(no subject)
The assignment was too difficult; that much was obvious. But we all worked at it, me with increasing intensity and, in a way, excitement. Because I began to see a kind of genius behind the questions even though they were impossible to answer. Our English teacher had given us a simple worksheet of Middle English and Scottish and Gaelic words to translate. At the top was a list of words that required a one-word answer, like bairn (baby) and elgin (which meant green; the dream maker had no trouble inventing these wholecloth). Then came lines of poetry containing words we couldn't possibly recognize but ought to be able to deduce from context. I worked hard at these across that slow, draining time that happens in dreams. My pencil broke, my pen dried up, I moved from seat to seat. Other people turned in their papers and left. It was the last period of the day. Then it was long past the last bus. People gathered around our teacher, a smart, cheerful man who loved kids, loved being center stage, and who treated the whole assignment like a sport, getting people to cheer and moan over right and wrong answers as he graded them right there at his desk. I was still working, determined to figure them all out. I had some German, so that helped with words like "ken" and "vergissen" and I recognized something with the word "dottir" in it as meaning "daughter."
As I worked, I began to see that the impossibility of the assignment -- our being asked to figure out whole stanzas in foreign languages -- was designed to teach us not only the history of our language (you could trace its evolution backward through the hardest passages) but also to show us that the old ways of saying things were better, that they came with their own strengths. Sometimes a single word would take us three or four words to explain. A single line of poetry might take two awkward ones to fully render. The teacher wanted us to know humility, to see that what seems ridiculous to us is in fact very fine.
The final piece (on the back of the worksheet) had a first line that translated to something like this: "I once knew five wretched and feebleminded creatures whose thoughts were all wicked and who asked aloud where babies came from and everything they said rhymed with mouse and house." It had gotten so late and I knew I would not be getting an A on this paper. Already I began adjusting my expectations: no A for the quarter, no A for the semester, my 4.0 destroyed; already I began composing a college application essay about how this time I did not get straight A's but I had learned more, knew what was important, and would be much smarter this time around if only given a chance, really.
As I worked, I began to see that the impossibility of the assignment -- our being asked to figure out whole stanzas in foreign languages -- was designed to teach us not only the history of our language (you could trace its evolution backward through the hardest passages) but also to show us that the old ways of saying things were better, that they came with their own strengths. Sometimes a single word would take us three or four words to explain. A single line of poetry might take two awkward ones to fully render. The teacher wanted us to know humility, to see that what seems ridiculous to us is in fact very fine.
The final piece (on the back of the worksheet) had a first line that translated to something like this: "I once knew five wretched and feebleminded creatures whose thoughts were all wicked and who asked aloud where babies came from and everything they said rhymed with mouse and house." It had gotten so late and I knew I would not be getting an A on this paper. Already I began adjusting my expectations: no A for the quarter, no A for the semester, my 4.0 destroyed; already I began composing a college application essay about how this time I did not get straight A's but I had learned more, knew what was important, and would be much smarter this time around if only given a chance, really.