I was never one of those wildly popular teachers who
stood on desks, ripped pages out of textbooks, or spoke with a bellowing voice (think
Dead Poets Society). My approach was
less showy but equally compassionate and filled with high expectations and a
love for poetry. In fact, I used to say poetry was part of the
reason I chose to teach English over social studies.
There are two times each year when I become especially nostalgic
for the classroom—in the fall when it’s time to welcome back former students
and greet new students, and in the spring when it’s close to graduation and
students are all a buzz with their minds focused on life beyond high school.
Inspired by a college graduation invitation received in the
mail yesterday, I dug out old notes of appreciation from former students. I still have some notes and pictures from my
early days of teaching on the Cherokee Indian Reservation in North Carolina,
and of course, there are notes from my students right here in Lexington,
Kentucky.
One of those notes was from a student who addressed me--O Captain! My Captain! Now, if that isn’t
one of the most honorable ways to address a teacher, I don’t know what is.
Today’s Favorite
Text Friday is the poem by Walt Whitman O
Captain! My Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has
weather'd every rack,
the prize we sought is
won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the
steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops
of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain!
rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for
you the bugle trills… keep reading
Walt Whitman may be one of the dead white authors, who garner
much criticism for being part of the Cannon, but it’s still important to read
authors like Whitman, and it’s essential to me that I share this poem with my
young sons, who enjoy poetry along with me.
They like to hear me recite it, read it, and they like to read it to me
as well. Last night we read Whitman’s
poem as a tribute to the interest my 8 year old has in Abraham Lincoln. But, we also read it so I could relive a
nostalgic memory of my days as a high school teacher.
