Remembering Those Teenagers

The poem below was included in one of my first blogs, but somehow it disappeared from my blog archive, so I am publishing it again, only slightly altered and with the content noticeably a bit dated.

As quite a number of people know, I taught high school for many years. I loved teaching and enjoyed my students, although from time to time I would have a class that “made me crazy”! Sometimes simply a random blend of personalities combined to make teaching very difficult. It was rare, thank goodness, but it happened. I found a poem I wrote hastily, in reaction to a bad day, a long time ago, and it reminded me. Perhaps a few other teachers may relate as this school year nears its final days.

To Fifth Period/Class of 1990

It is a monster

That invades my space

At one-0-five.

This undulating mass

Of arms, legs, Reeboks, and

Ordinary Peoples

Makes me realize

This is a special place.

It’s horrid

And noisy

And painfully adolescent.

The space of this place

Oozes rap and dope and sex

In the minds

Of those who have no choice

But to vegetate here.

Thirty Days

And they’ll be free.

It chatters and gossips,

This monster,

And activates a youthful rhythm

I don’t really understand.

Sure, I was there once,

A monster myself,

But my focus is different now,

Painfully different.

In my adult educated view

I know what’s right.

What’s right.

What’s right?

For whom? For me?

I clash with those

Who don’t even care

For one moment

That Conrad cries,

That Karen dies.

I find no solution.

I sob in the shower

And soothe my aching ego.

Have I failed these spirited souls,

These Guess-jeaned, 501’d,

Michael Jordaned basketball nuts?

Have I so much as touched

One single one

Of these impossible beings?

It’s sad to think not.

Yet I do think not,

Sometimes.

And why should I care?

Because I do.

This space, this monster

Is in my charge.

I, the adolescent of long ago,

Not quite so grown up,

No quite so old,

Am caught in a limbo,

Wishing to have an affect,

To be a tiny part,

To make a difference.

But the monster lashes out.

It rudely rakes its egocentric claws

At my sensitivity.

I am sad.

This monster though,

And I love it so,

Is perhaps not so scary,

Not really so crude,

Not really so hateful,

But surely unaware

It’s part of me.

It’s invaded my space

And it’s here to stay,

At least for thirty more days.                                   
                                                                        Judith DeChesere, May 1990