Life Skills

When I was in third grade at Roosevelt Elementary School, we had a very good teacher named Mrs. Dorothea Terry. Ms. Terry taught us a lot of important things outside the normal, Houston Independent School District sanctioned curriculum. I remember that whenever she had to discuss anything delicate or sexual, such as the time we read Johnny Tremain and someone asked what castration meant, she would first say, “If any of you feel like you can’t handle this subject matter — like you might feel uncomfortable and that will make you giggle or whisper — please feel free to go into the hall and I’ll call you back when we’re done discussing it.” No one ever left the room, and everyone understood that laughing during such talks was a mark of immaturity.

She taught us how to be good audience members. We were planning a fieldtrip to see The Nutcracker, and so she showed us the proper way to applaud. And I’m sure the lesson encompassed more than that, but all I specifically remember is the clapping, all of us lightly striking our left palms with the fingers of our right hands.

***

Since graduating from public school, I’ve noticed that a lot of adults in Texas missed out by not spending third grade in Mrs. Terry’s class. Whenever I give a reading at a community college, for instance, I notice that a lot of my audience has obviously never attended a reading before. Either they’ll pointedly avoid making eye contact with me and the other speakers, or else they’ll look at us with facial expressions I’m sure they wouldn’t consciously make in other situations. Or they’ll quietly talk to each other during the reading, as if they’re at the movies, discussing people on a screen. Or, saddest, they’ll laugh at something that’s meant to be funny, but they’ll cover their mouths, thinking they’re not supposed to.

I’ve been to community colleges where the professors treat the students like disabled high school kids. If I’m reading and someone starts giggling and whispering in the back, I’ll do exactly what our teachers used to do to us in elementary school. I’ll say something like, “Am I interrupting your conversation? Should I pause so you guys can leave the room?”

And then, afterwards, these students’ professors will apologize to me and say, “It’s hard for them… They come from different backgrounds… They don’t go to many readings…” As if any of that is an excuse for rudeness. And I’ll feel sorry for those professors and wonder what they put up with in their classrooms every day.

Sometimes I’ll speak to a class that’s well enough behaved, but very inhibited. And I’ll interrupt my own reading/seminar and tell the students that it’s okay if they want to laugh, or gasp or scoff, because authors expect listener reactions. I’ll tell them, during the question and answer session, that they can ask whatever they want, and not only questions that sound teacher-approved. Because we’re all adults, and a reading is meant to be enjoyed. And then the students will loosen up, and we have fun.

And afterwards, their professors will tell me, “Wow, they really enjoyed your reading!” and that they’re going to do a class on audience ettiquette, or on how to interview authors, and that they’re going to take their classes to more readings in the future.

A lot of times I’ll do a reading for one particular class that’s reading my book, and then other classes who aren’t reading my book will show up to my reading — required attendance for credit. So, when I go to community colleges or high-school-age events, the first thing I like to ask is how many people in the room want to be writers. Usually, only one or two people will raise their hands. Then, I’ll ask how many people are there against their will, and most of them will raise their hands.

In those cases, I shift from talking about my writing to talking about acheiving one’s goals. And that’s when I get a lot of questions from people who want to be DJs, nurses, entrepreneurs, and etc. And, the more I do these kinds of readings, the more strongly I feel that I have a personal mission. It is to let kids know that they’re allowed to do stuff.

You know? Because that’s the big undercurrent in all these situations I’m describing to you. I think that a lot of kids are raised with sentiments like, “You don’t go to plays and readings. Only those people go to plays and readings. Therefore, I don’t expect much of your behavior on the few occassions where you’re forced to go to a play or a reading.” And how easily does that attitude cloud one’s whole life?

“I go to community college. Only those people go to the university.”
“I don’t want to be an artist. Only people like that get to be artists.”
“I’m not going to speak up. Only people like her are supposed to speak up.”

I look at Facebook and see all these kids from Choate and Marymount bleeting out their opinions of the presidential candidates, all sexist and misspelled and uninformed, and I wonder where the sexist, misspelled, uninformed comments from 5th Ward and East LA and Compton students are. You know? No, I don’t wonder, actually. I know. They’re frozen in those students’ heads, because only those other kids are allowed to spew silliness, right?

I’m not trying to brag, but I’m a very popular speaker at local community colleges, and the audiences there enjoy the hell out of my readings. I enjoy talking to them, too. My favorite part is after the reading, because — inevitably — a few people will come up to me and say, “I really do want to be a writer, but I didn’t want to say it earlier.” Or, “I write all the time at home, but I didn’t think that counted until you said so just now.” And, even if I don’t sell many books at those readings, I’m always glad I went.

A while back I went to read to a bunch of junior high girls at a local community center. We ended up talking not about my book, but about applying for high schools. We spent more than half an hour erasing misconceptions about who’s allowed to apply for better public schools, who’s allowed to ride the school bus, who’s allowed to get on the Internet and look for information, who’s allowed to be smart without worrying about fitting in, who’s allowed to want a little more success than their parents had. We didn’t talk about writing at all. (But, even so, at the end, someone came up and whispered to me that she wanted to be a writer.) And I was glad I went. If all I ever taught someone was that she was allowed to do a little more, that would be enough for me.

***

Every time I go to one of my son’s junior high band recitals, I resent most of the other parents because they’re very rude. They talk and yawn during the performance. Between pieces, they make insensitive remarks. The band teachers wear suits and dresses. Our kids wear tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and vests. I wear whatever I wore to work that day (“business”), but then half the parents are in shorts, flip-flops, undershirts, baseball caps. Their hair uncombed. Their teeth full of food.

I used to hate them, but now I just pity them. You know why? Because no one taught them better, because no one ever thought they’d grow up to go to plays or readings or even junior high recitals.

More than that, I pity them because their kids will go places that these parents won’t. And their kids might keep things from them, might say things like, “No, I didn’t invite my parents to see me play in Boston, because you know how they are. They never go to things like that. There’s no use even trying to teach them how to behave.”

But, then again, that might not be so bad. I’d rather have my kids do things that I’m too ignorant to understand than have them be afraid to do things, because I never told them they were allowed.

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Posted in Houston, parenting, venting, writing on 01/09/2008 06:05 pm
 
 

3 Comments

  1. Gwen, what an honor you have given me. I really was a tough third grade teacher, but I tried to make all of you laugh, too. Remember the Johnny Texas unit with the first person presentations and all of the food. Imagine that- a teacher being allowed to cook in the classroom- and not one child died of poisoning! What a good time we had in those days when school could be fun for kids and teachers: fieldtrips, student programs with 600+ children and packed houses for every performance, and spontaneous hugs between teachers and students just because we loved each other.
    P.S. The M stood for Marie!

  2. Gwen, what an honor you have given me. I really was a tough third grade teacher, but I tried to make all of you laugh, too. Remember the Johnny Texas unit with the first person presentations and all of the food. Imagine that- a teacher being allowed to cook in the classroom- and not one child died of poisoning! What a good time we had in those days when school could be fun for kids and teachers: fieldtrips, student programs with 600+ children and packed houses for every performance, and spontaneous hugs between teachers and students just because we loved each other.
    P.S. The M stood for Marie!

  3. Gwen, what an honor you have given me. I really was a tough third grade teacher, but I tried to make all of you laugh, too. Remember the Johnny Texas unit with the first person presentations and all of the food. Imagine that- a teacher being allowed to cook in the classroom- and not one child died of poisoning! What a good time we had in those days when school could be fun for kids and teachers: fieldtrips, student programs with 600+ children and packed houses for every performance, and spontaneous hugs between teachers and students just because we loved each other.
    P.S. The M stood for Marie!

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