For the past eight years I have taught a two-week, summer poetry class for high school students. Every summer I watched them interact, share jokes and music, the bolder ones including the quieter ones, the romantics entrancing the skeptics. Last year, because of Covid, it didn’t happen. This year we met on Zoom. And this year I made assumptions. I thought that because these students had been learning online for the past year they would be removed and distant from the experience. I knew not to question why their cameras were turned off, whether for accommodations or Zoom fatigue. Even so, I resolved to give them the best writing workshop I could.
I know that teens can be skittish and moody and, I assumed, more easily discouraged. The young writers who showed up through the ether were geographically dispersed and economically and culturally diverse. I referred to all of them as they. They wrote with me every day for three hours over two weeks. When the bandwidth failed, they left the class and came back in to re-set the signal. Every time.
One student in particular had a very shaky signal. Their voice crackled and skipped. I asked them to read their pieces again. We worked with chat and emails. Sometimes they went silent for long stretches because the best they could do was to listen in and get what they could. But I always knew they were there. Sometimes when they read, so much street noise punctuated their poems, that I pictured them in a second-story kitchen at an intersection that housed a fire station, a metro stop, a bodega and a playground. Every once in a while the signal was strong enough for the camera to come on and I got a glimpse of a kid with thick curly hair, bright eyes, headphones on, and a look of pure concentration.
The poems were straight from between the shoulder blades, between sensation and meaning. I was hurtled and lifted and stilled. I touched orange peels, bumpy roads, wet bathing suits and small wrists. These writers knew they needed to write, and not even the Internet was going to get in their way. They listened to each other and cheered.
On the last day, at the end of the three hours, I had to click “End Meeting.” I have done this in other workshops hundreds of times with the strange sensation of an instantly closing door. But this time it was a surreal vanishing trick. We waved and waved again, saying “Thank You!!” “Good-bye!!” And then they were gone. I did not know I would cry so hard when the screen went dark. I still hear them. Their poems and their responses to each other made the two weeks an exquisite illumination.
Upcoming Events
Four-Day Writing Retreat! August 10 – 13, 2021 Hawley, Massachusetts. Let the rolling hills, the evening swifts, the quiet woods, and the excellent organic meals restore your inspiration and spirit. We will write with abandon and listen with respect. All writing interests and experience are welcome. Seven participants maximum; separate bedrooms; vaccination required. $850 All spots currently filled.
Weekly Writing Workshops Resume September 13th
Monday evenings: 6:30 – 9:00; Tuesday Mornings: 9:30 – 12:30; Thursday evenings: 6:30 – 9:30; Friday mornings: 9:30 – 12:30
Maud & Addie
On June 10th, Maud & Addie came home to cheers in Halifax, Nova Scotia through the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia.
Stay tuned for more readings and events with Maud & Addie!
A small portion of proceeds from this book have been donated to the Mi’kmawey Debert Cultural Centre to honor the original and continuing storytellers of the Mi’maq Nation and support the survivors of the Shubenacadie Residential School.
Regal House Publishing: Hard copy & Paperback
iPg Independent Publishing Group: Paperback & Ebook
Prompt Photo
