Until I was switched to a fifth grade, I also taught the less good sixth grade; one of my students in that class, Jiwon, almost never spoke, either in class or during break. His voice has the muffled thickness of the voice of a boy I knew in high school who also never spoke — as if their vocal chords were out of shape, as if the machinery creaked when it was set in motion, and never got beyond the creaking stage. I think he's shy, but more importantly, he's only learning English. One might think, observing his awkward silence, that he had no English at all, but one would be wrong. He writes better, more fluently and more thoughtfully, than anyone in that class. Once we read a passage on Tecumseh's efforts to unite the midwestern tribes against the settlers. The students were then supposed to recreate the debate at the powwow where Tecumseh tries to convince the other chiefs to join him. Most students just gave two sentences summing up Tecumseh's position, but Jiwon produced a page and a half of dialogue, including Tecumseh's arguments, the chiefs' counterarguments, and Tecumseh's (and his allies') responses. He even had parenthetical directions: "[angrily]," "[hesitating]," "[with passion]." These stood out, because Jiwon himself speaks in a halting monotone.

I also teach a ninth grade consisting of four boys and one girl. It's no fun. They do what I tell them to do, and they study, but they never talk. But last week something interesting happened, finally. I'd asked them to write an essay on "a world upside down that you would like to see come true." Andrew wrote about a world where athletes and movie stars toil in obscurity while doctors, teachers, and garbage collectors are lionized and showered with praise. "What's this?" He'd erased something from his list of worthy professions. "Oh, uh, I originally included lawyers." His piece was a fierce rant, and he seemed surprised when I said that this kind of essay could be funny. I look forward to reading the second draft. [Update: it includes, on my suggestion, magazines and fansites on the social lives of plumbers and gardeners. I was a bit disappointed that he didn't go beyond my suggestion. But maybe he's not interested in being funny.]

Sixth grade:
In a sentence like "The dentist cleaned my teeth," they were supposed to label complements. They all got that "teeth" was the direct object, but one student labeled "my" as an indirect object. "It's just a plain old possessive adjective," I said. Then Diana showed me her paper. She had made the same mistake, and she understood why it was wrong, but, she explained (without using the terminology), she'd thought of "my" as a kind of dative of reference — which is exactly how that sentence works in other European languages. Could she and her classmate have had Spanish in mind?

I taught Mrs. Dalloway last week. It was a surprise to me, when I was re-reading the beginning in preparation for the class, how much I remembered of it, how clearly. I haven't opened it in nearly a decade, and yet I remembered so much of it, long descriptions as well as the tiny perfections — a look, a gesture that makes for a "decisive moment." I'd been half-afraid that I wouldn't be as impressed with it as I was when I first read it, but no, it still seemed perfect. And the rush of excitement that comes from teaching a work one loves to bits — there's nothing like it. Actually, there was something else: it's a hard book; the students knew it & I know it. And so I felt very useful. So often with novels I think, "What's there to explain or even talk about? It's all on the page." Of course, there's no telling what students won't understand, or, to put it more hopefully, what unusual interpretations they'll come up with, but I'm often disoriented.* That didn't happened in my Mrs. Dalloway class: I knew exactly what would be hard. (But actually I'm never at a loss for words when discussing works I love, even if they're as straightforward as The Witch of Blackbird Pond.)

*For example, Joyce thought that Henry Foster, in Brave New World, is being sincerely kind to Bernard when he offers Bernard soma. She'd missed the significance of "Let's bait him." And another example: Jae suggested that the Duke of Browning's poem is actually warning his future bride's emissary: "My next duchess had better have eyes only for me." I think that gives him rather too much credit for controlled calculation, but not for subtle cleverness, so it's a useful way of considering the poem.