The Plucky Reader

A boy, his books, and a blog

“Keeping Quiet”

April is National Poetry Month, and though I didn’t post about it on here, I observed it as I always do. I love poetry. I truly think poetry is the only voice that many people have in this world. I know my students connect to poetry, and I know when I was their age, I connected to it as well. And as I’ve grown, I still connect to it, but in a very different way. Instead of writing poetry about my complex feelings, I’ve read the poetry of others. I’ve enveloped myself in the musings of others as they deal with their own complex emotions.

If I had to name my favorite poet of all time, I think it’d be Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto, better known by his pen name (and later his legal name) Pablo Neruda. Neruda’s poetry has always touched me. Last year I wrote about my favorite love poem of his, “Tu Risa.” This year, however, I’m sharing a different poem.

This poem, “Keeping Quiet” is one that resonates with me in today’s atmosphere. I don’t just mean the political atmosphere, though to talk about Neruda’s poetry is to talk about the political atmosphere. I mean in this world that is full of hate and greed and envy. This atmosphere in which we spend more time tearing each other down than building each other up. Sometimes I am truly overcome with grief at the way people behave toward one another. I’ve caught myself crying at interactions on Facebook and at the grocery store. I just want to shout a refrain of, “why can’t we all get along?”

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My Own Slughorn and Snape

This weekend, I was featured on the Facebook page of a group that recognizes local teachers who go above and beyond for their students. It was a huge honor and a lovely surprise, and I’ll admit that I teared up more than once at the kind things my principal, my co-workers, and the parents of my former students said about me. What really got me, though, was the wonderful things my former teachers said about me.

I love that we live in a world that keeps me connected to the people who had the greatest impact on the person I am today.

As I read the comments, I couldn’t help but think about two particular teachers in my past. These two teachers stand out in my memory for every wrong reason. They are everything I hope to never be.

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Foul Ball

Last night I sat in the stands at a baseball game. The air smelled of cut grass, dirt, and french fries. The air rang with the tinny tings of baseballs meeting bats, parents cheering for their kids, and children laughing. A chilly breeze blew around us as the sun set and lights buzzed overhead as they turned on over the fields. I chatted excitedly with my friends who were at the field and watched the game in front of me.

It was like being in middle school all over again, except this time I wasn’t being publicly embarrassed by my lack of athletic ability.

I don’t have a child who plays little league; I don’t even have a current student who plays little league, but I was at the ball field cheering loudly anyway for a kid who needed his own cheering section. You see, last night I had to be a baseball parent for a student I taught last year. This particular student mentioned to a colleague of mine that his parents never get to come to his baseball games and he was so excited to have seen her at his first game of the season. Since then, we’ve made it our mission to make sure he has somebody there specifically to support him.

When you’re a teacher, you’re a teacher for life. Your obligations and duties to your students don’t stop after they’ve moved to the next grade level. At least for me, they don’t. Part of my goal as a teacher is to make sure my students know they can call on me for anything, for any reason, for as long as they need to.

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Review – Gris

Today I’m stepping a bit out of my comfort zone to talk about one of my favorite forms of art. I don’t fancy myself a pro at video games the way that I feel I’m qualified to review books. (Because, I mean, how hard is it to pretend to know everything about books, right?)

Cinematic screencap from Gris on Nintendo Switch

But recently I played through a video game that was so beautiful, I still can’t get over how beautiful this game is. It wasn’t very long. It wasn’t difficult. But it was beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes. It opened up a well within me that I couldn’t stop for a solid minute.

Gris is an indie game developed by Spanish developer Nomada Studio. It is rife with hand-drawn art elements and beautifully mesmerizing music. Honestly, I went into the game blindly; the only information I had going in were a few thumbs-up from gamers I trust and promotional artwork. I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into.

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Review – What Could Go Wrong? by Brett Grayson

Friday night I came home from school, immediately changed into my pajamas, poured a mug of tea (I’ve been trying to consume less coffee these days) and curled up in my bed with a book. I’ve had very few Friday evenings lately that I could just curl up with a book and ignore the world, so I jumped at the opportunity. I curled up with my puppies, snuggled deep under my covers, and fell into the pages of What Could Go Wrong?: My Mostly Comedic Journey Through Marriage, Parenting and Depression by Brett Grayson.

I’ve had this book sitting on my nightstand for months. It’s been begging to be read. It was sent to me by some lovely folks and I was really pumped about it, I was just dealing with my own struggle through depression, exhaustion, and frazzled. When I get in my own low points, like I was suffering through, I find it difficult to read about somebody else’s journey through depression. I’ve never been much of a “misery loves company” type. Reading about other people’s depression just compounds my own.

But by Friday, I was in a clear headspace. Which was good, because this book definitely required me to be in a clear headspace.

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Memory 2 – First Days of School

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to them once I’d gotten past the “Hi, my name is…” portion of the day. I wasn’t sure how I was going to tell them that I was going to be their teacher, that I had been chosen to replace their beloved strings teacher. I didn’t know how I was going to convince them that I was qualified to guide them and lead them—especially because I was having trouble convincing myself of that. They were all so, well, they were scary. They were angry. They were apathetic. They were disconnected. And they were all so old.

This isn’t what I thought I’d be signing up for when I was in college. I had spent countless hours preparing myself to teach elementary school; to sing songs and play games and teach the foundations of music. I wasn’t supposed to be teaching middle school. And I definitely wasn’t supposed to be teaching high school, with their weird smells and their bad attitudes and their disregard for authority. I was supposed to be teaching kids who were 7, not 17.

So I mustered my courage. I stood up tall. I drew on the wisdom I’d gained from every strings teacher I’d ever had. I channeled Lisa Roberts and the way she commanded a room. I channeled Barbara Woodring and her passion for music. I channeled Kelly Ginther and her excitement. And I channeled Carole Makowski and her unfaltering love for her students. And I stood up. And I breathed in deep. And I said: “Hi,mynameisMr.AdamsandI’msoexcitedtobeyourstringsteacherthisyear.” I word-vomited, all one word, no breaks, no breaths, nothing that resembled actual human communication.

They all blinked in slow motion at me trying to make sense of the ridiculous thing I’d said. It was their first day back after summer break and, unlike me, they had not yet reacclimated to the world of academia. They were still trying to figure out who they were; they weren’t ready to find out who I was. But I told them anyway. I told them why I was qualified to tell them how to play violin. I told them about how once, when I was their age, I had played in Honor Orchestra of America. I told them about how I had a brother their age, so I wasn’t out of touch with them. I told them about how I had never been so excited for anything in my entire life.

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Memory – 1000 Paper Cranes

Two years ago today, I edited the last sentence of the first book I wrote, 1000 Paper Cranes. As I shut the cover of my manuscript, a tear rolled down my cheek. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend, shutting that cover for the last time.

I had spent two years writing about Jordan Johnson, his best friends—Jon and Joanna—and his beloved girlfriend, Robin. Every day for two years they had lived in my mind. Interacting, evolving, loving, being. Every day I saw their lives playing out for me. I grew to know them more intimately than I even knew myself. I knew their hopes and their desires and their dreams. I knew their fears. I knew their favorite foods and their favorite books and their favorite songs. I could hear their voices; I knew their laughs.

And maybe this all sounds crazy; I’m not denying that. Writers are all a little crazy, aren’t they? You have to be to be able to spend so much time in your own world creating and recreating a land that nobody will ever experience the way you do. And I did experience this world, this every day life of the teenagers who had taken root in my imagining.

I can remember the day Jordan and his story popped into my head very clearly. I was driving home from work, listening to an audiobook. I used to have an hour commute to work. I know it sounds miserable, but I listened to so many audiobooks then; I consumed so many books during those drives. The book this time was Linger by Maggie Stiefvater, and what a beautiful book it was. I was drawn into her world so easily; the audiobook narrator was spectacular and Maggie Stiefvater’s writing was wonderful (as it always is.) The wolves of Mercy Falls held me captivated. Grace and Sam were complicated and wonderful and full of emotion and complication.

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How to Write a Memoir

In my classes right now, we are studying memoirs and William Zinsser’s commentary on writing memoirs. In his essay, “How to Write a Memoir,” Zinsser offers some advice. The four big tenets that we’ve focused on in my class are:

1. Be Yourself

2. Speak Freely

3. Tell Your Truth

4. Think Small

He also gives some very directed advice: sit down at your desk and write daily. Write a memory without the intention of writing a memoir. Write everyday and store those memories. And in three months or six months or however long it takes, take all your writings, look for a common theme, and pull from that your memoir.

As we progress through this unit and I read the memoirs of others, I’m reminded of how much I love memoirs. Some of my favorite books of 2018 were memoirs. I’ve mentioned before just how much I love memoirs. So I’ve decided to take Zinsser’s challenge. I mean; that’s why I have a blog, right? I want to write. I want to be a writer.

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Review – How to Experience Death for Beginners by Jessica Branton

So many updates in the Pluckyverse, I don’t even know where to begin. The semester started off crazy with me taking on way more responsibilities than I could manage and somehow getting them done. What that meant, though, was my reading life suffered and my blogging life became nearly nonexistent.

But I am back and ready and rearing to reclaim my time. I’ve got so many amazing ARCs I’m working through, and at some point, I’ll even update you on my 2018 reading challenge. Did I meet my goals? Did I keep up with my Modern Mrs. Darcy Reading Challenge? Did I change the world on page at a time?

You’ll have to wait to find out. Until then, please enjoy this review of How to Experience Death for Beginners by Jessica Branton.

So, if you know anything about me, you know that I love crime shows, movies, books, podcasts, etc… I love crime so much, in fact, that I started a podcast, Lifetime Sentence, with my friend Erin. When I say crime, it’s not like I want there to be people running around with guns or knives or whatever committing heinous monstrosities around the world. What I mean is I find the psychology of crime fascinating. I like to study it in a purely scientific kind of way. And before I make myself sound any more like a madman that I already have, I will tell you why this is an important thing to mention.

A clairvoyant introvert can enter the minds of people at their moment of death. When a serial killer emerges in her small town, she receives audacious advances from an enigmatic newcomer. While dodging detectives and falling in love, she joins forces with the FBI to take down the killer.

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A Full-time Job

As many of you know, I am a full-time teacher. What many don’t know, however, is what that all entails.

Being a teacher is early morning alarm clocks and half-eaten breakfasts as you run out the door. Being a teacher is late nights in a classroom, grading papers and listening to your favorite music. Being a teacher is phone calls to parents to share good news, and sometimes bad news. Being a teacher is paperwork and planning and curriculum and scripts and meetings.

There is so much about being a teacher that I never realized before I became one myself. I never realized that being a teacher meant weekend emails and texts, PTA meetings, painting classrooms. I didn’t understand what it meant to design the perfect zone for students to feel like they belonged; I didn’t realize that it meant more than placing your tables in exactly the right place.

What I didn’t realize about teaching is the impact you leave on a kid long after they’re not your kid anymore. I didn’t realize that when you’ve made a positive on a student, they may call you years later to thank you (or what happens to me more often, ask for help or advice.) I didn’t realize that once you show you care, they always know you care. And you care forever.

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