Learning

When a high school teacher looks out
over his sophomores in the middle of another September,
he sees what looks an awful lot like a Missouri hill
with mountainous aspirations—
faces of leaves all at their primes,
fiery red with a fury of foliage not yet fallen,
and the softer, somehow shier yellows that temper
between the oranges in the middle that just persist.

But by the center of October, even though
some still strive, there are those whose peaks
seem to have already passed with the last day
of vacation, those who have already been brighter
than any of their peers but are on their way down
now, they’ve begun to brown now, begun to dim.
There are those whose faces realize
that the best times of their lives
are already behind them. They’re no longer
bright but bored with waiting out the rest.
However sparsely they may be strewn
throughout the midst, their disillusion rises
like smoke from the center of summer’s
last bonfire. Even though their brethren
still lick toward the sky and flicker,
their pallor symbolizes the flame’s
last breath, wisping for sure.

But remember the end of August, the start
of September? That is the place toward
where teachers all reach, when each
new face still shined. Bright pupils
like a palate of irises on a chart
for color contacts, all so brilliant
and glowing that we’re moved
to wonder, “Are they real?” None
can deny them that sharpness.
Those tiger-eyed students are still high
on the huffing of those summer winds,
still hungry and ready to digest
all the lessons life has to offer.

A wise man said, “The greatest mistake
that teachers make is asking their students
to write about their summer vacations."
That summarization zaps the energy
and forces it into the past.
And even thought the calendar says
that the fall does not begin until September 2-4,
the summer always ends
with that first homework assignment.
The freedom becomes a fainter memory
when the student is forced
to regurgitate it to the page.

So when will we start to see
that every ounce of that energy
is wasted when it is shoved
into those school-shaped jars?
No matter how many holes are poked
into the sides, those lightning bug
intellects need the room to fly.
No matter how many tray-sized
lunch portions are dropped in there,
the only thing that keeps them squeezing
out their best times into five paragraphs
is the fear and consequence
that naturally comes from never getting to
hear the pomp and circumstance
that the world affords to each
and every good little worker bee.

But by the end of October they’ve started to see
that even the best of insects get their honey
harvested and enjoyed by those who never need worry
about getting employed. They’ve started to wonder
why they so willingly submit to tests
and grades from those who don’t care a whit
for the filling up that their souls never seem to get.

It’s in school where we learn how to earn that life
that will invariably lead to a too-early grave,
but the pesticides of their lessons will
only ultimately kill. The colors that call
and summon the bugs of the world
are indeed what we really need
to grow and adapt to our world.

It’s not classes we need to take,
or the Dean’s list we need to make.
It’s not stores where we should shop,
or weight we need to drop.
It’s not hair we should worry about growing,
or how much our teeth are glowing.
It is to where we all would fly
if only our teachers had the courage to ask us why
we haven’t already run down the halls of our high schools
and broken down the double doors of expectation
that hold us back from the real world
where we would learn what we really need,
and why we haven’t already asked them why
they keep shoving us into these class-shaped tombs
where we’re all forced to fall from the treetops of summer
where we once flew.