Lessons

Hello friends!

It's been some time since I last posted (a little too much time for my liking), this mostly due to reality regaining control of my life. So, please forgive me if my post is a bit sloppy. I'm excited about adapting to my new routine and writing on a daily basis once again.

I titled this post "Lessons" for a simple reason: lessons consume my life. I create lessons for my classes, teach my students lessons when they falter, and learn lessons from the mistakes I make along the way. So often as teachers we are so focused on making sure our students achieve the "Objectives of the Day" that we take our own path to achieve them and leave our students' needs by the wayside.

I can sit in my living room, live my comfortable life and create a lesson for the following day. Ideally, my students would show up to class on time, eager to learn and willing to participate. Yes, teacher friends, you can laugh at this part.

The fact is that kids deal with issues. Some of our students come from home lives we cannot, and will not (ever) understand, and we forget that our students suffer from raging hormones that can turn a twitter-fight into the world's biggest tragedy. The fact is, very few of our students enter our rooms at 7:20 in the morning thinking:
"Heck yes. Let's do this."

I still hold high standards for my students regardless of their outside issues. I try to create an environment in my room that separates my students from the outside world for 50 minutes, so that I can, if nothing else, provide a safe place for them to learn. I am not always successful in doing this, but I do my best to, when the time comes, sacrifice my priorities so I can tend to those of my students.

The point here is this: there are more lessons taught in an English room than those on the topics of grammar and reading comprehension. A big scary life awaits these kids who are sheltered by high school walls, and they need to be prepared by the time they leave. Everyone has bad days, but not everyone knows how to handle them. This is where teachers come in (especially when parents have failed to do so). I had an experience during my first year of teaching that opened my eyes to the valuable variety of lessons that can be taught in the classroom. The following poem is about that experience. Again, I apologize for the rambling and sloppy post. I promise those in the future will be better.

Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

Ortiz (the passive voice in the corner of the room)

His forehead is making an imprint on his desk

As I bark agreement to the rest,

He is

We are

She is

They are listening.

   Some of them.

His eardrums are bruised

from other teachers disrupting his snooze,

questioning his effort,

claiming his talents are going unused.

I continue.

He sleeps.

Some call it slacking

She does

We do

They are packing up their bags as

the bell bellows through the speakers,

which is when I notice holes in his sneakers—

the soles as torn, as worn as his jeans—

he is waiting for the last student to leave.

They are gone.

He is staring,

glaring,

gulping, on the verge of crying

as he battles to release the pain from his mind.

I am listening,

understanding and catching on as I

cringe to the tune of his wretched song;

he sings “sorry, can I make up what I’ve missed?”

while he rubs the reddened, half-healed scars on his fists—

(residue from the raw chiseled jaws that they’ve kissed)

And with his tears flow endless confessions

of a life full of purposeless

merciless lessons

that leave him squeezing the veins from his wrists,

closing his eyes, clenching his fists

as he cries: “I don’t even know where I’m gonna sleep tonight!”

So my teacher hat comes off

and crawls into a drawer

so it won’t have to see him

pry his heart from the floor.

“I just want to be done,” he says.

“I just want to move on.”

And he waits in silence for his new start to dawn.

I am, past teaching,

He is, beyond weeping,

fighting the world for the rights to his breathing,

And we expect him to worry about verb agreement.

A stop along the way: The end of a wedding marathon. The beginning of another chapter

It took me a while to figure out what to write about my recent trip to Denver. I sat at my computer on several occasions, possessing each time the emotional charge leftover from my Rocky Mountain experience. Each time, however, I came up empty. I couldn’t describe what the trip had done to me. For a guy who never shuts up, I struggled to come up with words.

Now, however, I think I have it figured out. My trip to Denver, taken primarily to stand in the wedding of one of my childhood best friends, began with the incessant buzz that comes with all reunions of old company, and ended—after four days of placing the world by the wayside just to pick up where we last left off—with an emotional departure from what I can only describe as a self-cleansing experience. A sort of soulful baptism, if you will.

You see, many kids grow up trying to figure out who they are. They convince their parents to buy certain clothes, and convince themselves to follow a crowd because, let’s face it, adolescence can be torturous if you don’t fit in. I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by people who loved me for who I was (family and friends included). Sure, I went through the same identity crises that all kids do (for about five years I wore the same Nike Air Force One shoes, baggy shorts, and Michigan T-shirts), but those around me knew the person I was, the things for which I stood, and we all coasted through high school contently. Life came easy to us.

These people, the family and friends I was lucky to have during my childhood, are the same people who celebrated the wedding in Denver this past weekend. I call this experience ‘self-cleansing’ for two reasons:

1. It was refreshing to revisit childhood in an unfamiliar place. To briefly revive the past that built us, and to find that all of us were filled with the same ambitions we possessed eight years ago. After college, we all moved to new places, got jobs, some got married, and one had kids. Then, this weekend allowed us to come out of hiding and hike to the peak of a mountain to take in the fresh air and realize that we were still the same, just moving into the next phase of our lives. (There was a moment at the top of the mountain when we came to an opening and sat in silence for several minutes. Is this a cheesy dose of sentimentality? Probably, but it was also extremely peaceful and liberating).
2. Some people stumble through adolescence, gain confidence in college, and figure out who they are in their early twenties. I decided who I was in my early years, stumbled through college, and have finally reconnected with my old self. The time I spent in Denver was parallel to time I spent with the same group of people at another wedding just two years ago—it was authentic, thus I was genuinely happy. I spent some time in my life away from these friends, away from my family, deciding on what I should do with my life. Should I strive to make more money? Should I teach forever? My 18 year-old self would kick my ass for even questioning those things. With these friends (a few of them teachers), we laughed about people who buy $80,000 seats at football stadiums, made fun of each other for taking too long to get ready, and reminded each other of our blue-collar backgrounds with each vulgar insult tossed around the hiking path. We danced to the eighties music our parents grew up on, drank whiskey, and enjoyed one another’s company. On my flight home I felt reassured of who I am: I am Jake Nantz. I am a teacher, and a pretty damn good one when I want to be. I’ll never be a millionaire (barring any extreme luck), and that is just how I want my life to be. Nothing matters more in life than figuring out what it is you stand for, doing your best to never stray from that, loving your family, and maintaining relationships with great people only so you can build the same relationships with the other great people around you.

            Thank you Tim and Liz, your families, and everyone who helped put on such an

            awesome wedding in Colorado. My friends, though scattered across the country,

            are the best anyone could ask for. You made my girlfriend feel welcome, and

            reminded me where I came from.

            Cheers to a great weekend, and to many happy years for the new Klatt Family!

Oh yea, here is a poem I wrote on the plane…..

A Speech of Reassurance, Spoken to a Mirror

I am a knife manufactured

for simple tasks such as applying spread

or slicing through water-softened vegetables;

those sharper-made blades

with large wooden handles and effortless ability

speak slanderous of me,

so I remind them I was made not for display,

but to work in the shadows and dust of cluttered space—

Strong.

Stained.

Necessary and unnoticed.

   

    I am an outlet of reasonable wattage,

built to enlighten small rooms

and give power to those stronger than I—

I give lamps what they need

to accomplish what I can’t,

then watch from beneath the end table with satisfaction

as smiles see doors once hidden in darkness.

It is an honor, I must say,

to admit you are sharper and brighter than I

on even my greatest day,

and so I pray I am at my best,

always improving, too,

though I may be of no use to kings,

I may be just enough for you.

Keep Fighting (Hey, it's Monday!)

Happy Monday night! I've been busy, and a bit lazy, but I wanted to post something for you to ponder before bed.

Pain is something we all deal with, though the form (and the amount, of course) may vary. We tend to waste our time thinking our painful situations over, reliving the climax of the hurt and searching for its source. I am guilty of this quite often, but time and time again I am shown what good can come for the man who makes the best of his situation.

My cousin and best friend has dealt with his fair share of pain. To begin, he is a tremendous athlete. Competetive. Mean. Built like a truck. In high school, he was diagnosed with Aortic Stenosis, which is a heart condition where blood passes too forcefully into your aortic valve, causing the walls of the valve to dilate. In several cases, the subject is never aware of the problem, and the aorta suddenly bursts, killing him or her instantly (this is my basic understanding). I learned a couple lessons from this terrible diagnosis:

1: Making the best out of your situation will lead to the best outcome, and will bring peace to those around you.
I remember arriving at the hospital, furious that this had happened to him. When I walked in the room, a group of people sat around my cousin, laughing at a joke he was telling. He hugged me and said "Calm down. I'm fine." He never lost his spirit, and his positivity became contagious. Two months after a successful surgery (four months before he was to be 'fully recovered') he was playing high school basketball--the closest thing to a miracle I've ever witnessed.

2: Don't waste time sulking, worrying, or searching for answers. Take control of your situation, lean on the people around you, and take steps to improve.
One thing that helps me maintain my faith in humanity is the unity that follows tragedy. People come together. My cousin had overwhelming support; people made him food, brought him gifts, donated money, and not once did he act like he deserved it. He stayed grateful and used his support to expedite his recovery.

Following his heart surgery, two years of college basketball, a torn ACL, surgery, recovery, and two years of college football, my cousin began to focus on his career.

His dream was to be a police officer, but the lack of money in our state's bank account meant a small hiring window for most departments. He would finish in the top ten on the hiring list of several departments, but eventually the list would expire without any officers being hired.

When he finally received a position (not as a police officer, but a good-paying job in the right direction), the company approached him upon completing his physical and said the hiring process may be put on hold--because of his heart.

I wrote the following poem after hearing this news. It is written more for a spoken performance, but it reminds me of my cousin's perserverance. I responded to the news by angrily writing a poem. My cousin responded by taking control of the situation, and, once again, shooting down the barriers in front of him, all while keeping a smile on his face. What did it get him?

Last month he was officially hired by the Aurora Police Department.

So, if you're having a bad start to the week, keep fighting!

Have a great night!
========================================================

Death to Aortic Stenosis

My cousin, burly in size,

was kept from his job because

it required him to lift 25 pounds multiple times

And the doctor wouldn’t sign;

He tells me this news as the bell rings,

so I shake it off and begin teaching Iambic pentameter

to a room of bobbing heads, lulling them to sleep with

da-DUH, da-DUH, da-DUHs;

I wish I could give them a stethoscope to place on the breast of the poem,

letting them hear each word beat to Shakespeare’s rhythm.

I ask for the fans of the art to show their hands.

None.

Besides the kid in row one

who is a fan of everything.

So I ask myself, out loud,

“Why do I like poetry?”

To perhaps prompt an answer from the crowd.

None.

Not even from the kid in row one

who has an answer for everything.

So I probe on.

“What if a poem meant something to you?

What if it had a pulse, like a heart,

that thumped so much the verses bulged from the page?

What if poetry had a beat, unnatural

yet still enough to bring the words to life?

What if poetry flowed like blood,

each line of a villanelle a vein to your body

that livens you, enlightens you, fills you

with so much passion and power that you want to explode?

And what if every ounce of that passion

pounded into the limits of your lines,

pushed you to the brink of bursting,

So the poetry doctor who monitored your poem

told you “no more” to everything you worked hard for?

Gone,

because the beat of your quatrain

Was one Iamb away,

One da-DUH too many,

and all you were left with was a dream,

Unfulfilled, sagging in your outstretched arms

Like a limp, lifeless body,

Fingertips still tingling with fading fire,

Your beat still beating the same rhythm,

Pounding,

     passion plenty

            But still one da-DUH too many.

Then what if you wrote about it?

Would you take a stethoscope

And press against the breast of that poem,

And feel the pain in each da?

Each DUH?

Would it mean something to you?

Would you like poetry then?

An introduction...

I am writing this under the assumption that eventually people will look at my blog, and of those viewers, one or two may care about what I have to say. I am a 25 year-old high school English teacher in the Chicago suburbs, and a few events prompted me to start this blog, the first being a moment of inspiration this past school year.

There are several perks to teaching (and of course, several reasons people look down on teachers), but perhaps the most beneficial aspect of my job is the rare encounter with a student who is so intelligent and ambitious that it rubs off on everyone in the room--including the teacher.

Last year, I watched one of my senior journalists survive the college carousel, the up-and-down routine of applying to colleges and tweaking admission essays that becomes so methodical it makes one dizzy. At the beginning of the year this student was undecided on his major, his school, and what life beyond high school would throw at him. I saw this as a 'teaching moment,' and offered him the best advice I could. When May arrived, this student had not only chosen a college, he had transformed into a confident young adult who convinced himself to pursue his dreams--and convinced me to pursue mine.

G.K. Chesterton once said that when we lose sight of what we stand for, "we must try to recover the candour and wonder of the child." This was proven true with my student, who, while young and ignorant to the world, possessed a child-like passion that would defy any limits in the way of his pursuit. He reminded me how much I loved to write, a love that began a long time ago, and urged me to share my work. He was the first unbiased person (meaning, first person unrelated or connected to me) who ever looked me in the eyes after reading something I wrote and said, "You can do this."

Now, maybe that 17 year-old kid's idea of 'good writing' is a bit skewed, but I don't much care about being a 'good writer'. I simply wish to write and share. I like to write. But the idea of sharing my thoughts with people outside my very tight circle seemed risky, at least until that kid inspired me to "recover the candour and wonder" of my childhood. I want to thank him, although he is completely unaware of his impact on me and I may never hear from him again (the life-long impact that can be gained through the briefest of moments is yet another perk to the teaching profession).He is a big reason this blog exists.

I will continue to post new poetry and thoughts as often as possible, unless feedback from you requests otherwise.

Thanks again for reading!

JN

Love, Life, and other Games Lost

I crafted the art of

Love in the Moment,

Knew just the way to grip her back

And make her feel like it was real,

Spoke whispers that sounded scripted because they were;

I had a way of making foreign sheets feel familiar

And convincing her into connections

That I held high, stretched until they stiffened

like a rope tugging too much weight,

then I would watch it snap and shatter

what hung below, splatter into

something for which I felt nothing

only because I wouldn’t let myself watch,

or listen.

            He told me in a tavern that night

That he had never been loved,

            And I laughed at his lament

Of such a silly thing,

            And he laughed at my taunting

pretending he agreed,

            And though his cries I did not hear,

this rope did not snap,

And I wish it had,

like every other thing that ever loved me,

When I saw him swaying from

The creaking rafters in the morning.