Reprise: Happily, Less Full of Phil

07/13/16

I learned just today of the passing of a great poet and incredibly influential teacher: professor Phil Dacey. I was finishing up college as a middle-aged non-trad, Phil was in his last year of teaching before retirement, and he helmed my first class at Southwest Minnesota State University. The year – and his tutelage – I will not forget. I wrote this piece four years ago.  Rest very well, Phil. You will not be forgotten.

MLL

This year provided one of the best last-day-of-school experiences I have ever had; certainly the best in the four-years since my mid-life career change placed me in front of various New Orleans high school classrooms.

The fact that I am slated to start the next school year in the same place I ended the previous one is a celebratory first. Being recognized for the accomplishments of my students via their test scores, developing a strong set of professional relationships at a place I really enjoy working and being part of a team-oriented environment all puts a decidedly different spin on reviewing the past year and looking ahead to the next. Add in the fact that I did most of what I did this year on the fly, being hired a month into the school year at a ‘turn around’ school, and there is a lot of personal and professional satisfaction to be had.

But there is another, doesn’t-show-up-in-the-grade-book stat that points to a successful year: I’m running low on my supply of Phil Dacey’s old poetry journals.

Phil Dacey

Phil is a poet, and a pretty darn good one  http://www.philipdacey.com/ . I first met Phil in the fall of 2003; he was one of my professors in the writing program at Southwest Minnesota State University, and I had the immense good fortune of catching him in his last year before retiring after over thirty years of teaching. As a forty-four year old ‘non-trad’ in a top-notch college writing program, I had a different take on things than my peers, and a different appreciation for some of the different verbal proclivities of some of my professors – Phil included. I was often the only student in the room chuckling at an obscure aside.

I spent my first semester back in school after a fourteen-year layoff in Phil’s very intense poetics class, where we spent the semester working our way through an 810 page volume entitled Poems for the Millennium; the University of California book of modern & postmodern poetry. A book and a class like that can either ignite or squelch a love of poetry. In Phil’s hands, we got to explore. And love. (Well, mostly love) poetry of all kinds.

Phil’s plan for retirement was to move from the plains of southwestern Minnesota to the confines of a New York City apartment. This required divesting himself of a massive collection of books, journals and other poetic paraphernalia amassed over a forty-plus year stretch as a student and teacher, and his preferred method of disposal of these goodies was hallway distribution to anybody who wanted them.

An added, tactile bonus to my first year at SMSU.

It became a routine of many of us: swing by Phil’s office to see what he placed in boxes or simply stacked outside of his office door under a Magic Marker-scrawled ‘Help yourself’ sign. While I snatched a few hard-cover books from my daily office drive-bys, I concentrated mostly on the myriad of poetry journals Phil was releasing from dusty shelf captivity and back into the wild.

I fancy myself a poet, and to be hanging out with and learning from poets like Phil and other SMSU notables every day was an experience that I was soaking in and enjoying to the hilt. The fact that I was also expanding my library exponentially on a weekly basis was just frosting on the cake – though a source of dismay to my wife, who was not a fan of my pack-rat tendencies in general.

But there was a method to my madness. As Phil and his fellow poet-profs reminded us regularly, if you’re going to write poetry, you need to read a lot of poetry. So I did.

To say Phil’s collection of journals was eclectic was an understatement. There were mainstream and underground selections, slick, university press journals and crudely mimeographed, hand stapled tomes and everything in between. Some were very high-brow, many were themed-endeavors of some sort, a lot were outright weird. Many of them were sent or given to Phil for review and were autographed with personal notes; many of them also had Phil’s notations covering much of the margins. (One thing I don’t think I ever told Phil was that I learned as much about his evolution as a writer and evaluator by reading his commentaries on the work of others as I did from actually reading his poetry.)

Most of these journals dated from the 1970’s and 80’s – apparently Phil’s heyday for such poetry publications, both in terms of volume and breadth of styles and topics. While there were a number of slick, professional looking entries (mostly from prestigious university presses) most of them were modest budget and fairly small and thin; thirty, forty pages or so in length, most about the size of a Reader’s Digest.

By the time the ‘03-‘04 school year and Phil’s career as an official teacher had come to a close, I had amassed a sizeable chunk of his journal horde – a couple hundred volumes, tightly filling three copier-paper boxes.

Phil retired and I went on to graduate in 2006 with a B.A. in literature and creative writing and an impressive personal library of books my professors had written augmented with a whole lot of interesting poetry journals prominent and obscure.

Fast forward to 2008. I moved with my wife and two sons to New Orleans to step into a new life as an English teacher in one of the worst public school systems in America, while at the same time  my wife was transitioning to become a special education teacher. While we left behind corporate careers and shed much of our stuff, I made sure my library (including aforementioned poetry journals) came with me – for professional as well as personal reasons.

While I had visions of some sort of initiating some sort of inner-city-Dead Poet’s Society-love-of-words epiphany for my students, courtesy of my personal love of poetry and my rather broad collection of non-mainstream poetical works, it has yet to materialize.

At least, the way I envisioned it.

Over the past four years, beginning with my first-year-of-teaching, aged 13-to-17, New Orleans ward-loyal, gang-banging, ankle-bracelet-wearing eighth graders, through last year’s 8th, 11th and 12th grade New Orleans East charter school wannabe toughs, to this year’s batch of struggling west bank (some well over age) sophomores and juniors, those journals have been trotted out at least a few times each semester, whenever poetry rears its mischievous head on our curriculum.

They get us out of the standard textbook’s American Literary Canon and mainstream stabs at diversity, and sets us off on some very different planes. (Oh sure, I still give them a dose of Whitman and Dickinson, and I love Frost so they get a bit of him, too, but we go off on some…definite roads less traveled.) It’s funny what kids will connect with.

Poetry overall is exasperating for my students. They are frequently confused with poetry in general, as the idea of interpretations varying widely from person to person frustrates them; they seek concrete yes/no answers, and poetry – good poetry- doesn’t often offer that singular certainty.

To top it off, in Mr. Lucker’s class, wildly different poetic interpretations (as long as they have some rational basis) are celebrated, further adding to my student’s consternation. Whether they are more frustrated with differing viewpoints, or my embrace of multiple viewpoints…I haven’t figured that out yet. I can tell you that my students test scores have been pretty good, and that when it comes to reading comprehension, my students score quite well. I attribute some of that to our reading a lot of poetry.

I don’t pander to the (often) lower common denominators of basic metaphor and simile examples in the textbooks. Phil’s old poetry journals help me go further than that. I like getting out those journals into my students hands – they’re different. They are compact, and for the most part, don’t look like the typical turn-off-their-interest book, especially once the students open them – often the most difficult part of the equation.

But my stash of old journals is shrinking.

I noticed as I packed up my room last week that I am down to my last copier-paper box of Phil’s poetry journals – and not a quite full box, at that. Over the past four years, many of them have disappeared into the bookbags of my students; many of them under some sort of subterfuge (I’m not sure I could ever accuse a kid of ‘stealing’ poetry, so I let ‘em go) and many go to kids asking if they could keep a particular journal, or specific poem. (Instead of letting a kid who asks to ‘tear out one poem’ from a journal, I tell them ‘just take the whole book.’) A few of the journals have basically disintegrated from classroom use and abuse, but for the most part, they have simply found their way into a student’s hands and head. Where they end up…?

I think Phil would be okay with that.

Making poetry accessible was, and I would think still is, important to Phil. Nowadays, it’s important to me, too. So even though my supply of poetry journals is running low, I figure the box I have left should get me through the next school year. It’s been fun while it lasted, and hopefully some of those kids got something out of whatever little volume they took from my class.

It is not what I had planned when I began collecting Phil’s old journals, but then again, what poet ever plans a really good poem?

Inspirare

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old
time is still a flying, and this same
flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.”

– Robert Herrick, 1591 – 1674
as quoted in the film Dead Poet’s Society

Along with many others, I mourn the recent death of Robin Williams. I have seen a lot of posts over the past day featuring clips of his DPS1iconic work as Mr. Keating in Dead Poets Society– usually the ‘O Captain, My Captain’ scene from the end of the film.

It is a glorious piece of cinema.

When I think of Robin Williams, or of Dead Poets Society (which happens a lot this back-to-school time of year) I as often think back to the beginning of the film; the ‘carpe diem’ scene near the school’s trophy case, where Mr. Keating encourages his young charges to ‘seize the day’ as he invokes the faces of students long since passed:

DPS5
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4gpAW2kt6k

“They’re not that different from you, are
they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones,
just like you. Invincible, just like you
feel. The world is their oyster. They
believe they’re destined for great things,
just like many of you. Their eyes are full
of hope, just like you. Did they wait until
it was too late to make from their lives
even one iota of what they were capable?
Because you see gentlemen, these boys are
now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen
real close, you can hear them whisper their
legacy to you. Go on, lean in.

The boys lean in and Keating hovers over Cameron’s shoulder.

KEATING
(whispering in a gruff voice)
Carpe.

Cameron looks over his shoulder with an aggravated expression on his face.

KEATING
Hear it?
(whispering again)
Carpe. Carpe Diem. Seize the day boys,
make your lives extraordinary.

As someone who left the corporate world mid-life to become a teacher in the classrooms of New Orleans, it would not be a stretch to say I had some passing visions of being a Mr. Keating-type of teacher. That has yet to transpire – at least in any Hollywood sort of way.

But the allure of being a John Keating looms large for many of my colleagues and I, as I discovered this past week preparing for the new school year with colleagues at my new school. Williams’ death came up a number of times, more than just in passing.

Over the past few years I have frequently been asked to summarize my (fairly new but very eventful) teaching career, which I entered with a middle-aged, career-changer idealism that quickly took its lumps in the inner city classroom. In that particular regard, my teaching career mirrors that of Mr.Keating returning to his alma mater.

dps3 DPS4As I have become fond of saying, “I spend most of my days far closer to being Dr. Phil than Mr. Keating.”

There is irony in recalling that scene as I approach a new school year at my decidedly inner-city locale and all the inherent issues that come with that setting. No, I do not teach at an exclusive private school. Unlike the young gentlemen of the film, who may be intellectual giants but lack much in the way of street smarts, I will be dealing with kids who are for more savvy to the up-and-down complexities of real-life. My students will not need to learn of the fragility of life as those in the movie did as most of them have experienced it in some way.

I will not have to show my new students old photographs.

Nor will I be standing on any desks (though I have a new audience for my substantial supply of personal go-to antics) and I will not 5.0.2 suggest to my students that they call me anything but ‘Mr. Lucker’. That being said, I could do worse than strive to channel as much of my inner John Keating as possible. As Williams/Keating states in the film, “There’s a time for daring and there’s a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for.”

Or as I like to think of it, you roll the dice and sometimes you get to yell “Yahtzee”!

If my new crop of seniors comes out in May with just one key take-away from the year ahead, I can only hope it is this, as William-as-Keating notes in the film: No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.

We’ll see what the new school year, in a new environment (for me) has in store.

May Mr. Williams rest in peace. Mr. Keating will never have to.

‘Gather ye rosebuds’ indeed.

Happily, Less Full of Phil

This year provided one of the best last-day-of-school experiences I have ever had; certainly the best in the four-years since my mid-life career change placed me in front of various New Orleans high school classrooms.

The fact that I am slated to start the next school year in the same place I ended the previous one is a celebratory first. Being recognized for the accomplishments of my students via their test scores, developing a strong set of professional relationships at a place I really enjoy working and being part of a team-oriented environment all puts a decidedly different spin on reviewing the past year and looking ahead to the next. Add in the fact that I did most of what I did this year on the fly, being hired a month into the school year at a ‘turn around’ school, and there is a lot of personal and professional satisfaction to be had.

But there is another, doesn’t-show-up-in-the-grade-book stat that points to a successful year: I’m running low on my supply of Phil Dacey’s old poetry journals.

Phil Dacey

Phil is a poet, and a pretty darn good one  http://www.philipdacey.com/ . I first met Phil in the fall of 2003; he was one of my professors in the writing program at Southwest Minnesota State University, and I had the immense good fortune of catching him in his last year before retiring after over thirty years of teaching. As a forty-four year old ‘non-trad’ in a top-notch college writing program, I had a different take on things than my peers, and a different appreciation for some of the different verbal proclivities of some of my professors – Phil included. I was often the only student in the room chuckling at an obscure aside.

I spent my first semester back in school after a fourteen-year layoff in Phil’s very intense poetics class, where we spent the semester working our way through an 810 page volume entitled Poems for the Millennium; the University of California book of modern & postmodern poetry. A book and a class like that can either ignite or squelch a love of poetry. In Phil’s hands, we got to explore. And love. (Well, mostly love) poetry of all kinds.

Phil’s plan for retirement was to move from the plains of southwestern Minnesota to the confines of a New York City apartment. This required divesting himself of a massive collection of books, journals and other poetic paraphernalia amassed over a forty-plus year stretch as a student and teacher, and his preferred method of disposal of these goodies was hallway distribution to anybody who wanted them.

An added, tactile bonus to my first year at SMSU.

It became a routine of many of us: swing by Phil’s office to see what he placed in boxes or simply stacked outside of his office door under a Magic Marker-scrawled ‘Help yourself’ sign. While I snatched a few hard-cover books from my daily office drive-bys, I concentrated mostly on the myriad of poetry journals Phil was releasing from dusty shelf captivity and back into the wild.

I fancy myself a poet, and to be hanging out with and learning from poets like Phil and other SMSU notables every day was an experience that I was soaking in and enjoying to the hilt. The fact that I was also expanding my library exponentially on a weekly basis was just frosting on the cake – though a source of dismay to my wife, who was not a fan of my pack-rat tendencies in general.

But there was a method to my madness. As Phil and his fellow poet-profs reminded us regularly, if you’re going to write poetry, you need to read a lot of poetry. So I did.

To say Phil’s collection of journals was eclectic was an understatement. There were mainstream and underground selections, slick, university press journals and crudely mimeographed, hand stapled tomes and everything in between. Some were very high-brow, many were themed-endeavors of some sort, a lot were outright weird. Many of them were sent or given to Phil for review and were autographed with personal notes; many of them also had Phil’s notations covering much of the margins. (One thing I don’t think I ever told Phil was that I learned as much about his evolution as a writer and evaluator by reading his commentaries on the work of others as I did from actually reading his poetry.)

Most of these journals dated from the 1970’s and 80’s – apparently Phil’s heyday for such poetry publications, both in terms of volume and breadth of styles and topics. While there were a number of slick, professional looking entries (mostly from prestigious university presses) most of them were modest budget and fairly small and thin; thirty, forty pages or so in length, most about the size of a Reader’s Digest.

By the time the ‘03-‘04 school year and Phil’s career as an official teacher had come to a close, I had amassed a sizeable chunk of his journal horde – a couple hundred volumes, tightly filling three copier-paper boxes.

Phil retired and I went on to graduate in 2006 with a B.A. in literature and creative writing and an impressive personal library of books my professors had written augmented with a whole lot of interesting poetry journals prominent and obscure.

Fast forward to 2008. I moved with my wife and two sons to New Orleans to step into a new life as an English teacher in one of the worst public school systems in America, while at the same time  my wife was transitioning to become a special education teacher. While we left behind corporate careers and shed much of our stuff, I made sure my library (including aforementioned poetry journals) came with me – for professional as well as personal reasons.

While I had visions of some sort of initiating some sort of inner-city-Dead Poet’s Society-love-of-words epiphany for my students, courtesy of my personal love of poetry and my rather broad collection of non-mainstream poetical works, it has yet to materialize.

At least, the way I envisioned it.

Over the past four years, beginning with my first-year-of-teaching, aged 13-to-17, New Orleans ward-loyal, gang-banging, ankle-bracelet-wearing eighth graders, through last year’s 8th, 11th and 12th grade New Orleans East charter school wannabe toughs, to this year’s batch of struggling west bank (some well over age) sophomores and juniors, those journals have been trotted out at least a few times each semester, whenever poetry rears its mischievous head on our curriculum.

They get us out of the standard textbook’s American Literary Canon and mainstream stabs at diversity, and sets us off on some very different planes. (Oh sure, I still give them a dose of Whitman and Dickinson, and I love Frost so they get a bit of him, too, but we go off on some…definite roads less traveled.) It’s funny what kids will connect with.

Poetry overall is exasperating for my students. They are frequently confused with poetry in general, as the idea of interpretations varying widely from person to person frustrates them; they seek concrete yes/no answers, and poetry – good poetry- doesn’t often offer that singular certainty.

To top it off, in Mr. Lucker’s class, wildly different poetic interpretations (as long as they have some rational basis) are celebrated, further adding to my student’s consternation. Whether they are more frustrated with differing viewpoints, or my embrace of multiple viewpoints…I haven’t figured that out yet. I can tell you that my students test scores have been pretty good, and that when it comes to reading comprehension, my students score quite well. I attribute some of that to our reading a lot of poetry.

I don’t pander to the (often) lower common denominators of basic metaphor and simile examples in the textbooks. Phil’s old poetry journals help me go further than that. I like getting out those journals into my students hands – they’re different. They are compact, and for the most part, don’t look like the typical turn-off-their-interest book, especially once the students open them – often the most difficult part of the equation.

But my stash of old journals is shrinking.

I noticed as I packed up my room last week that I am down to my last copier-paper box of Phil’s poetry journals – and not a quite full box, at that. Over the past four years, many of them have disappeared into the bookbags of my students; many of them under some sort of subterfuge (I’m not sure I could ever accuse a kid of ‘stealing’ poetry, so I let ‘em go) and many go to kids asking if they could keep a particular journal, or specific poem. (Instead of letting a kid who asks to ‘tear out one poem’ from a journal, I tell them ‘just take the whole book.’) A few of the journals have basically disintegrated from classroom use and abuse, but for the most part, they have simply found their way into a student’s hands and head. Where they end up…?

I think Phil would be okay with that.

Making poetry accessible was, and I would think still is, important to Phil. Nowadays, it’s important to me, too. So even though my supply of poetry journals is running low, I figure the box I have left should get me through the next school year. It’s been fun while it lasted, and hopefully some of those kids got something out of whatever little volume they took from my class.

It is not what I had planned when I began collecting Phil’s old journals, but then again, what poet ever plans a really good poem?

Everything old is new again

One of the offshoots of my new teaching gig is the retro-yet-contemporary feel to my classroom; I have a ceiling-mounted projector with which I can utilize my school provided ELMO document camera. Anything from a single sheet of paper to a teachers edition-thick textbook can be placed under the camera and shown on-screen, and ELMO also projects computer or other electronic images. The camera itself is on a pliable neck and can be rotated, twisted and manipulated to point and focus on most anything in the room, so you can record and playback student presentations (or behavior!) and the like, as long as you have a memory card. A nifty little gizmo.

Unlike having a wall-mounted smart-board, however, the retractable projector screen that pulls down via a slim, white rope from its metal case mounted above the green chalkboard is somewhat less high-tech and tends to sway as I walk around it; my new technology meets 1965. Annoyance factor: minimal.

Yeah, you read correctly; I said chalkboard – there is nearly thirty feet of green pseudo-slate in the front of the room, slightly less than that on the back wall. I post info that can stay a while on the back chalkboard, but up in front of the class I spend a lot of time each day writing with chalk, and come home every day with chalky fingerprints and smudges in various pastel hues on my clothing and trailing little wisps of chalk dust as I go. Like the character Pig Pen in the Peanuts comic strip. Only…chalkier, and more colorful.

I feel so teacherish.

There are no dry-erase whiteboards in my classroom, no high-tech ‘smart boards’ ala the CNN election coverage set. I have chalkboards, different color sticks of chalk, and a pull down (“Filmstrip time!”) movie screen.

It’s working out quite well.

Let’s review:

Over my first three years teaching here in New Orleans, I have had three separate classrooms to call my own. The first room featured a smart-board that continually outsmarted the guys who installed it, as it never functioned properly, and the tech guys couldn’t get it squared away. I never had it functional for classroom use more than three consecutive days. A true waste of wonderful and donated technology.

It did, however, make a very expensive, super smooth easel and frame for all of the sheets of flip-chart paper I used that year.

My second classroom (same school, different grades) had no smart-board, but did have an overhead projector – but no screen, at first. Fortunately, the wall on one end of the room was white and relatively smooth, and a few sheets of that nifty flip-chart paper can tape together nicely to make a screen of sorts, in a pinch. It was moderately functional until the overhead bulb burned out and the school wouldn’t order me a replacement, so I scrounged one from an older overhead in a storeroom and used that until it too, burned out.

And boy, did I enjoy printing up all those nifty transparencies.

Last year I had a smart-board and an ELMO in my high school classroom, but ended up using the smart-board as simply my ELMO screen most of the time as the video and audio drivers in my school-issued laptop didn’t always play nicely with the software of the smart-board. We were able to make it through a few video presentations with the seniors without a glitch of some sort. A few.

Oh, those previous classrooms did have dry-erase white boards…sort of. One classroom had four-by-eight sheets of glazed bathroom wallboard attached over the original whiteboard. (I saw this all the time in my year as a sub around the area; when a white board gets damaged, they put the $9-at-Home Depot 4 x 8  sheet of waterproof wallboard up over them. This works fine at first, until the finish starts getting worn off, and the dry-erase ink doesn’t totally erase. Cheap, and oh-so-moderately effective.)

My whiteboards last year were damaged by custodians who accidentally used abrasive cleanser trying to clean off permanent marker. This left the whiteboard unusable, so they got most of the permanent markings off, then covered it with plastic laminating film. Like the wallboard, the laminating film works fine for a few weeks until the finish starts to wear and then all the dry erase ink doesn’t erase. Plus, in putting up the film, they had some big air bubbles and creases that never got smoothed out. Writing on a white board with numerous speed bumps led to illegibility, so I mostly wrote around them. This gave my board a somewhat Dr.Seuss feel, with sentences resembling roller coaster blueprints.

Did I mention that in the rooms I have had that did have smart boards, they were mounted in odd locations with skewed sight lines and also mounted over prime, usable whiteboard space?  That is also an issue all over the area; installation locales frequently defy logic.

This year, I’m doing quite nicely with my ELMO, slide-show screen, chalkboards and colored chalk – thank you very much.

There is one small glitch with my retro-feel set up: the chalk leeches all of the moisture out of my hands, and at the end of some days they resemble bleached-out beef jerky. Hand lotion doesn’t help much, as I mostly end up with pastel mud on my hands.

What I really need is good ol’ Madge, the Palmolive lady. Remember her? Her television commercials always featured Madge giving a woman a manicure; while she worked on one of the woman’s hands, the other hand was soaking in green, Palmolive liquid. When a dishwashing liquid was revealed as the cuticle-softener, the woman would inevitably gasp, and pull her hand out while Madge calmed her, and, laughing,  put the skeptical hand back in the Palmolive.

Okay, truth be told, it’s not just the dry hands that are really the issue here. Maybe I’m just looking for a manicurist who will take care of my hands the way Madge did. And no, this is not some weird Madge fantasy thing from my teen years. Madge never did much for me. But I digress.

My new school has nice copiers (that actually work – another rarity in my time here) available for teacher use, though we also have a bit of a throwback at our disposal: a Duplo duplicating machine.

Yeah, a Duplo. Remember the mimeograph machines of your school youth, the purple-inked, smelled-of-that-mysterious/mood-altering duplicating fluid? We have a much more contemporary version that lets you program various settings, adjust quality, much like a copier – and in black, not purple.

But this thing still uses a rotating drum and real ink and who knows what all to make copies. Each teacher has his/her own carton of ink that must be put in/taken out for each use – less some other teacher come along and use up your ink to make copies – so it’s not like just walking up to a copier, punching in some codes and hitting ‘start.’

I haven’t seen, let alone used one of these things, in at least fifteen years.

Its messy – most of the teachers I have seen using it wear latex gloves when handling the ink cartons – but the copy quality is good, and as we are apparently supposed to use it only for big copy jobs of thirty-five copies or more, so I probably won’t be using it much.

Still, I need to order my box of ink so I can relive the thrilling days of yesteryear today.

Then get a memory card for my ELMO so I can make my classroom as interactive as it can be.

And I need to find my ‘Madge’.

Hey, its 2011. Real men can get manicures – or at least blog about them wistfully.  All of that dusty chalk…