiscated chewing gum I'll enjoy later and icy silence, my extra clues on seemingly no help.
But the answer is in the room, silently scratched out and guarded by a boy positively trembling and too nervous to join the group in getting out of a test.
"The answer is Charles Dickens."
I launch into a Shakespeare anecdote, it keeps the class busy. But my mind is stuck in the middle row. I prayed for another Neil Perry but I've been confronted with a younger me. A Todd Anderson who never got up from the snow.