The kids had finally succeeded in pissing me off.

It was the fourth day of my five-day stint as Writer in Residence at Thurgood Marshall Middle School on Chicago’s Northwest Side. Each of my four classes had been wonderful except this one — yet just the day before, these kids had turned wonderful too.

Now on Day 4, though, they were worse than ever — talking to each other, not paying attention. One girl in particular liked to throw me off with a running commentary under her breath; yet I could tell she was excited and motivated. I figured she’d been class clown so long she couldn’t stop now even if she wanted to. But on Day 3 she’d proven me wrong by becoming my most enthusiastic participant … and proven me right about being excited.

Now it’s Day 4 though and Day 3 might as well not have happened. They’re chattering away. I try to discuss the assigned story and they haven’t read it. Oops, there goes 20 minutes and what to do now? “Could we write our final paper instead?” someone asks. I grab as if for a life preserver. “OK, write for 10 minutes.” What do they do? Chatterchatterchatter.

I’ve been had. I’m pissed and I’m afraid I show it. “I’ve been trying to treat you like adults,” I say. “I think that’s a new experience. All your lives you’ve been graded and corrected and told what to do, and now here’s someone trying to treat you like a colleague, a fellow writer. I have no power over you: I can’t give you a grade, I can’t send you to the principal. But if I’m not mistaken, you asked to be in this class. You want to learn what I’m trying to teach. Well, you are only going to get out of this class what you put into it. You can only learn how to analyze the story if you read the story. You can only learn to write by writing.”

They’re quiet during my tirade. Then I ask them to start writing and they pull out their pads and pens, bend their little heads and write in silence for 10 minutes. Wow, I think. So this is what it’s like to be a teacher.

Actually, my inner teacher has been coming out a little more each day. I slow down, explain more, spell out, define words I’d been sure (on Day 1) they’d understand. Around Day 2.5 I begin getting very directive: Get out your pads, put your pads away, start writing, stop writing, stand up, sit down. I’d been warned that kids won’t want to speak, won’t want to volunteer, and I quickly discover how true that is. But …

… around Day 2 or 3, one girl asks to read what she’s written to the class. Then another. Then a third. I have the presence of mind not to utter a word of critique: Instead I lead a round of applause for each reader.

… I’ve prepared about 60 “hooks” — first lines of potential stories. Example: “Sunny said he had to return the U-Haul by six o’clock or pay for another day so there we sat, staring at everything we owned piled up in the middle of the floor …” I cut these up and put the slips into my white straw hat. Every day I pass the Magic Hat and have the kids spend five minutes completing the story. I make the rules tougher each day, and on Day 4 I announce they’ll write for twice as long — 10 minutes, not 5. Afterward, almost all say longer is better. More time to think, more time to get into our stories, they say. So on Day 5, I have them write for 20 minutes … and, glory be, they like that best of all.

… At the end, one of the girls has written 7+ chapters of a novel. Another girl, who asked for critique on Day 3, hands me a complete rewrite on Day 5 that is a far stronger piece.

This was a tough week. On my 30-minute break between Class #2 and Class #3 the first day, I just sat and stared into space, too pooped even to read the newspaper. After Class #4, my armpits were soaked.

The classes were a mix — some kids already writers, some writer wannabes, some with learning disabilities, a few in bilingual education. Something like 90% were Latinos, and 92% were classified as in poverty.

I didn’t learn that 92% statistic until I’d been teaching a day or so, and when I heard it I was stunned. As far as I was concerned, these kids are great — interested, motivated, excited, more than a few with that light shining in their eyes. One or two troublemakers, sure, and several with apparent language or learning problems; but when it came time to write, those heads were bent over their pads too, writing in silent concentration.

I started out my week with only one real goal: To silence their inner critic, to drive a stake through the heart of the little demon who sits on every writer’s shoulder and whispers, “You suck.” I told the kids that rules matter, spelling matters, grammar matters, and they’d go to English class and learn and get graded on that stuff, but that in my class that stuff didn’t matter — just write. I told them all first drafts are crappy and it’s OK, that’s why God made second drafts. I read them Anne Lamott and Elmore Leonard and a lot more besides, all to get them to that point on Day 5 where they’d write for 20 minutes and not want to stop.

And now it’s over. The second school had a last-minute conflict and canceled my gig with apologies. Frankly, I’m not losing sleep over it. The Chicago weather has been beastly, I have to get up at 5:15, I miss my wife and family, and, frankly, Week Two would be drudgery as much as discovery.

I am left wondering how professional teachers do what they do — “on” five days a week, doing five or six “shows” a day, toughest audiences anywhere, one false move and you’re a goner. Not only that — you have to improvise, respond to what the kids give you, be ready to turn on a dime. As my “handler” Dan August put it, it’s like playing jazz. Angelina Jolie probably works one-fiftieth as hard and as much, and doesn’t worry about live audiences.

Meantime, teachers probably earn about the same as Angelina’s gardener. Most teachers surely have the brains, skills and stage presence to earn more, yet they put in 40-year careers, slogging away each day in the face of cutbacks, parental indifference, crappy facilities, budget cuts and now No Child, hoping to see that light in a few eyes. I doff the Magic Hat to them.

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. Good news: My novel TO LOVE MERCY has been honored by selection for the Open Book Program of the Institute for Positive Living — one of only three books selected each year. The Institute, a nonprofit group dedicated to instilling a love of reading in underprivileged kids, was to buy books for 250 kids and fly me back to Chicago to address them but …

P.P.S. Bad news: They serve kids down to 3rd grade, and TO LOVE MERCY is not appropriate for that age group. With embarrassment and regret, they backed out. But they love the novel and have offered a …

P.P.P.S. Consolation prize: Someone in their organization — a board member maybe — works for Oprah. They’re going to try getting a book to The Big O via that individual. Boy, do I hope they succeed.