behold - for you i have written a poem

Well, sort of. It is a combination of lines from last Sunday's episode of "The Sopranos," phrases people have Googled recently that led to my blog, and responses I got today when I asked my kids what they knew about the Renaissance (and as it turns out, their knowledge of that particular subject is limited solely to the Renaissance Faire).

Why? Because, baby, I'm ridiculous.

"Stories of Castration"

Ohio redneck pothead
(heavy with paintball artillery)
says I should get my buttons back.
Listen, mister -
I don't mind paying for the tailpipe,
but a recent nipple sighting
and giant turkey legs
make me salivate.

I'd complain,
but who'd listen?

Everybody hurts, emo children.
Relax, your cousin's on the job,
peeing in inappropriate places,
taking my medication,
and telling stories of castration.

You can even get nachos there.

High rollers only.
Keep walking girlie drink drunk,
because the black knight always wins.
And dragons were quite common,

with fire that burns your scalp
and a monkey that threw its poop at me.

Shakespeare was bisexual!?
(and very good with spelling, too)
But when my time comes, tell me -
will I stand up?
Because I got lost at the Renaissance faire -

but only once.

what it's like

I know that many of you have often wondered what it might be like to be charged with the edumacation of nearly one hundred freshmen every day, and although it’s often an experience that words fail to accurately express, I think the experience that I had yesterday sums it up pretty well.

We’ve just begun studying Greek mythology, so the kiddies were tasked with researching and presenting on one god or another. During the presentations there was a definite din in the room, which is usual, although what was unusual was that the buzz of conversation was actually related to what we were studying. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to me that stories of castration, gods taking animal forms to rape mortal women and incest would hold their tiny attentions, but I was still a bit surprised at how uncharacteristically engaged everyone was in the lesson. Go me.

So, I was standing in the room trying to explain why Paris was an idiot for choosing to give the golden apple to Aphrodite over Athena, effectively endorsing beauty over intelligence, when a hand shot in the air. It was John, a quiet kid who does little and never ever participates. The expression on his face was intensely quizzical, and he appeared to be working something terribly complex over in his mind. He paused when I called on him, and looked at me as if he’s been watching me for the last five months trying to figure me out and the pieces had finally just fallen into place. I must admit that I was secretly anxious to finally get a glimpse inside his mind, hoping that the question would be something insightful and asking it would allow us to have our first intelligent class discussion of the year. But when he did speak, it was to make a statement rather than to pose a question:

“Mrs. W, you’re short.”

And in a nutshell, that is what it’s like to teach freshmen.