Entering an American high school can be a bit disconcerting,
especially when one has to pass through security guards and closed gates at the
entrance of the school property, and then through the gamut of cops patrolling
the foyer. The specter of Columbine lurks in the back of my mind…
New Mexico is America’s 5th poorest state and
it’s certainly evident when one walks Taos High School’s institutional
yellow-hued corridors. But the kids in my poetry class belie my expectations.
Their parents may be among the poorest in the Union, but their energy and
engagement - and pure joy – is so awesome.
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| Trophy case at THS |
There’s also another pretty amazing difference that sets THS
apart from any other high school I’ve been in. In the entrance hall, where most
schools proudly display showcases of athletic awards, THS has a trophy case
full of POETRY achievements! How refreshing to be in a school where art trumps
sports!
THS has a long history full of teachers who know the
difference poetry can make to a kid’s life, and they’ve found creative ways to
engage their students with it. Not only have they cultivated a vibrant and
robust slam team who travel the state giving performances, but poetry makes it
firmly into the curriculum with two intensive lessons a week. And these kids think
poetry is totally cool.
What a joy it is to walk into a classroom of teenagers who
are at-the-edge-of-their-seats thrilled to have a real live poet in their
midst! No attention flagging here! Nowhere else, even at professional readings,
have I experienced the beat-ish reception of finger-snapping to lines and
images they appreciate.
What’s it like to be a poet? They ask. How do you structure
your day? What do you do about writers’ block? (I asked them the same question
back to see if there’s some answer to loosen up mine)
Then, when the kids enthusiastically shared their poems,
there was a quiet reverence from the whole class. Respectful listening, careful
comments and pure appreciation. These kid-poets are stars! Oh yeah, this is a
draft I just had to write last night at one o’clock… They say. I wrote this
about my brother who went to Afghanistan… This is a poem for my friends who
have committed suicide… Again, I am blown away by young peoples’ talent. What
bloody great poems!!
And then I’m back out on the heat-seared street, feeling refreshed
by delight, pleasure and a little easing of my own ennui. Onwards, with the gem
of poetry in my heart.
