Growing Nostalgia

Often when I tell people I began my career teaching high school, I joke that I could never go back.

But the last time I made that proclamation, I questioned it the moment it left my lips. I love teaching college—of this I have no doubt—but was teaching high school really so bad?

This week, I spoke with my close friend and former colleague Allison. She was (and, I suppose, still is) my unofficial mentor, and I credit her for my survival in the career of education. She teaches Advanced Placement Language and Composition—and this year, she taught in eleventh grade the last Gifted and Talented students I taught in ninth grade.

Allison had just received the AP Exam scores, so she recounted how each of her (our) students performed. Two 5s, a handful of 4s, a bunch of 3s, and two 2s: a winning scorecard for that high school.

Upon hearing the news, I felt a swell of pride for my former students. I can imagine how much they've matured these past two years, and I remain curious about how they'll do their senior year and where they'll attend college. Time and distance have made me no less fond of those kids.

But it's not even specific to those students: I began recalling other interactions I had with students during my tenure as a high school teacher, and there are so many sweet memories. I haven't for a moment forgotten how difficult teaching high school was—the long hours, the discipline, the paperwork, the parents, the bullshit—but somehow time has caused those memories to fade while the better ones have remained in focus.

So could I go back? Someday, maybe. But right now, I think I'll enjoy my role as a lecturer. I need more time for my nostalgia to grow.

The Scourge of Fiction

Not long ago, a friend admitted to me that he wished he read more. "I start books," he said, "but they just don't hold my attention." I offered to recommend a few good novels. "Oh, I have no problem reading fiction. It's nonfiction I can't get into."

I understand his sentiment—I'm reading (slowly) my third consecutive work of nonfiction, a triumph for me—but I'm not sure why reading fiction is considered less respectable than reading nonfiction. (Or why even I should consider reading nonfiction a triumph.)

Perhaps the stigma associated with fiction is because it's fabricated. The school librarian where I used to teach reminded the students that "fiction" means "fake." But is it fake? We can still learn from fiction because it presents universal truths. In fact, fiction can only be successful if it's grounded in truth—we, as readers, are capable of suspending a great deal of disbelief if we still have a semblance of reality to grasp.

More than retelling facts—what "really" happened—a skilled author will capture the essence of a theme, a culture, an icon. I've learned much more from literature than from American history class, courtesy of John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Harper Lee. In fact, my understanding of a spectrum of topics is directly because of my having read widely.

But Lennie and Gatsby and Boo Radley are no less real because they never existed. They are the portraits of their time and culture, not told by a man, but by a generation. As Ken Kesey wrote in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, "But it's the truth even if it didn't happen."

Under a cloak of anonymity

I'm amazed by what students will write on an anonymous course evaluation. My favorite this term:

Q: Any comments on the professor: teaching style, availability, knowledge of material, conduct of classes?

A: Bomb-ass teacher who knows her shit. And laid back but always helpful. Motivated me to come to class. Your style of teaching is good, and you obviously love what you do.

Q: Any other comments?

A: Keep looking good. Real talk. You're blazingly hot. It's a good thing.

...I wonder if he would have written that if he knew how easy it is to identify a student's handwriting in a class of ten.