Sitting in English this past week has droned. Poetry is the unit and my teacher has spent the last couple of days trying to convince us the meaning we can get out of poetry. I get the meaning, that you can find emotions you never thought existed through a person's careful word choice. Most people haven't shown much enthusiasm.
Today's lesson was on how you can't force meaning out of a poem, you have to let it embrace you on its own. This seems kind of awful, but I sat with a smirk drawn across my thoughts because she was forcing the idea onto us that forcing ideas out of a piece of work is bad. Mind you, this teacher doesn't know my name still even if I add my thoughts in discussion more than most.
You can't force meaning out of a poem; yes, it does have to wash upon you like a shocking ocean wave on a sleeping beach-goer. But trying to teach that kills the magic. It makes it seem like work, kind of like how reading and analyzing books doesn't really appeal to me anymore because of its redundancy in school. She's killing the magic and I hate it.
I sat and talked with my freshman english teacher today. About life, school, reminiscing about my favorite year and how she made that possible. She didn't judge anything I said, questioned some of it, but never judged. I think that's how English should be. Open. A safe space to talk about other things besides just English. Not a room where you mean nothing more than grades in a book.