School’s in session, suckers...

I am a grad student, preparing to become certified to teach high school English. This is a drastic change from my short-lived stint in Corporate America…or at least, it will be. I’ve heard many variations on the question “Are you a masochist?” because I am choosing to teach at the high school level. Selfishly, I think that I have the best chance to teach the things that excite me most at this level. Meaning, I want to discuss literature and inspire writing and talk about what’s going on in the world. I don’t want to focus solely on the difference between proper nouns and proper names. I’m sure this sounds very grandiose, and I realize that I will teach the difference between proper nouns and proper names. But maybe I can attempt to work some magic in between grammar lessons (which oddly, after a grad-level Modern Grammar class last semester kind of excite me, too).

In any event, I have been inspired most by my former English teachers, and I’ve always had a passion for literature. This passion has multiplied times ten since I’ve been back in school. How great is it that my homework, literally my homework, is to read (or reread) all the great classic poetry, plays, short stories, and novels that I want to read, anyway?

I just started my spring semester last week, after a considerably long winter break. It’s always hard to go back, to get back into the daily routine. But, staying home on a Saturday night, I forced myself to read the assigned Whitman poetry for my American Lit class. And I realized all over again one reason why I love what I am doing.

I am going to share a verse from one of the poems I read on Saturday night. And I’ll probably share a lot of passages, etc. on this bloggy blog because I love this stuff. If it ain’t your bag, I’m sure I’ll talk about Britney Spears’ post-pregnancy belly tomorrow. And PS - If you ever have any recommendations on reading material, please pass them along.

From “The Wound-Dresser” by Walt Whitman…
(describing his experiences as a nurse in the Civil War)

I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes – poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.