Leaves of Grass
I didn't think much of him at all, walking into that classroom on the fall day.
We took our assigned roles, I, of the student, he of the professor.
I was to learn, he was to teach.
I'm not sure if either of us were sucessfull in fullfilling our assigned roles.
The assignment was to write an essay, somewhat autobiographical, based on an essay we read in our textbook.
I wrote what I felt. I had nothing to hide. Handed it in. Revised it by the end of the semester. Thought nothing of it. At all.
During the student-teacher conference, something sparked. Maybe it was the radiator whistling on that crisp winter day. Maybe it was something he saw in me-something he wanted to yank out of my shell. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was fullfilling his obligation to be that "Mr. Keating" for all those boys out there.
Maybe.
Christmas break found me admid copies of an essay that started out as 3 pages, emerged to six, stained with blood red ink-shot to hell on a sportman's hunting sprea. And every 2 weeks, found me at the post office, with corrections, additions.
A simple class assignment turned into my personal comming out story, a study in skin town and sexuality, entitled "the ballad of little joe".
Submitted to the annual writting contest. I walked to the restraunt that morning. Dressed up in chino's and a shirt. Second place. Not. So. Shabby.
And so we continued him and I. I took all of his classed, untill either he was sick of me, or I of him. Actually it was my own dismissal that did me in. I never said farewell. Maybe I didn't need to.
The essay remained with me, along with his comments and suggestions, questions, probing questions, hooking the fish to bring htem to shore. Sumbitted again to another contest and won-hands down. As the judge said "surprisingly that this comes from someone at "Clarke", what risks, what BALLS!".
He teaches still. A morman who came to be a feminist and left the guns and chaiotic mess of Las Vegas, to start his own showgirl aray in a small river town.
And I think of him often. If he remembers me. If he ever understood the drug abuser in class who plagerised her research essay hours before due date and got an A (I got a B), if he understood, that to me, he was my Walt-Whitman, he was Mr. Keating.
I didn't think much of him at all, that fall day walking in the room. I think much of him now, years later--among those leaves of grass.........
We took our assigned roles, I, of the student, he of the professor.
I was to learn, he was to teach.
I'm not sure if either of us were sucessfull in fullfilling our assigned roles.
The assignment was to write an essay, somewhat autobiographical, based on an essay we read in our textbook.
I wrote what I felt. I had nothing to hide. Handed it in. Revised it by the end of the semester. Thought nothing of it. At all.
During the student-teacher conference, something sparked. Maybe it was the radiator whistling on that crisp winter day. Maybe it was something he saw in me-something he wanted to yank out of my shell. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was fullfilling his obligation to be that "Mr. Keating" for all those boys out there.
Maybe.
Christmas break found me admid copies of an essay that started out as 3 pages, emerged to six, stained with blood red ink-shot to hell on a sportman's hunting sprea. And every 2 weeks, found me at the post office, with corrections, additions.
A simple class assignment turned into my personal comming out story, a study in skin town and sexuality, entitled "the ballad of little joe".
Submitted to the annual writting contest. I walked to the restraunt that morning. Dressed up in chino's and a shirt. Second place. Not. So. Shabby.
And so we continued him and I. I took all of his classed, untill either he was sick of me, or I of him. Actually it was my own dismissal that did me in. I never said farewell. Maybe I didn't need to.
The essay remained with me, along with his comments and suggestions, questions, probing questions, hooking the fish to bring htem to shore. Sumbitted again to another contest and won-hands down. As the judge said "surprisingly that this comes from someone at "Clarke", what risks, what BALLS!".
He teaches still. A morman who came to be a feminist and left the guns and chaiotic mess of Las Vegas, to start his own showgirl aray in a small river town.
And I think of him often. If he remembers me. If he ever understood the drug abuser in class who plagerised her research essay hours before due date and got an A (I got a B), if he understood, that to me, he was my Walt-Whitman, he was Mr. Keating.
I didn't think much of him at all, that fall day walking in the room. I think much of him now, years later--among those leaves of grass.........