Almost two weeks ago, as I was guest teaching at a prominent east side middle school, a history teacher Mr. P (not her real gender or initial) interrupted my class to invite me to speak “about Lincoln” in her class. I told her I had earlier visited Mr. Q’s (see previous parenthesis) class to talk about Vachel Lindsay; not Lincoln, but that I had recited a poem Vachel had written about him, and to focus on Abe, I could probably find two or three more connected to the “Great Enunciator” if that’s what she’d like me to do. That would be fine. She wrote down the date (”Friday, May 11″ — I’m not kidding, room number and time on a piece of paper, along with her home phone number and asked me to call her if something came up and I couldn’t come to her class. As mentioned earlier here, I declined a guest teaching opportunity to make ten times what I asked to be paid for my visit to her class because I believe my work with Vachel and poetry is more important than my capacity to guest teach. Since I was going to be talking poetry, I wore my colorful sport coat.
I arrived 15 minutes early, in case she had some extra time, and waited in the office exactly 15 minutes before she came down and walked with me to her class.
The nervous laughter from a few young people when I entered her class room was portentous. Some knew me as stern, mean Mr. Conger from classes I’ve guest taught, and in retrospect, I probably should have remembered I left a pot of hot water boiling on the stove at that moment, apologized and dashed out of the room without my check. BUT the show must go on, you know. I explained I had come to talk about Vachel Lindsay and recite some poems Vachel had written about Lincoln and a few more.
And I really needed the promised check.
So far so good. Reciting to middle school students allows me to educate them as well as amuse them, and their neutral stance during the education (they DID answer my questions and advanced the dialog) went south after I had recited Vachel’s “Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight” and “Nancy Hank’s, Mother of Abraham Lincoln” without a hitch.
Only when I inadvertently said something that prompted several to burst out laughing did things go WAAAY south. When I interrupted my train of thought to ask why they were laughing, no one answered. The regular teacher had left the room, leaving her student teacher holding a check between thumb and forefinger like it was a hand grenade with the pin pulled and a thumb keeping the detonation timer from running. The expressions on her face and the faces of a few of the students was somewhere between contempt and snarl.
“Ohmygosh, I left a pot on the stove!” . . . . . no . . . no . . . . no. . . . stay calm, reciterguy and just don’t let your hands get too close to their teeth.
I stopped mid-thought explaining their laughter suggested they would not enjoy the poem I was about to recite, so I’d recite another. And I recited Vachel’s “Kansas” followed by “The Proud Farmer” and finally “How a Little Girl Sang.” with appropriate introductory patter. The faces, the body language of the “audience” could have been captured in a photograph as I recovered from their laughter outburst, and if you took a picture as I finished my final poem, you could have held a photograph taken then over the photo taken earlier, and they would have matched perfectly. It was the kind of “stoic” that delivers no babies.
One of the students spoke “I thought you were going to talk to us about Lincoln!” I explained how their teacher and I had talked, she agreed that what I told her I could share would be okay, and that is what I had shared. Then I asked if anyone had any questions about Abe Lincoln.
And there were a few good questions that I answered to be best of my inability. One student asked if Tom Hanks was related to Abraham Lincoln’s mother Nancy Hanks. (I had shared that information — Nancy Hanks was Abe’s mom — introducing the first poem I recited. There were few more. I did tell them things they did not know about Abe — f’rinstance that Abe visited the house where Vachel lived before the Lindsays bought it and moved in, that the architect who designed Lincoln’s house also designed what became the Lindsay’s house. The students clapped politely when it was time for me to depart, and the student teacher walked me out the door and handed me my check from between her fore and index fingers. I felt like Napoleon riding out of Paris to board a slow boat to Elba.
As fast as I legally could, I drove to the bank and cashed the check before the absented teacher changed her mind. Was she expecting something other than what I told her I could do for her? It was obvious the students were. In solace, I have her note stating “Friday, May 11″ and still thank God and teacher for the opportunity.
I’m still processing the altercation — make that presentation — and I’m in no mood to tackle proof reading my Arcadia aviation history manuscript. I’m too busy licking my wounds. Better mine than theirs.
After cashing the check, I bought three new red-ink pens for tackling that book proof and a carton of chocolate chip ice cream because I had to get the aftertaste of Vachel East Round Two out of my system. Yes, I took a few hits, but that’s okay. I know I gave a few too.
And I’m looking forward to the next round. . . . . .
Live long . . . . . . . and proper.
