What Teachers Make April 9, 2009

(I’ve put a link to the original poem and the email version I discuss in the analysis. Please read them before)

In Taylor Mali’s popular poem, “What Teachers Make, or Objection Overruled, or If things don’t work out, you can always go back to law school,” he stands up for teachers in a lively, no-nonsense sort of way. It’s humorous, original, meaningful. No wonder a copy was made. Too bad it’s ridiculous. The version injected into cyberspace, boringly labeled “What Teachers Make,” completely manhandles the original, mauling the casual humor and wry wit Mali was so good at. The copy—really, a mess of a revision—is sentimental and dull, lacking the vivacious spirit that made the original so powerful. The anonymous author tried to dumb it down for the masses, but, in the decimating act, they took the very soul away. Now we’re forced to examine the two, desperately trying to wipe the nonsensical copy from everyone’s memory and instead give the original its due worth in praise.

Taylor Mali’s long-titled piece stays true to itself, beginning to end, keeping us entertained as well as informed. His banter reigns, his sarcasm drips. Even the title serves as a wise-crack to all who doubt a teacher’s power. The first-person point of view makes it real and believable. We’re sitting at the dinner table getting the rant of the century from a rattled teacher. “You want to know what I make?” he asks, preparing us for his “honesty and ass-kicking.” Then he dives right in, heartlessly. Mali refrains from quotations, allowing his words to jumble together without the interruption of quote-end-quote. Instead, the words and phrases twist together, leaving the reader to untangle who exactly he’s talking to. His detail isn’t in imagery but in honesty. When he describes what she “makes,” we understand. Because we’ve been there. We’ve had the teacher who knows just why we want to get a drink of water—“You’re not thirsty, you’re bored.”—or who can make us feel like horrible human beings—“How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.” We get it. We see it. Mali brings life to generic memories and we take them, making them personal. The detail is only intricate because we can remember what teachers have made of us. It’s not at all sentimental, only honest. More dry than emotional; sarcastic more than sappy. The humor of the piece is not in jokes but in his “let you have it” policy. “You want to know what I make?” he asks again, without sounding like a broken record. It emphasizes just how much he does make. It rubs it in “his” face that he is on a roll and knows exactly what he is worth. Mali doesn’t back down, but rather gears up. His poetry isn’t about rhyme schemes or pretty stories. The breaks and rhythm only help move the piece forward, riddled with meaning and purpose. Not a stop, drop or pause is in place that wasn’t planned. It flows because of the sudden breaks and jumpy rhythm. It is, after all, “definitely/beautiful.” In the end, we understand why Mali was so involved. The “what about you?” at the end is for us. More a challenge than an accusation. We understand exactly what it is he teaches and pick up the lesson for ourselves: “If you got [brains] then you follow [your heart] and if someone ever tries to judge you by what you make, you give them [the finger].” Simple as that.

The cliché-ridden copy falls flat in comparison. It’s in a whole other league. And not in a good way. Where Mali’s had heart, this version is inane; where Mali’s relied on character, this nonsense desperately clings to sentimentality. This is “family friendly” to the extreme, cutting the curse words and Mali’s no-nonsense approach to teaching, therefore destroying the character we had in the original. The revision shoves ideals, hopes, and dreams down our throats, begging us to choke on our tears and cheer for this selfless teacher named Bonnie. Who is Bonnie? Good question. She comes off timid and unsure. “You want to know what I make?” she stutters, saying it again and again as if she’s trying to figure it out herself, pausing and blushing, racking her brain for something important to say to the ever-imposing “CEO” that just happens to be “discussing life” with the dinner guests. It’s only after droning on and on about random, unconnected nonsense that Bonnie remembers something she must have read in When In Doubt, Say You’re Making a Difference: The Golden Feel-Good Answer For Anyone. “I MAKE A DIFFERENCE.” She cries out, finally finished. It seems even the anonymous author knew how silly it sounded, so they capitalized the entire phrase. More impressive that way. No, Bonnie is just one, hypocritical mess. She’s introduced as having a “reputation for honesty and frankness” but seems frightened to live up to it. Never does one phrase seem powerful or heartfelt. It’s forced and unimportant; nothing more than a list. When the author took the first-person away, relying instead upon third-person point of view, we lost the reality of the character. Bonnie is just a teacher at dinner protesting her own importance all while struggling with her own self-esteem. In the end she begins to whine, obviously threatened and frightened by her own measly existence: “When people try to judge me…I can hold my head up high and pay no attention because they are ignorant.” You tell ‘em, Bonnie! The entire piece is as much a mess as the struggling main character. Half the poem is prose and the whole thing is devoid of any rhythm or structure. It’s almost as if halfway through the author decided it needed to look more like a poem and so threw in some random breaks and pauses, still littering every line with meaningless filler and frilly feelings. The whole poem is a mouthful with little detail or imagery to make up for it. And Mali, it seems, wasn’t patriotic enough to be a teacher, because this version injects their sentimental bit about cultural diversity and the Pledge of Allegiance “because we live in the United States of America.” Thanks for the reminder. The author managed to keep a few of the “I make” statements from the original. But it does little-to-no good because it has lost its context and power of the character. Now it’s just words. Mali’s original poem is desecrated in this rendition, diluted to nothing more than a vague, shattered shadow. It lost it’s magic when it lost Mali. There’s no character; no driver. It’s just a simple, skeletal, empty, worthless mess.

The two poems are so very different, it does Mali’s poem injustice to hold them together. Where one is an honest confession, the other is a droning storybook. While one has heart because of character, the other beats the heart into it. Mali’s is real poetry, but most of the world doesn’t care, happy instead with the sappy rendition your best friend’s hairdresser’s mailman’s dog sent you in a forward. Click. One massacred, almost-plagiaristic poem coming right up. In the words of Mali, there’s a huge “goddamn difference” between the two, and if I get the revised version in an email, I may have to do some serious “ass-kicking” because it’s such an eyesore to the poetic community.

Good Morning, Sunshine – prt. 4 April 4, 2008

That first week was strange. I don’t know how to explain it. It was like I finally realized I was really stuck here. I finally caught on to the fact that daddy would never come save me. He wasn’t coming back–all he had left me was a fortune I couldn’t use and a sentence to this suburbia prison. And that in itself was weird.

Every morning I’d wake up to the sound of Cadence humming show tunes or spanish love songs and I’d think “That’s my mom.” And every day I had to get out of bed and get ready to go to school. A public school. Where the hottest topic was the next school dance and who you wanted to take. In New York, my school didn’t have dances. but that was because we didn’t need them. We threw our own parties. And whoever put on the most lavish was queen or king of the school–at least till the next one. You needed to stand out. You needed to catch the whole cities attention. i’d been to parties where multiple bands came to preform–from big names to struggling rockers from across the world. There were masquerades, semi-formals, bar hopping–everything. One time, there was a runway set up through the room with a constant flow of professional models showcasing real designers. but that wasn’t even the main event. The girl’s party favors were a free designer item–of our choice. From gowns, to perfumes, whoever got back first, got the best pick. Right off the model and tailored right there if neccessary. And the models would still go on out; their cover dwindling as eager hands delved for something. The guys didn’t mind that part. I’d been to parties where we could dance by actors, actresses, musicians–famous people. So hearing about the next $15 dollar dance wasn’t all that exciting. But it was in Florida. Girls talked and talked about the gowns they were getting–the cinderella catastrophe’s of tulle and cheap satin all spewing out like a giant fairy-tale. I didn’t share my opinion on those.

Then there were the girls. Who all seemed oddly friendly–mot of them for real, too. It was like I’d stepped into teenage stepford–everyone was perfect. Well, no. They had their flaws–like make-p and clothing items. And nosiness-every day someone would be up in my face asking where I got my outfit. But they were all sweet; at least the one’s Annie introduced me too. I could see wannabe hints of my old friends in some of the people around the school. There were the bimbo’s and then the too-cool-for-you. I was used to those; it was the niceness that threw me off.

And every day I’d come home and cadence would wonder how my day had been–she was always there. I don;t think she ever stepped out of that house. I don’t know what she did in it. Definitely not cleaning. It was never clean. But she was always there, and she’d always listen–well, be willing to at least. I never really gave her the chance–as if were the closest of mother-daughter. And dinner, though it wasn’t always happy and perfect, it was always happening. Like clockwork. We’d be summoned to the table where cadence would offer a quick grace and then we’d dig in. Even if Annie and her got in fights–which actually happeend a few times–there was always dinner. And by the end of it, they were all smiles.

Annie was never intrusive. She was actually the least curious of anyone I’d met in Florida. She would compliment my clothes, but would never ask where I got them or–worse–if she could try them on. And she didn’t ask about my dad. Neither did Cadence. In fact, I don’t think I ever heard them mention it.

But the strangest of all? I was getting comfortable with it. I didn’t cringe when I got on the bus. Well, not as much. I actually learned to smile at people. But it was hard to smile when Jenny was near. She wouldn’t leave me alone. That was annoying. And a lot of the guys started talking to me. That was uncomfortable. Cuz they thought they were all that and could easily get me to drool all over them. But I wasn’t tempted–half of them were hard to look at.

Anyway, I started to find it normal to come home to Cadence’s warm smile. I found it normal to see the different sorts of clicks hanging out in different, dirty halls. I was getting used to the constant silly chatter that didn’t interest me at all. Homework wasn’t an issue–I knew everything. That left me with nothing to do but read, talk to Cadence or Annie or text girls who now considered me a friend. I didn’t care as much about my fashion magazines–though I always bought the newest ones. And I didn’t care when my NY friends sent me their newest purchase. And I started to find I was…moving on. I was starting to not miss my dad. Hardly two weeks had gone by since he died and I was already moving on! I craved starbucks more than I craved my dad. And, surprisingly or not, that made me feel awful. Well, its not like I was suddenly free or just forgetting him. It was just I’d gone my whole life without him constantly there–saturday was the one constant–and so, now that he wasn’t, I didn’t really know what to miss. And when I called Melanie, it wasn’t as easy as I thought to make jokes about where I was. When she brought up Cadence or where I was, I’d try and move around it. Because something in me didn’t want to talk bad about them. I craved my Manhattan–I even cried when we watched You’ve Got Mail on night. Cadence and Annie cried to, but for different reasons. But that didn’t mean I could hate on these people; even when Melanie told me she missed me so much. Her calls didn’t last over five minutes though–she always had to take another or get to a meeting or something. And through the days of structured comfort, I realized if I had been able to stay with melanie, I would have been alone. As usual. But I couldn’t figure out if I liked that idea.

Yet, even though I started to get comfortable, I still remained troubled by where I was. I wasn’t used to the snowless ground or the warm air. I couldn’t wrap my head around the smallness of everything and yet the hugeness of other things. The school was huge; sprawled across the land like a prison. In New York everything was tall; I’d never seen a school like that. And the endless streets of houses with parked mini-vans and screaming babies were huge. But the crowds and traffic were nothing; the shopping and food choices were worse. It was very…quiet. And, in that first week only two things really happened that are worth mentioning. Besides those, life was simple. Loud, yes. But in a simple, average sort of way. There were these mom-daughter fights that I’d never seen before. Mostly because most of my friends from manhattan didn’t know their mom let alone talk to them enough to get mad at them. And it all seemed movie-life perfect in suburbia. Well, not perfect. Normal. Kids played on the street and dads mowed lawns. People would walk just to walk and parents would go grocery shopping. I’d never seen that side of life before and it was…wierd.

The day after the first day of school, Cadence had to pick Annie up to take her directly to her piano lessons and I gladly took a ride with them–so much better than the bus. But it turns out, in suburbia, when you drop a kid off somewhere you don’t go home until that kid is in the car again. So we were running errands for, like, ten minutes before she headed back to get her. The piano lessons had been in this “downtown” so there was a bit of traffic. It stressed cadence out, but I thought it was steady enough to be better than bad. She asked me how I could stand New York traffic. I smiled politely. I don’t do small talk. But I told her you got used to it and that this wasn’t even bad. That led her down memory lane and she started telling me about her life in New York.

I’d never ever known anything about my mom, so this was interesting, though slightly awkward. Mostly because it included my dad. She told me how they’d met at the Columbia and fallen in love. They both been affluent yet she always wanted more than just money–she wanted love and family. When her parents died and she didn’t shed a tear, that strengthened her want. So she was happy to find out she was with child. This is where it got really awkward. Cuz, hello, she was saying how she loved me and then up and left like three months later. She didn’t seem to recognize my tenseness, she just went on as if she was enjoying it. And I listened. She said it was weird when she found out–not for her, but for my dad. he went all psycho saying he wasn’t ready to raise a kid and how his business was taking control of his life. When Cadence mentioned moving out of the city, things started getting stressed. That’s when she started to think maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea; having me. But she still did and that started to drive them apart. Especially with dad’s new position in the company. And after she had me, things were just totally down the drain. She looked at me and said that she wished she could blame it all on my dad, but she new she couldn’t. They both had given up trying. And when “Mr. Affair”, as she called him, came into the picture, life just flipped. She turned from the one thing she wanted and ran to the side she’d been hiding from just to not feel the pain and worry. That’s when she left. She couldn’t look at me when she told me. And I could feel hot tears running down my cheek, but I didn’t try and wipe them away. i just watched her. I watched and I wondered why she would just abandon me. Especially if Dad really didn’t want me. She said she couldn’t explain it; she said a day never went by where she didn’t feel guilty. She said her life had been ruined since she had–not that Annie was a problem, just that none of her dreams could work out. She told me she had this fear of commitment–she had failed a child, how could she keep a relationship? and that that had really ruined her second marriage to the lawyer. She said when she had found out about dad she just sat on her bed and cried. And then she called me and after that she just cried and cried. That’s when I asked her if she’d just taken me in to ease her guilt. She sort of started, rushing to say no. I don’t know if I believe her. I wanted to.

She went on and said that she had felt a sort of obligation, but that really it just came down to wanting to know the girl she had started out loving so much. She wanted to have another chance at caring for the one thing she had wanted in the first place. Then she told me I looked so much like my dad. That’s when I wiped my tears. I didn’t want to talk about him–that just made it real and scary. Just living as if nothing had happened except I moved was easier than really admitting he was super gone–not just out of town or something. Cadence seemed to get that, cuz she didn’t mention his death or anything. She just smiled at me and then turned back to the traffic, falling on her horn like a madwoman. I never knew a mood could change so quickly. It was still awkward, but she seemed to have move on and it was just me left with my thoughts. I never knew I could think so much. usually I was just doing something or planning something or ignoring everything. i never really let my thoughts run. But I did here. Maybe that’s just a side affect of the laid-backness of suburbia life. There’s no rush of the city hurrying you on. Its just you and there’s no point in ignoring it. I remember Cadence told me later that she never knew a teen could not text or be off the phone constantly; it seemed so abnormal for a teen now. She said it as a joke, but I guess it’s true. I didn’t really do anything like I used to. Well, I still loved my Chanel and Prada, but I was a lot more…calm. I don’t know if that’s the right word. I still had major attitude, but it was like I didn’t have anyone to unleash it on so I was quiet and just watching. I was learning to sort of breathe–which was actually a lot more bearable to do in Florida than it had ever been in New York City.

Then there was English. The teacher, who I decided was a witch who needed to learn how to apply make-up, assigned these impossibly boring, busy-work group projects on a friday. And I ended up with Todd and this guy named Jason. It was surprisingly bearable that first day. Mostly because Jason took over. In fact, the only thing Todd had time to say was, “Brooke–totally my next guess.” I just rolled my eyes and let Jason take charge. he was a nioce looking guy with hazelnut eyes and dark hair to match. He even had the superman chin and glasses that made him so preppy. he was smart too. Which was refreshing cuz I was starting to discover a lot of stupid people filled the school. But he smiled and introduced himself, said he had heard about me. I just rolled my eyes as Todd found it funny to mention my attitude. His exact words, I think, were, “Careful–she bites.” and Jason responded with a laugh, whispering un-quietly that “Todd has an ego that constantly needs feeding.” That’s when I found out the guys were twins! Twins! I know, right? Totally not identical, but they were twins. Weird. And we had to work together. Mostly the hours was spent with the two cracking jokes at each other. Which should have been weird, but it was actually pretty funny. i smiled, though the look I got from Todd when I did such was slightly annoying and I wanted to slap him. But I didn’t. I just went on and eventually we got each other’s numbers to actually do the project later. Jason just apologized about his brother’s unruliness with a wink. I just smiled and waved a quick goodbye, not sure how I felt about the whole thing at all.

That friday night was spent watching You’ve Got Mail with Annie and Cadence cuz Annie hadn’t finished her chores so she couldn’t have friends over. So suburbia. And I ended up going to bed at midnight. A first for me–New York nights had always been crazy. But I was tired and it had been a weird week. Everything was weird. So I went to bed. And, ya know, I was actually growing used to those itchy sheets.

Cinquain March 6, 2008

Jumpy,
on the great edge,
nerves tickling the spine
and you drop, drop–
freefall.

-*-

Kisses.
different kind
of sweet, with tastes of plums
and lollipops
combined.

-*-

Pennies
Tarnished, forgot
In the constant downpour,
The luck lost as the shine is wiped
Away.

-*-