Keeping Up with the Smart Kids (reiterated)

By A.E. Bayne

I am sitting in my assigned spot, in the midst of a six hour seminar on teaching honors level English, in a room filled with years of scholarly intellect and insight. The topic – analyzing poetry at the college level with students who are on track to take AP courses during their senior year in high school. Why am I, an eighth grade teacher, worried about how a twelfth grader might analyze a Shakespearean sonnet or a ballad by Keats? Well, my dear friend, in this day and age it is vital that children be guided through the honors system just as they cope with raging hormones that cause them to act the fool for the rakish boy or comely girl down the hall. That is why I am here, in this scholarly environ, to learn how to move them from knowing to understanding; or, more commonly known as passing the AP English exam with a grade of four or higher during their senior year in high school.

Terribly interesting as this might be, the thing I find most compelling at the moment is the fact that not one of us in this room, no matter how professional or educated we are, is a bit different than when we attended that very same institution. When we are confronted with an overwhelming sense of inferiority among our peers, we defend with tenacity. Consider the question one rather scholarly twelfth grade teacher raises about the definition of antithesis presented by the facilitator.

“Why I thought that antithesis was a negation that presented itself to prove a point, such as, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but rather what you can do for your country’.”

Wherein, the facilitator throws out a term to define this quote that no self-respecting eighth grade teacher would attempt to drill into the noggins of his or her hormonally challenged pupils. And just like that, an eager young teacher from the eleventh grade supports the facilitator’s assertion, giving the classic Miltonian example of antithesis from Paradise Lost, but flubbing it at the end as if she is not quite sure of herself and is terrified to be wrong in the eyes of her peers.

It is in this hesitation that I recognize her insecurity, and acutely feel her painful need to be accepted as a fellow scholar in what should not be a competitive, but rather a collaborative, environment. Here, where we all come to the table with years of schooling and professional development, years of experience and age, in this place that should be as far removed from high school as the cliffs of Dover are from Delaware, I find myself reflecting on the very familiar need to prove oneself as ‘more than’. In this bright, articulate, qualified woman’s very insecure comment lies the true future for these AP, IB, and honors students – a life of fear of making a mistake, fear that one is less than one’s peers, fear of being ‘normal’. I can recognize the desperation in her voice, pushing her to appear better than her peers, her clever dialogue climbing a ladder whose top she cannot see, and I feel pity for our students who are about to embark on this path.

Insomnia ex vinum est ingravesco!

Star Date, October 27; the year, 2008. This is Captain A.E. Bayne coming at’cha from the Mothership, just inside the Dreamian Galaxy, orbiting Somnia 1027. Starfleet Command lost contact with the Somnians during a routine transmission three days ago. With growing concerns, they tore the roof off the mother sucker and sent us to turn the mother out. Thus far, we’ve had no luck in reaching the Somnians; but we chill, we chill.



Actually, it’s been quite some time since I was hit with a bout of insomnia, so I suppose I am due. In this case, my battle with the Sandman stems from a little thing called Wine-Awake. As I seem to have some time on my hands, I decided to do a little research on the subject. According to the medical web journals that I consulted, wine does commonly cause insomnia. Unremarkably, wine acts as a sedative, hence the warm toasties after a glass or two. Mmmm, love those warm toasties. It makes you very sleepy, but then it plays a little trick on you. Just as you are preparing to plummet into REM sleep, it flips a switch and acts like a stimulant. Those warm toasties become wide-eyed confusion around two or three in the morning. This effect, coupled with its diuretic and dehydrating qualities, may even last after the alcohol has left your system through the kidneys. A sedative and a stimulant in one handy-dandy package; why, someone should market this stuff. Oh…yeah, they already have.

So, why is it that when I experience insomnia it always wakes me around 3 a.m.? Ray Bradbury gives an answer in Something Wicked This Way Comes, a gorgeously written novel for those of you looking for some purely poetic literature. Bradbury’s protagonist, Charles Halloway, postulates that 3 a.m. is the soul’s midnight. He ruminates, “Doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open.” Now there’s something to chew on and spit out. Perhaps my subconscious mind is simply trying to cheat death by taking back a bit of the night. Maybe there’s something in me that doesn’t enjoy the ebbing of the blood, or the turning of the tide.



Ah, but why be so morbid about this situation. I choose to place a positive spin on things; so, rather than tossing around in my balmy flannel sheets for an hour or two I will view these hours as life gained. What to do with my extra hours? Why, I could write the fourth chapter of my web novel; or I could clean my room (yikes). I could work on a hat I’ve been knitting, play with Photoshop, or clean up the dishes that I left on the counter last night. I could join countless other humans in surfing web; or I could draw in my sketch book. I could play with my Rhapsody account. I COULD try to go back to sleep. Nah! There is definitely something to be said about gaining three full hours of waking life on a night when I hardly expected it.

I am feeling a bit drowsy now. The writing helps, as does the missed hour of sleep. Maybe I’ll climb into bed and try to get comfortable. Yes, those flannel sheets are beckoning. I forgot how chilly it gets at this time of the morning, and I do have a long day of teaching ahead of me. I have exactly…fifteen minutes until I have to make my funk the p-funk. Shit! No time for sleep; the Somnians have all left the building. Now the only choices are whether to lace the coffee with rat poison or heroin-substitute, with shower to ensue. Maybe next time, eh?

Keeping Up With the Smart Kids

By A.E. Bayne

I am sitting in my assigned spot, in the midst of a six hour seminar on teaching honors level English, in a room filled with years of scholarly intellect and insight. The topic – analyzing poetry at the college level with students who are on track to take AP courses during their senior year in high school. Why am I, an eighth grade teacher, worried about how a twelfth grader might analyze a Shakespearean sonnet or a ballad by Keats? Well, my dear friend, in this day and age it is vital that children be guided through the honors system just as they cope with raging hormones that cause them to act the fool for the rakish boy or comely girl down the hall. That is why I am here, in this scholarly environ, to learn how to move them from knowing to understanding; or, more commonly known as passing the AP English exam with a grade of three or higher during their senior year in high school.

Terribly interesting as this might be, the thing I find most compelling at the moment is the fact that not one of us in this room, no matter how professional or educated we are, is a bit different than when we attended that very same institution. When we are confronted with an overwhelming sense of inferiority among our peers, we defend with tenacity. Consider the question one rather scholarly twelfth grade teacher raises about the definition of antithesis presented by the facilitator.

“Why I thought that antithesis was a negation that presented itself to prove a point, such as, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but rather what you can do for your country’.”

Wherein, the facilitator throws out a term to define this quote that no self-respecting eighth grade teacher would attempt to drill into the noggins of his or her hormonally challenged pupils. And just like that, an eager young teacher from the eleventh grade supports the facilitator’s assertion, giving the classic Miltonian example of antithesis from Paradise Lost, but flubbing it at the end as if she is not quite sure of herself and is terrified to be wrong in the eyes of her peers.

It is in this hesitation that I recognize her insecurity, and acutely feel her painful need to be accepted as a fellow scholar in what should not be a competitive, but rather a collaborative, environment. Here, where we all come to the table with years of schooling and professional development, years of experience and age, in this place that should be as far removed from high school as the cliffs of Dover are from Delaware, I find myself reflecting on the very familiar need to prove oneself as ‘more than’. In this bright, articulate, qualified woman’s very insecure comment lies the true future for these AP, IB, and honors students – a life of fear of making a mistake, fear that one is less than one’s peers, fear of being ‘normal’. I can recognize the desperation in her voice, pushing her to appear better than her peers, her clever dialogue climbing a ladder whose top she cannot see, and I feel pity for our students who are about to embark on this path.

amo, amas, amat

By A.E. Bayne

How do you write about love from a hundred angles? What a task, for every side is different, but three years into this love affair and I still don’t have a grip on any solid surfaces. It eludes me, eludes us, and yet we hold onto each other, sliding over each surface testing the shapes.

I don’t want to say that he is my soul mate, because in this pragmatic stage of my life I feel that my understanding of relationships has grown beyond the boundaries of pop culture terminology. There was a time when I would have screamed it from the dome of the Capitol, but no longer. No, he’s simply a man I can’t seem to shake; and perhaps I’m a woman he can’t quite rid himself of either. In that way, we are perfect for one another.

Years into this thing, we’ve tried dating, being “just friends”, casual sex (which was never very casual considering that we have a long history that winds its way backward to our adolescence), and even avoidance. The last never seems to take for very long. Now, we have skidded onto the next plane, love.

It’s a perfect word, love, so symmetrically eloquent. Its “l” takes hold of you, forms in your mouth like a flickering kiss, then leads you into a deep throated, guttural “uh”, a sigh of satisfaction. The biting “v” flirts, top teeth touching bottom lip, until the word finally whispers away on a breathy “eh”, barely a sound in the ear. The word hovers in the air with a sensual physicality. So to say that I love him, and he me, is a powerful development in this journey that we set upon in the parallel.

Odd, the conversation, and how the word has changed between us over these three years. I think I was the first to jump in with it two years ago, long after we put the kibosh on a traditional relationship. A quick “love ya” at the end of an email started it all, the “ya” giving it just enough jovial frivolity for it to pass under the radar, but a semblance of importance to let him know I was feeling more. Then, emboldened by his hearty reply of “love ya too”, I stepped further onto this slippery slope and told him one night, after hours of sex and laughter, “I love you.” I remember that I was so careful to keep my tone just earnest enough for it to seem unintimidating. Then, adding a support beam, he responded, “I love you too.”

So, for over a year now, through hot and cold periods, through dating other people and sharing feelings, he and I have continued to add planes to our relationship (which we do not call a relationship), built upon a growing sense of honesty, friendship, desire, and love. When this latest plane shifted into place, both of our worlds shook a bit. There was an accident, a typical prophylactic mishap, and I was certain I was pregnant. When it turned out that I was not, I called him and we talked for long hours about what it could have meant for us. Though it was terrifying, it also brought us together. He wanted to see me immediately, so we set a date for the weekend.

Yes, this most recent plane is a glossy one, one where he walks through my door and kisses me and time passes between us without notice. He holds me close and breathes “I love you” into my ear before I have even offered a hello. This surface is more transparent than the others, a window of sorts, yet I also fear that it is the most fragile and wont to cracking under to weight of what each of us wants.

I do wonder how many walls we will build together, and what type of structure this will be when we are through. I wonder if this latest design is the foundation, or rather a back door through which one of us will emerge one day and never look back.