To an Athlete Dying Young, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Tuesday, May 20: "Smart lad, to slip betimes away/From fields where glory does not stay. . . Now you will not swell the rout/Of lads that wore their honors out..."
In these last weeks of school, where none of them are paying much attention anyway, I, at least, have been enjoying "To An Athlete Dying Young." There are so many examples of "runners (or actors, politicians, writers, artists, musicians) whom renown outran/and the name died before the man (woman)." Who remembers that the old withered person in the nursing home was once the Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt of their day, but has long been forgotten?
According to Housman, a person who dies young at the peak of fame, will be forever remembered as the fresh, youthful star full of promise who was cut off in his/her prime. His poem suggests that it's better to quit while you're ahead and die young. Naturally, who doesn't think of Princess Diana or the Kennedy's in this context? In a Dorian Grayish sort of way, the portraits of Jack or Bobby look younger every year to the aging people who still remember them.
The books about them just won't seem to quit, as if there's anything new to be said after all these years. Yet someone must be perpetually interested; books about "dead athletes" like the Kennedys are always best-sellers. Dead athletes become heroes who are forever frozen in time and hold a renowned place in the public's mind and curiosity, just as Housman said.

A few years ago, I read an interesting article in the SMN, in which a World War II veteran recalled a near-death experience during the war: he had evacuated a crashing plane, but his parachute didn't open. He soared down through the sky, knowing that this was it; he was going to die, but somehow at the last minute before he hit the ground, something absorbed his fall, I don't remember exactly, he might have landed in a haystack (just like in some corny cartoon) or in a tree, or something, but he'd lived to tell about it. The event had been forty-some years earlier. Now, the article mentioned as an afterthought, the man was currently dying of lung cancer. This story powerfully emphasized how he had lived against all odds during WWII, only to die of cancer now. Although this seems so banally obvious, this entertaining story, somehow, sent the message in a vivid and memorable way: he lived, only to die. But now he would die as an old man, probably forgotten as the brave war hero he once was, other than the occasional Veteran's Day interview in the local paper.

Ted Kennedy, the only Kennedy brother of four to reach old age, had some close calls during his youth: a plane crash and the accident at Chappaquidick. Unlike the other three brothers, who died young and violently without fulfilling their promise, Ted has served the country for 46 years. By having stayed alive long enough, his failings, all the warts and flaws, have become much more public than any secrets of the other martyred brothers and the handsome late nephew. Would Jack or Bobby or JFK Jr. have eventually divorced, had they lived? Would they have been caught having affairs? Would any alcoholic problems have been revealed?

Yet, contrary to what Housman would have predicted, Ted has not faded into oblivion; at 76, he is still renowned by an adoring public. Since the brain tumor diagnosis, he has received immeasurable outpourings of concern from far and wide.
Along with "Athlete", I like to teach Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" because the two are such a good contrasting pair. Today in class, I played an audio of "Do Not Go Gentle" and asked the students to compare the messages of the two poems---not that the students were all that interested, but I enjoyed it. Thomas' message suggests that every moment of a person's time alive, yes even right into old age, is important and should be held onto. "Old age should burn and rave at the close of day;/Rage, rage against the dying of the light." This poem's attitude is a better fit for the last Kennedy than Housman's.

Daytona Beach

Monday, May 19: Yesterday morning, as I went outside early to drink coffee by the koi pond, the sky was different. Maybe it had rained, maybe it was going to rain, but the particular shade of pearl gray triggered a flashback of those beautiful sunrise walks at Daytona Beach during the annual AP readings. I don't attend those readings anymore. Now that the College Board has gone on-line, I prefer to do the SAT gradings from the house, so I don't have to be away from the family for a week. But do have incredible memories of those weeks in Daytona, of the private beaches by the ocean, the collegiality and fun, and the professional development.

I had a memorable experience during my first Daytona reading sometime in the '90's...I had already attended one San Antonio AP reading and had flown back with a stray cat who looked just like our Gus, which is another story for another time. But then the College Board moved the AP reading to Daytona to whet the appetites of landlocked teachers across the country. Since College Board obviously has funds to burn, they flew readers from around the country and even some from international sites to the readings, so I had no objection to flying down to Daytona that first year in June. They flew me into Orlando and then bussed a group of us over to Daytona. By the time I crawled off the bus, registered at the hotel, and fell into bed, I had taken little notice of my surroundings. All I wanted was a nice clean bed! When I awoke the next morning, I went to the window, wondering if the hotel overlooked a parking lot or mall, snapped the curtains open and stood, dumbfounded, as I saw the most breath-taking sight! It was like an oil painting, so bright and perfect. Before me was the ocean splashing onto a clean white beach, and in the distance, the rising sun, just cresting over the horizon, was sending streaks of pink and orange color across the pearl sky. No buildings, no power lines, no cars---just the sea. Eagerly, I dressed and went down to the beach. Never before had I felt such a strong feeling for the ocean. Times in my life that I'd been to beaches, they were always crowded with people and noise, and I'd never felt much of a connection. But this time, at first light, the beach was deserted, aside from a few other AP readers, and the only sound was the roar of the waves splashing in. I was transfixed as I strolled up and down the shore smelling the salt breeze and watching the colors unfurl across the sky. The sky seemed higher and wider than ordinary skies. The cloud formations looked as though they were painted on. I was in awe.
Each morning for the rest of that grading week, I set the alarm for 5:45 and made it to the beach as the light was dawning. This became a very important ritual for me, not only that week, but every year that I returned to Daytona. One year, I brought P. and L. with me; other years, colleagues from GSU came to that particular reading. Phyllis and other GSU colleagues were there during years when they were assigned to Language AP instead of Literature AP. Patti Swartz was always there. After getting to know people who would return each year, I felt as though I was attending a reunion, as people became more familiar. One year, my sister flew down to meet me and stay for a few nights. We had dinner with David, who was also there that year, as a matter of fact. When I told her a year ago about his death, she knew who he was because of that one dinner, and that same night she learned of his death(she told me), he appeared to her in a dream and told her about a certain poem that I should read.

The College Board always provided lots of nighttime entertainment, such as dances, poetry readings, dinners, and the like. These offerings, combined with the restaurants and tourist traps on the beach side of the Daytona strip, made us all feel so spoiled during that week. They have a bungee jumping set-up near the peer, and it was fun to stand around with the crowd at night, ocean splashing in the background, and watch the daredevil teenagers leap from the high platform and bounce, screaming bloody murder, up and down. I asked my sister jokingly, "Would you do that for $50,000?" and she replied, "I'd do it for $5,000!" One year, Phyllis and took a much milder ride. It was a ski-lift type of device that carried its passengers out from the beach onto the ocean, then swirled around and came back.

Oh, yes, and there was the grading too. The 300 or 400 graders were divided into three groups, based on which of the three AP essay questions they'd be grading. Each sub-group occupied a different gymn-sized room in the convention center. Then, everyone doing the same question was assigned to a certain table. Each table of graders became like a family as the days went on. After the initial lengthy calibration on the first day, we'd spend the rest of the week sitting at our assigned table, replete with bowls of candy and other goodies, and reading pile after pile after pile of AP essays and grade them, based on the rubric. The Table Leader would check everyone's accuracy and move around the table telling everyone if any papers were too low or two high. After a stack was finished, a runner would pick them up and hand you a new stack. The Question Leader, the person in charge of the whole room, would announce stretch breaks every hour. In addition, we had official morning and afternoon breaks which involved feasts in the hallways. At lunchtime, we were herded to a dining room for even more luscious food.

It was not easy grading in that assembly line fashion. Even with all the breaks, it became tiring to read all day. I also found it distracting to my concentration to be in a room with hundreds of other people. When two people at the table would start talking or decide to read some portion of a students' paper to everyone else (which I also thought was unprofessional, to joke at the students' expense), I'd have to start re-reading from the beginning again. After I retired Georgia Southern and started in the secondary system, I suddenly lost my urge to go to Daytona. Maybe it was because for the first time, I had a job that paid through the summer and I felt I now had the luxury of choosing family over professional life, or maybe because the school system has sucked all the energy out of me and I had/have none left for traveling 500 miles to work all week, beach not withstanding. Just about the same time I left GSU, the College Board went on-line with the SAT's, and when I tried that, I found it to be one hundred percent easier to concentrate. I am much faster and more accurate while grading SAT's in my own house.

The last time I went to the Daytona reading, June of 2004 I think, L's two sisters, the one who lives in Florida, and the other who was visiting from Venezuela, picked me up on the last day and drove me back to Savannah. On the last morning of the reading, I convinced them to get up early with me and walk the beach at sunrise. I remember standing at the water's edge posing with the two of them as the sun rose in the background and some nice passerby took a photo with G's camera. I can hear the waves and smell the saltwater now!

Friday night adrenaline rush

Saturday, May 17: No Country for Old Men kept me awake, very awake, for the entire viewing evening last night! What a goose-bump raising thriller it was. The antagonist, pictured above, was so chilling and creepy, that my pounding heart and startle reflex got a good work-out. Imagine that, I did not nod off once during this one.

I love it when I awaken during the night, briefly wonder how many hours are left till the 5:20 alarm, and then realize that it's sometime after midnight on Saturday morning! There won't be any alarm! Then I fall into sweet oblivion quite rapidly. This morning, I slept till 8:00. L. and I drank coffee and read the newspaper. I graded SAT's off and on. They have a system now which allows you to log on and off as you prefer, rather than work for set hours. I also worked on the house clutter, which will probably never be conquered, P. mowed the front lawn, and L. did a few laundries (but why, oh why, does he keep over-filling the washing machine?)

Later, in the afternoon, he and I drove to Lenscrafters to get the bows of my glasses tightened, and on the way home, we stopped at Lowe's to get some kind of number display thingie to go on top of the new mailbox, a certain type which our Neighborhood Association has required that everyone put up by June. Just as well, since ours is inching forward towards the road. While there, we discovered some floor laminate that was on sale at a wonderful price. We planned to do P's room next, and although this might have been bordering on impulsive, I suggested that we just buy the wood right then and there. My philosophy is that if something's on sale, and you're right there, right now, and you're planning to get it anyway, why not just do it? Otherwise, the next time you come back, it will be gone, or the price will have gone up. So we loaded the 200 square feet of floor planks into the car, and got it home. But the first not-so-pleasant task, in preparation for the new floor, will be to clear everything out of P's room, which is more or less like a junkyard or a landfill.

Time to go watch tonight's feature, Stephen Kings, The Mist!

19 day countdown

Thursday, May 15: Well, 19 school days,not counting tomorrow, which is a half day. I had a lovely Mother's Day---was acknowledged by all three sons! L., P. and I went to IHOP for breakfast, then over to the mall to clothes-shop. I bought a couple of skirts and tops, and both L. and P. got some pants and shirts. As I was trying on a blouse in the dressing room, my cell phone rang, and it was S., in Arizona. He loves to talk, so I finished trying on the blouse, got dressed again, bought the items at the check-out, met L. and P. at the car, all with the cell phone pressed to my ear the whole time (I must get a Bluetooth!), then listened all the way home, and then sat on the front porch inhaling the fresh honeysuckle as S. continued for another half hour. D. called later, on the run as always, but managed to say a few words before he had to hang up due merging into the traffic. He and the family were on their way somewhere. We won't be going up there for Memorial Day this year because it falls on the day after my daughter-in-law's birthday on the 25th, rather than closer to grandson's birthday on the 31st. Apparently, they've got big plans for E's birthday, involving a trip somewhere, so it wouldn't be a good time to go. The weekend after Memorial Day weekend, which is N's 7th birthday, I don't have an extra holiday, and will still be in school, so that's not a good time.

As I was saying, there are 4 weeks left in the school year. And guess what? The word is out that the Supt. came to his senses and is probably going to go back to the previous 4/4 schedule next year!! Probably---it's not official---but the guidance counselors have let it leak that they've been given "the yellow light" to start scheduling students for a 4/4, four courses in the fall and four courses in the spring, rather than 8 at once, which was insane. For me, that means teaching a three-course load in the fall, rather than 6 at once!! You have no idea how awful that 6 course load has been for the past year. I think it's especially brutal on English teachers as opposed to, say, the math teachers. But I know all the teachers have suffered, and many have voted with their feet against the whole system.

Last week, I witnessed a teacher having what appeared to be a nervous breakdown right in class. The teacher's room is across the hall from mine. Several students had gone next door to the room of that guy who got fired a few months ago, to his replacement teacher, to tell her that Miss G. was sick, so I went across the hall too. Miss G. was sitting at her desk, sobbing, while the students sat at their desks, unsure what to do. Tears were streaming down her face. She said, "I feel so dizzy." Then she shook and cried harder. The other teacher and I phoned the front office, who sent one of the AP's, along with a floating substitute, and the school nurse. The odd thing, or maybe not so odd, is that Miss G. normally seems so mellow and in control. But who knows what's going on inside? I'd heard that her father had died about a week ago. I remember the months and years after my dad died, I didn't feel quite right for awhile, physically, as though my body was in mourning too. She seemed to recover and was back at work the next day. Maybe that was the root of Miss G's breakdown.

When I got home from work this afternoon, L's car was already in the driveway at 4:45, so I knew he must not feel well. Stretched out on the bed, he told me his muscles ache. He works long hours, as I do, but he feels it more because he doesn't ever sleep well, even with his breathing mask. He's just not a sleeper, just like my sister, who hasn't slept well in years. I'm very lucky that I sleep excellently almost all the time. Speaking of my sister, tomorrow is her 58th birthday. We talked on Mother's Day. She recently got a year-long contract job which she says doesn't pay enough and has no benefits, but it will last for a full year. The other contract jobs she's gotten are shorter and can end any time; the workers never know. But they pay more. Thus, she's struggling with whether to keep the safe job or take a chance with another contract job.

I've been grading SAT's this week, and had better get back to them. It's always fascinating to see what teenagers are capable of. Some of their essays blow me away. I like the topic for this reading: something like, "Is it beneficial to avoid technology or do the benefits outweigh the drawbacks?"

Oh, and another bit of good news: my apple tree in the backyard has, for the first time, sprouted green berries that look like they'll grow into apples. This will be the first harvest of apples from My Own Homegrown Tree!

Mid-week

Wednesday, May 7: Headline of this morning's paper: "Groves Student Shot in School Parking Lot." I missed this event by just moments yesterday afternoon. I'd stayed in the classroom until about 4:00, sorting papers, printing papers,stacking papers. . . A required PTA meeting was scheduled for that night, Tuesday, so I dragged myself away from the mountains of papers, and walked out the back door of the school into the parking lot. As I got into the car, I noticed about 20 young men standing in a tight-knick pack around one lone car in the student parking lot. This looked unusual since all students and their cars are usually gone at this time. I thought it might be the school basketball team hanging around. I'd walked by a couple guys wearing sporty shorts and carrying a basketball. I drove home, graded another qualifying set for the SAT's and got ready to go back to the school for the PTA. I missed watching the local news. At the opening of the PTA meeting, the Principal announced that there had been "an unfortunate event" in the parking lot this afternoon...an hour and a half after school's dismissal, she emphasized to parents, lest they might worry about the safety of their children. "And the media is probably going to exaggerate it," she said. "One guy was only grazed in the foot by the bullet, so let's hope it's not blown out of proportion. Students from another school had apparently entered the parking lot and argued with students from our school. Then the fight began. It's being investigated."

Yes, just because five or six shots were fired from a gun and a boy only got hit in the foot...no biggie. The rest of the student population had already been safely transported off campus at 2:30 p.m., and the incident was at 4:00. Ahem! Pardon me, but what about the teachers? Many of them stay after for hours catching up with work. Oh, that's right, they're expendable, as evidenced by the ever-growing vacancy list on the district "career opportunities" website. She added that the automatic phone system had phoned reassurance to all the households in the county. L. got the call at home, while I was out at the meeting.

Today I had occasion to phone the former principal of the school. He retired very suddenly at the end of last year. Some say he was retired not that he retired himself. Then they replaced him with the new regime. Last fall, during a yearbook class discussion, we decided to dedicate the 2008 yearbook to him. It must have been last October that I phoned him to tell him about the dedication and ask his permission. He was delighted. Then, soon after, the yearbook publisher's rep, always snarly and crabby on visits, learned that the former principal would receive the dedication and snapped, "No! You can't do that. It's just not done. It's disrespectful to the new principal if you dedicate a yearbook to the former one. Nope, can't do it!"

So the student yearbook editor, who has always been a "my way or the highway" kind of personality, made the unilateral decision to dedicate the book to a certain teacher SHE wanted, even though the yearbook students had spent time voting for teachers of their choice and then we had a run-off. But the editor dismissed the voted-on teacher, declaring that nobody had consulted HER when we had to the vote (she was sitting right there in class). Long story short, she just made up the pages with her own favorite teacher. At that point, I was just so weary of it all, I decided to let it go and just be thankful to get the pages in. The matter slipped out of my mind, until recently.

The school secretary said she had run into the former principal, and he still thought the yearbook was being dedicated to him. Thus, my phone call, to set it straight. He was very sweet about it and assured me he had moved on to a wonderful new stage in life, retirement. Then he added, "Don't worry about it. The yearbook is the least of your worries." He meant, I assume, the generic "you," referring to the entire staff at the school. He knows what's going on there. He added, "I knew it would be a tough year for everyone with Ms. X (the new principal) coming in. The reason I retired was because I refused to do to my staff what she's doing now." I was happy to hear that her agenda was not my imagination. He said, "She came in with the intention of getting rid of staff and bringing in new people because I refused."

I think his comment about the yearbook being the least of "our" (my?) worries refers to the fallen test scores, the school's failure once again to meet AYP,and the recent shooting. Also the possibility they'll close the school and make everyone re-apply, just for the public drama of it. Right now, though, I'm not even thinking about the possibilities of what might happen next year, I'm just counting the moments until summer.

Fifth to the Last Monday, not counting Memorial Day

May 5: At least it's much lighter now, as I drag myself out of bed at 5:00 or 5:15---or even 5:30 on days when I think I can get away without shampooing and styling my hair. The radio-alarm is painful on Mondays, after I've been spoiled with lots of sleep on weekends. But with the recession growing stronger, at least I think it is despite governmental denials, I do remind myself that I'm fortunate to have a job. Many aren't so lucky.

On Sunday, L. and I went to Home Depot to get a larger slab of wood to repair the floor casing in P's bathroom. He had the whole project finished by the end of the afternoon, the genius! I admire people who can do tasks like that. While at Home Depot, lingering in the lighting section, we heard a loud moan and the cry of "Oh, Jesus!" and sobbing, coming from around the corner. Then an African-American woman, wearing the orange H-D apron, came in view, crying and saying something about, "Oh, my children!" as another be-aproned employee followed after her. The second woman pressed the security buttons on a see-through glass door and the two then disappeared. L. and I speculated that maybe she had just found out that she'd been laid off. Home Depot has recently closed a lot of stores and laid off hundreds of employees. The store seemed eerily empty that afternoon, suggesting that business was slow. My heart went out to her. I think of the hundreds of thousands of people who have been laid off across the country, I vow to stop griping about my own job problems. Of course, that doesn't last long, does it?

The students are now giving their "All About Me" powerpoints, and some of the details of their lives are heartbreaking, to me. A girl whose brother was shot dead. A girl whose twin died. A boy whose best friend is in jail with a 20-year sentence for armed robbery, (and with the get-tough Georgia laws for juveniles, will probably not see the light of day until he's middle-aged.) A boy whose mother lost custody of him when he was a toddler, so he was sent to live with his grandmother. Girls who just recently met their fathers for the first time. One guy went all out, and did a film of himself in his neighborhood talking with his homies. The guy, "M" is stereotypical in his dreadlocks, grillz, pants around his knees, held up by one hand.

The following story wasn't in any powerpoint, but happened about two weeks ago: one of the girls in my journalism class, who lives in the apartments behind the school, was followed home one afternoon by two teenage guys, who broke in, beat her, tried to choke her and rape her. They didn't succeed in raping her. The devastating part of the ordeal was that these idiots, who apparently were overgrown middle school students from the nearby middle school, started bragging, and in no time, the word got around our school about what had happened. The girl was horribly upset, naturally, at having her business broadcast, but at least she learned the names of the guys. A few days later, the police picked them up, and they're now locked up.

Working at this school, as I've said right from the start, has given me an education I would never have otherwise gotten.

A Saturday in May

May 3: Saturday! This morning I sat outside to drink the first cup of coffee and read the newspaper. The honeysuckle bush that P. accidentally mowed down about two years ago has finally made a comeback, and is now in full blossom. There are still grapefruit- sized lemons dangling from the tree. The koi were up, lifting their beautiful fat heads out of the water to suck down the floating pellets I'd tossed.

So far, I've just done odds and ends. Early this morning, I scored another practice set of SAT essays, on line. The "live" grading begins May 8, but all scorers have to grade three sets of practice essays and three sets of qualifying essays first, to make sure we're in tune with the rubric and the essay topic. I went to the nail place for a new set. As I said, it's practically a requirement here in the South. Even the students start to make comments...."Oh, Dr. Agnew, you'd better get your nails done!" or "Oh! You got your nails done!" They wouldn't notice if I walked into the room naked or with three heads, but they always notice the nails. Actually, I do like the look of the acrylics (I usually get white tips)although I'd rather be spending my time doing other things. But I feel more polished, every pun intended, when the nails look good. I know, I know, it's not politically correct to give in to the superficial things, but where does one draw the line between the groomings that are part of being civilized and the groomings that are superficial? We all brush our teeth for health and fitting into society; we all comb our hair for the same reason. At what point does one step over the line into superficiality? I don't know.

After the nail place, I wanted to do some home improvements, especially on P.'s bathroom. L. bought a slab of wood about two months ago, with the intention of fixing some weak wood along the panel. The wood has been standing in the bathroom, propped up against the wall, ever since. He's been extremely busy for the past few months, not only with work but with studying for the P.E., which was two weeks ago. I asked him a week ago what preparation was needed for him to get started on fixing that wood panel(hint, hint). He said the wood had to be painted white first. So today, I searched the garage for white interior paint, and a brush and tray, and gloves, and took the wood to the back patio and painted on the first coat. I'll go back in a while to continue. Then I started working on razoring off the horrible-looking caulking along the bathtub wall above the bathtub. L. showed me how, and then went out to do yardwork in the front yard. You ask, why don't I go ahead and fix the wood panel in the bathroom after the paint dries? Because I don't know squat about any kind of construction. L., on the other hand, is very skilled with all those tasks. After all, he put in the new hardwood floors in the hallway and the t.v. room. It was a grueling task that took five times longer than "Flip That House" would have you believe, but he did an excellent job. He has an eye for detail on three dimensional things and a steady hand that I'll never have. That's why, after I've painted the wood, I'm going to press him to finish the task. He'll be able to do it quickly and very well.

Last Thursday, during the requisite "Professional Learning Communities" meeting that we have to attend every two weeks during our free period, the principal announced some possibly good news: next week, all the high school principals are giving a presentation to the School Board and Supt. arguing why we should switch from the current godawful A/B 8 course schedule, back to the 4/4. Probably, they finally realized that there may be a connection between making students take 8 classes at once and lowered test scores this year(say it isn't so!) How could anyone not foresee this? My heart sang when I heard that announcement; I've made no secret of how much I hate the A/B schedule because of the accelerated workload. It's not definite that a change will take place, but at least the principals are going to stick their necks out. I would be a much happier camper next year with 3 courses instead of 6, and could do a much better job with those 3, followed by a much better job with the second set of 3 in the spring. Oh, please, Dr. L! Please listen to your principals! I know you don't listen to your teachers, but I'm sure the principals carry more weight with you.

Six more weeks of school! The end is in sight. And the seniors will spend most of the last week doing school sanctioned senior activities, so it's more like five weeks. How can I keep them interested in academics? Frankly, my idea of having them do autobiographical powerpoints as an alternative choice from the traditional research paper presentation, has been a life-saver. These "All About Me" presentations are far more dynamic than the traditional ones used to be. Naturally, the students are interested in seeing photos of each other on the slides and hearing about which rapper is their fave and how their brother is in jail, and their BFF is LaJoya, from 1st block. Yesterday, the whole period was filled with these presentations, and every eye was on the screen. I hope I can think of ways this summer to make literature and writing more interesting, such as film different students giving "Lessons" on things, and then playing the films back. I'll bet they'd listen better if LaJoya was explaining what symbolism is, than if I was!