They were able to describe feelings into words, which is something I've never been particularly good at. They were able to paint a place, a landscape, a person or a feeling even, that made crazy sense. They could tell a story like it should be told.
As I processed Dead Poet's Society all those years ago, I understood the boys' desire to 'suck the marrow out of life.' I wanted to be a character coming of age valiantly like that of one in the film. The truth was that I felt that was in here somewhere but also like the best of me was late at blooming and it was hidden somewhere up my sleeve, but not on purpose, waiting for the right time to present. It was maddening. It was defeating. I still can't put a finger on when that time really came for me.
Enough about me. Back to the film. The main character, Neil, was not born into a family of great privilege. Although not poor, his being at the great prep school, Welton, was a sacrifice to his family and his authoritative father let him know this, often with the slightest furrow of his disapproving brow if his son stepped even an inch too far this way or that outside of the "plan." Neil found through his existential teenage journey, that he wanted to act. In the film, he'd gotten the lead in a local presentation of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. His father found out about it and not only disapproved, he forbid him to play Puck, pulled him from Welton, enrolled him in military school and proceeded to lay out his future; Harvard college, medical school, you WILL become a doctor, Neil.
So anyway, if you haven't seen this I won't spoil the ending and tell you here. Go rent it. It's beyond worth it. Back in the day, I owned this on VHS and had seen it so many times the end had stopped making me cry; that is until I saw it again recently. I have to say that it felt good to release and be moved by that movie like I used to be. So much of lately has been just the opposite, still feeling deeply, just in a different way, a good way, even.
Lately, it's like I see leaves, brilliantly colored ones, and instead of just appreciating what they are and the time of year it is, I think of describing what they look like all wet, clumped flat in piles and smacked on top of each other potent in their beauty to the point it's almost absurd. I go to my "Thoreau place"... the one where I want to be out in the leaves to smell the air around them, feel them, to take off in my boots and rustle through them. To me, being in a Thoreau place is, to quote him, "living deliberately." It's a place that seeks to appreciate life and the things in and around it that make it wonderful and full. I'm not always this way, so it's nice to be back, kids.
Bringing it all back around to Dead Poet's Society, I'll leave you with a quote. At the beginning of each secret D.P.S. meeting when the boys of Welton would gather to read poetry to each other, they called to order with a reading from Thoreau's Walden which I hope inspires you like it has me (again) as of late:
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived … I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms..."To live like this! And to grasp that 'living is so dear,' because it is -- just, wow.
Another favorite quote of mine is from Mrs. Cathy Blackburn, the beloved English teacher I told you about above. With Coke-bottle glasses, left hand on hip, right hand on top of her head, she'd walk almost nervously, or I guess you could say, deliberately, around the front of our class in an over-sized dress too big for her little frame and say like it meant the end of a World War, "How do I know what I think, until I see what I say?" Good, huh? I've always thought so.
So, let's chat. Here's a long overdue Where's Your Mind On This question: Who was your favorite teacher or the most influential teacher of your life? Why?
3 comments:
Dr. Wennerstrom. Loved her! She sparked my interst in science. And had funny stories- once you made it to AP she was way more layed back. I have to agree- I loved Mrs. Blackburn. You described her well! I appreciated her ability to be able to describe what she thinks in words. I still can't do that- nor can I understand when other people do. Guess that is why I went with biology!
Oh, good grief, yes! Any teacher that could inspire the decades played, "Penis Game" that even got mentioned at Laura Martin's bridesmaid's luncheon deserves a seat of honor.
As immature and ridiculous 7th graders are, the very serious teacher made our class say the word "penis" out loud to get over its silliness. Little did Dr. Wennerstrom know what Spencer Sessions and friends would do with that.
After encouragement from Dr. Wennerstrom to get comfortable with the technical term, he and others began to shout the word. Dance moves shortly followed. And, the rest, as they say, is history. I believe that is the first time in history anyone had seen Doc smile. Classic!
Although a little delayed with my comments I felt compelled to share... I have to say that one of my favorite teachers was Gail McKinnon at Hall High. I have never met a person that was as well read and as enthusiastic about literature as that woman. She seemed to know everything about everything. I still believe that she may be one of the smartest woman alive.
However, I loved my ninth grade english teacher at Dunbar more than any other teacher I have ever had. How we were fortunate enough to end up with Mr. Miller as our teacher came from some very odd circumstances. We ended up with his as a year long sub after our original english teacher unfortunately died of cancer after 2 weeks of the school year had elapsed. It was sad indeed and although I had just met the man I could see why so many students were saddened by the loss of him. So, as a consolation prize, we were presented with Mr. Miller. An eccentric gentleman that tended to wear all black, had long hair, and something about him reminded me of Steven Segal(no joke). What a surprise to us as we were reading West Side Story to have this stereotypically 'macho guy' start snapping his fingers and singing aloud, "When you're a Jet you're a Jet all the way from your first cigarette...." or dance around the class room singing, "I feel pretty, oh so pretty..." yeah, he did that. And we loved every minute of it. This wonderful, unusual man brought literature to life in so many ways. He made reading exciting and the discussion that we knew would follow even more so. He wanted us to create and share our own point of view no matter how much it may differ from the norm.
Mr. Miller was a gift to me at a very formative time in my life. He made me realize that part of the beauty of reading and writing is that we are all allowed to interpret and describe things in our own unique way. In fact, we are not just allowed but encouraged to do so. He taught me that individuality is beautiful and should be celebrated not stifled. I guess you could say that while he was teaching us literature he was teaching us life too.
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