"Art is greater than we are ...."

Find a poem you like .... recite it ....

I wrote in a previous post (or two or three) that I am a devotee of Ambrose "Bitter" Bierce, which creates within me a degree of sarcasm greater than usually found in most individuals. In the last instance, I used it to say my confidence in the teaching of history in American schools is something even less than dismal. The same is true regarding the teaching of literature and the role of newspapers as they exist today. My opinion wavered a bit when I recently read a column written by Joshua Curnett, a high school English teacher currently living in and working in Singapore. Having a background which includes both journalism and teaching, it fascinated me to the point I decided to run an abbreviated portion of it as a post .... here it is:

The task is the El Capitan of freshman English. Find a poem you like. Study it. Memorize it. Recite it to your classmates. You have two weeks to scale the poem’s wall.

I’ve given this assignment for 20 years. It always elicits the same reaction when the students grasp the weight of what’s being asked. The questions begin.

Student: “Do I have to do this, Mr. Curnett?”

AdChoicesMe: “Yes, everyone has to do it.”

Student: “Is it for a grade?”

Me: “Yes, a huge grade that will count heavily.” (I’m kind of lying here, but the students equate grades with importance.)

Student: “Can I get my friend to read mine for me, Mr. Curnett?”

Me: “No.”

Student: “Can I do it from my desk, or do I have to stand in front?”

Me: “Stand in front like everyone else.” (The student rolls her eyes and looks for salvation outside the window. There is only a bird.)

Student: “Can I have notes?” (Forty-four eyes stare into my soul.)

Me: “No.” (A collective gasp. I’m fairly certain that one kid mouths an expletive but I can’t be sure.)

Student: “What happens if I forget my lines?”

Me: “I’ll help you.” (Several “yeah, right” looks. I have clearly forsaken them already.)

Student: “Can I choose a poem my friend wrote? It’s really good. It’s about love.”

Me: “No.” (“God, no,” I think.)

Student: “I can’t do this, Mr. Curnett.”

Me: “Yes, you can do it.”

(Portion omitted due to length ....)

So we begin the search for the right poem. We comb through poetry websites as if we are sweeping metal detectors along a beach, listening for beeps that might reveal treasure. Eventually, each student finds a title. I have no idea how it happens. It just does.

Recital day finally arrives. It is one of the reasons I teach — to see this annual migration of ninth-graders across the desert of pop culture to the oasis that is literature.

The student with dyslexia shines with “The Tyger,” William Blake’s rhythm reaching through 225 years to find a fearful symmetry in her voice. Students thrum their hands to the cadence. There’s applause when she finishes.

The student who is more intelligent than I will ever be recites Langston Hughes with a clarity and depth that few human beings could muster. When he finishes, the class bursts into applause again.

The quiet boy who had always seemed so aloof delivers 40 lines of Homer without a hitch. 40 lines! The students look at each other, dumbfounded, then trade expressions of approval. More applause.

On and on it goes, all day long. More than 60 poems, each performance style unique. I am proud of all the students for their efforts and abilities, even the ones who botched it.

Art is greater than we are: It’s the realization of this idea that makes the assignment so compelling. Something as weightless as a poem can have the power to make us laugh or weep or guffaw or go silent with feeling — or cause a ninth-grade classroom to erupt with applause on a Tuesday morning in April, as centuries-old words reverberate off the walls.

If you wish to read the piece in its entirety, it was published in a number of newspapers and is reasonably easy to find with an online search of the name Joshua Curnett.