The Beast

Though I'm a dorky English major who loves analyzing literary elements (themes and symbols turn me on), my students are apathetic. Perhaps "apathetic" is not the right word since they're too apathetic to know what "apathetic" means, but they simply don't care. I don't expect them to convulse with excitement over how cool novels with deeper meanings are, but it would be nice to see even the remotest bit of interest in the topics to keep me going; my enthusiasm can only sustain so many blank glares.

While teaching Lord of the Flies, I hit a brick wall when I realized many of my students actually understood the symbolism at play, but still didn't care. It's one thing if they're not grasping the concept, but when it becomes clear that a good portion of them comprehend it just fine and still take no satisfaction in recognizing it. I tend to re-explain literary aspects that blow my mind when I don't discern an "A-ha!" moment from the kids; over time, I'm realized that just because they don't react, doesn't mean they're not following. Instead, they just don't care. "I get it, but so what?" a student told me recently. This opinion is frustrating to me as I cannot relate; I'm in this profession, at least in part, to inspire and share my passions with future generations. To see them dismiss what I love breaks my heart.

During a class when I received more than a couple of "So...?"s, I decided to stop my prepared lesson in its tracks. I needed to reconnect with these kids some I broke down the bigger picture of the "Beast" on the Lord of the Flies island. Though there is no physical beast, the kids create this scapegoat for their other existing fears that they cannot articulate. I elaborated on this metaphor and in order to make them apply the novel to their own lives, I challenged my students to identify the beast in their lives. Their answers appeared slowly, but with some patience and prodding, they finally opened up with some amazing things.

I have a student whose beast is the idea of college. Ey finds it so frightening, ey admits to doing poorly in school in order to purposefully sabotage eir chances of going. Another student is afraid of college because of the pressure of being the first in eir family with the potential to go college and doesn't want to screw it up. A different student worries each time an overweight relative eats because ey is afraid that this relative will soon die. One student is afraid of the apocolypse and worries that it might come at any moment, while another student likes to be certain of things and gets scared when events are out of eir control. These are not issues I've faced personally, but they're deep, and they're real.

What struck me harder were the students who identified beasts that I face, too. One student is afraid of one day paying bills and having to be responsible for eir own life. In that vain, another student does not want to ever "grow up" or not find what ey truly wants to do in life. As a shorty, I can relate to the student who is about 5'0'' if that and desperately wants to be taller. This student cites eir height as the source of eir insecurities. A different student is afraid of heart break, the same emotion I had when I read another student's confession: "My beast is people. Trying to be with people makes bonds and when bonds break it hurts and thats what really scares me. No people, no pain, that's how I deal with it."

I've been there, I am there. I shake in the face of responsibility. I worry that I'm not doing what I want in life and that I'll never get there. I'm short and am directly and indirectly limited in countless ways because of the social stigma attached -- what I wouldn't give to either be a few inches taller, or have the effects of being short disappear. And I, too, am hesitant to put myself out there with people on a deeply emotional level with people because I'm tired of being hurt. I don't want to be hurt.

I was touched by my students' displays of vulnerability. Their fears were real, and they were mine. I had to fight my instinct to plop down besides them and share my own experiences and emotions. I wanted to be vulnerable right next to them and connect on the common ground I find we routinely miss. But I couldn't. It would be unprofessional, I told myself. If I'm being honest, however, it has nothing to do with that. I'm rarely professional. These kids walk all over me already, if I openly show them my weaknesses, I'm afraid they'll take advantage of the situation, or exploit my admissions. I want to create a safe environment in my classroom, but I don't even feel safe myself.

This is my beast.