The kids are all right (plus an embedded writing exercise for you to try!)
At the start of the year, I always ask my literature students – a mix of juniors and seniors – how many of them like to write. This year, only one hand went up, though describing it as “up” is being generous, because her elbow was bent and it was the kind of hand-raising a student could easily redirect into a head-scratch if a teacher actually called on them. I’m convinced that more teenagers (and adults!) like to write than they’re aware of – or rather, than they remember, because something shifts in middle school – a combination of adolescent insecurity and someone saying something to them during this tender time in their lives to convince them they are not “good” at writing. Meanwhile, at school, we begin to teach writing in a way that siphons out all the joy, asking students to write analytical essays in a style that is formulaic and frankly, unreadable and would never be writing that would live in the world for an audience of more than one (your high school English teacher). So, I am delighted when only one or two hands are raised gingerly as a response to my question; I love being able to – not so much teach, as help guide students back to the time before they stopped enjoying writing.
Early on in college, I was deciding between majoring in English and visual art. Even after I committed to English, I continued to take a lot of art courses. One of the ways we learned to draw and paint was to emulate the masters by studying their styles and trying it ourselves. For writing, teachers tend to discourage copying, because it feels like plagiarism. But in fact, there is so much to be gained from emulation.
In my Asian Literature class, we are studying classical Japanese poetry. In the 11th century, there was a court lady known as Sei Shonagon, famous for writing The Pillow Book, which is filled with court gossip, lists, poetry, and other observations. The writing she does is known as zuihitsu – 隨筆, which means “follow the pen.” The style is free, unencumbered, and intimate, making it a perfect form for reluctant writers to emulate. Often, Sei Shonagon’s poems are simply lists of things she notices.
In fact, all art – writing, drawing, music, dance, film – begins with noticing and observing. I have found that classical Japanese poetry, such as zuihitsu, is a very gentle way to remind young people how to notice because it is rooted in the concept of wabi sabi. Wabi is the beauty in simplicity – for example, a warm mug of coffee in your hands on a cold morning, the crackle of dried leaves under your feet in the fall, noticing small gestures of care between your aging parents, as when your 80-year-old father reaches over to brush off crumbs from your mother’s face. Sabi is the beauty in imperfection – like the misspelled words on a mother’s day card your child drew for you, the softened, frayed sleeve cuffs of a favorite sweatshirt, the squeak of a door hinge that lets you know someone has just come home.
(Perhaps these lists are already evoking a certain kind of emotion in you now?)
As a warm-up in class, I asked students to give me examples of lists. Because self-professed non-writers tend to be shy when doing live, in-class exercises, I started things off and wrote on the board –
Top 10 songs I listen to when I’m sad/Things I find really annoying/ Best parts about the winter holiday
And then their suggestions – much more evocative than what I’ve offered – started to come in:
Things that make me feel nostalgic/Things people take for granted/ Things I wish I could say, but don’t
(Perhaps these lists, too, are also already nudging you to write something?)
Then, as a class, we chose one subject and expanded on it. Teenagers, as young as they are, really like to explore the feeling of nostalgia, so that’s the one we riffed on together and suddenly, the atmosphere in the room was lighter, the energy looser, and there was a notion that, if this is what writing can be, then maybe writing is something they can do, after all.
For homework, they had to write their own zuihitsu. I gave a few parameters: Write about something you care about, write as specifically as possible, and incorporate the concept of wabi sabi.
I could try to describe what I felt the next day when I opened up my students' documents and read their poems. But I think you will feel it more viscerally by reading the poem I "wrote" in response. I took lines from each of their poems and collaged them, making very minor adjustments, into a collective zuihitsu, which I titled
Lines my students write that tell me, the kids are all right
Going through an airport and feeling like the world is big again, and everything feels new; the clicks of my dog’s paws running across the floor on a calm morning when no one is awake – in my happiest moment, I think of you first, like a time when phones didn’t exist
I wish to be like the weather – like spring, heavy with endings, but also
with something quietly beginning; and when the rain falls soft and steady, the ground shines and the air smells clean; or breathing in the winter air
when every breath is a sting in my lungs –
the chill in my hands,
the soft crunch under my boots, how quiet and still.
To have a home to return to, to look into eyes filled with happiness and find myself reflected there – if only I could bring just a feather back to earth with me.
The show eventually ends, but the memory never dies