MY STORY—Beach, the metaphor

In the early 2000’s when I began secondary teaching, I taught summer school at one of the urban schools in the Capital District. The typical student, usually African-American, came from a low socio-economic background with drugs and gangs a normal part of their lives. In an effort to make their experiences less onerous, I hung a beach towel with Kit Kat standing exuberantly, arms flung wide, and gave the class the theme of “Life’s a Beach.” When students questioned if “beach” had another less-pleasant connotation, I feigned ignorance of their suspicions, claiming I was only trying to put a positive spin on summer school. In all truth, being stuck in summer school was a “beach” for all involved. (At the time, I was still searching for my own inner beach, as detailed in the companion piece to this blog, “Finding My InnerBeach.”)

One summer, a young woman who did not fit the stereotype of the summer school student was in one of my classes, a literature elective, as opposed to a Regents course. She needed to make up seat time. While she seemed on the surface to have the advantages that the usual summer school student did not have, in terms of socio-economic advantage, I found out later her home life and personal life were quite chaotic. Like most summer school students she was quite bitter at having to be there at all, so she immersed herself in the poetry that we studied, going above and beyond in her reading.

Her mask of attitude hid her enjoyment. After the summer term ended, a school administrator familiar with the young woman’s situation wrote me a letter telling me what a positive difference this immersion in poetry had made for this young woman. It provided an oasis, a safe beach, in the shipwreck of her life. The administration thanked me. However, I was only the purveyor. The young woman saw the beach of poetry for what it was and took advantage.

Many years ago, I wrote a poem inspired by the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I am including it here:

Summer Sermon

Nighttime rolls in—

An eely Gulf tide.

Summer thunder clouds

storm away stars

reflected in fish eyes.

Pail-crafted castles

ornament

God’s aquarium.

Rain drops applaud

vacant beaches

strewn with baby shark

glass bottles,

ghosted by relics

of tourists’ revels.

Summer thunder clouds

stoically blink

fluorescent lightning,

booming warnings of

repentance and cleansing

before the barrage

of rain preachers subsides.

Nighttime rolls out—

an oily Gulf tide.