On Turning Ten by Billy Collins

The Elephant in the Room

I didn't get into this to become the enemy. The villain. The bad guy. I never wanted it to be them vs. me. Kryptonite isn't cheap, and I'm not even in the market anyway.

I like teenagers. If I start hating them, I probably shouldn't be a teacher.

But look at me. Telling these young whippersnappers to get off my lawn. Sitting in this computer lab shushing kids like a librarian stereotype.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Keep it down.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I effin' hate this.

It's spring break in 20 minutes and I'm asking them to focus.

I remember being 15. I hated school, I hated teachers, I hated adults. It was YOLO before Drake could even walk. It was trending before hashtags. I just wanted to have fun. No, sir, I don't have a hall pass. Yes, sir, I'll go back to class. No, ma'am, I don't know where that came from. Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry.

Now look at me.

The enemy.

Maybe I'm just bitter. Maybe I'm taking my baldness out on them. My sore ankle. My lost adolescence.

There's an elephant in this room. They call him The Future. He's wearing sunglasses and knows everything. He's the coolest kid in the neighborhood, with the whitest teeth, but everyone's too intimidated to look him in the eye.

We all know he's there, but I'm the only one who's taking him seriously. These kids are too busy giggling and No way, are you serious? and Shut up and Ha ha hee hee ha ha hee.

This is the worst flirting I've ever seen.

They pretend like they don't see him there, staring at them. You know how teenagers are. Like they're all performing and the cameras just started rolling. We may as well be in the stands of a football game on a Friday night and the boy we like is sitting right behind us.

I'm not saying I wish I was them. Because I don't. When I was 15, Puberty was just a monster under the bed. So those weren't the glory days for me.

Maybe I'm just waiting for the bell to ring too. 

Tomorrow (Cuz that's when I wrote it)

T.G.I.F.!

But anyway.

I wrote a few poems and someone had the brilliant idea that maybe I should read them. So last night, I read them. And then I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about everything I was scared of. Cause baby, I was so scared. I was scared of standing up in front of all those people. I was scared of not being interesting. I was afraid that they wouldn't like me. And if they did like me, what if it didn't last and what if I died and they didn't come to my funeral because the weekends are busy?

The future is overflowing with time but I can't stop worrying that it's running out. I just bought a new pen and I'm still not satisfied. I don't know if they noticed, but last night I couldn't really look them in the eyes because if I did then we both might've gotten lost. Sometimes I'm afraid that maybe we're all that beautiful and I don't know about them, but I still think I'm the center of the universe. And strangers sit around and watch my life like The Truman Show...but I know that was just a movie. Because I notice myself in crowds and usually I just blend in.

I want to be more than just Earth decor.

I want to be taller. I want them to like me- even if I don't know them (especially if I don't know them). I want to go to Seven Peaks and take my shirt off- like take my WHOLE shirt off and just walk around. Comfortable. Secure. Happy. But that never happens. I'm too worried about other people and you know what I really hate? Other people.

Hey, look. I'm glad we got the chance to catch up, but really, I never wanted to talk to you about your job. Or how crazy the weather was. Or how school was going or what was new or how things were or what was up because I DON'T CARE. I don't care about you. I don't care about the people in your life. I don't like any of them. I don't like giving courtesy laughs and I definitely don't like anything you've posted on Facebook even though sometimes it may appear as if I liked it. I was just trying to be nice.

I think I might be allergic to PHONY and right now, I'm about to sneeze, yall.

No offense, but I'm tired of not offending you- besides, I have too many numbers in my phone anyway. And starting today...if I have a booger in my nose, I'm just gonna pick it. I don't even care.

The 49th Street Galleria

When I was a kid, we went to the 49th Street Galleria like every day. It was 1989 and the world was only as big and as far as my mom could drive us. She dropped us off at 3 and picked us up at 10. (Sometimes I would call her from just outside the roller skating rink and convince her to wait until 11.) It was what they called the good old days.

I pegged my pant legs, sometimes I let my sister dress me, we listened to R&B music but never thought about what it said, and we made it rain with tokens.

We drank Orange Juliuses until our chests hurt, we had pockets full of tokens and appointment books full of nothing, there were girls everywhere, and they even turned the lights off while we roller skated.

I still have callouses from the batting cages, I still wear glasses from standing too close to the arcade games, my voice still hurts from karaoke, and all I want to do these days is dance. My stomach hasn't felt like that since forever.


Last week the building came crashing down. I just spent 12 minutes trying to come up with a metaphor, but sometimes real life is more poetic than poetry.

I've been sad all week and I couldn't figure out why until I wrote this post.

a random thank you letter

Mr. Nelson and Roah,

I'm sorry. There are kids who are standing on the precipice of the end of their story and men being raped thinking they have to keep it hidden because things like that can't happen to real men and hearts breaking without making a sound because no one can hear bleeding and all around the world there are people losing limbs and dying from osteosarcoma. And here I am. Typing this so futilely.

But I had to get the words out soon or they'd never escape. I'm afraid this feeling will run away from me and I won't be able to get it back because no one ever knew it was true. So here's to both of you. Maybe I'm just being an attention whore.

These words are a gin and tonic mix to Mr. Nelson with the bittersweet, moving, scary, heartbreaking, heart-mending, full, genuine words and Roah, with the beautiful eyes and voice and the Apollo inside, but most of all his wonderful lightning enigmatic eccentricity:

I want so badly to a part of it all. Last Friday, I went to Speak for Yourself. I think you were supposed to be there Mr. Nelson; there was a poem about you from Charles Darnell. Leaving early was the hardest part. Everything else was beautiful and it's been too long. The night pulled tightly on my heartstrings while my heart made ugly music and harsh sounds because it just didn't know how to handle the discovery. People are so passionate and torn and brave to go up there and show others their words with voices vulnerable and powerful. I felt like the poets were giving me a peek inside of their soul that I shouldn't have been looking at. But I couldn't bring myself to look away. I've been spending hours between the SFYS blog and Paranoid Breakable and anonymous blogs and my dusty journal and Microsoft word. It's been wonderful; though I've been neglecting my homework terribly. I mean staying up until 2 AM terribly, which I guess isn't too bad because during a rough patch of a few months, I'd stay up until 4 some days, putting every little thing off because I took on too much; thinking I could do it when everyone said I couldn't. And I can't.

I want to go up to Tim and Taylor and Kyle and Soley and Shane and anonymous bloggers and both of you so I can say thank you. Because I've found something I feel infinitely alternating shades about. I found it in every last one of you. And it's been there for years, I was just too blind to see it, especially when I walked past SFYS posters last year, wanting to go live in poetry but never going, somehow never having the goddamn time. Especially when I skimmed over passages and articles without thinking twice about them. Especially when I had the interest to click on poetry videos but ended up not having the patience to finish them. I was so skittery.

I'm guilty of being selfish in wallowing self-pity and for not listening. I'm guilty of a lot of things. Before I graduate, before I die, maybe I'll have the guts to talk to you and say meaningful coherent sentences. Because man, that's a rarity for me. But a coward will say things and never do them and I'm not an interesting one. I've thrown away my chance at passing any AP tests and getting a flimsy paper that says I got straight A's in high school. I let good grades define me and I didn't know what I could be without them, but I've rediscovered something that matters to me. I hope I never lose it. It's reading and writing and listening yet it's not reading and writing and listening because those are just three words. All of it is better than ever before because in the drought I'd forgotten to even think about water. But now I'm in the ocean and water engulfs me. And I hope everyone finds their crashing waves of blue.

I wish I'd taken creative writing Mr. Nelson. I know you're saving a lot of kids from drowning by just knowing they are. And Roah, I wish I could ask you questions, but I'm just counting my stars to having really opened my eyes to words when I did. It's comforting and scary that I haven't even scratched the surface yet. I wish I knew more about visiting Paris and #stolen and letters and Anis and slam poetry. I really wish I had a blog and your prompts Nelson, but it would be so selfish because I'd just want my words to be read by someone and hope that maybe they liked what I wrote. I want to be one of the OTHER WRITERS. Maybe I just need to know half a person is listening. It was definitely selfish that when I got home from SFYS I took my pencil and wrote and thought and wrote and thought, liking the sound of my noise, instead of simply taking in what I'd just experienced. If you've read all the way down this stream of words, I couldn't tell you how much that means and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for taking time away from you, but I guess not enough that it kept me from hitting the send button. I'm sorry for the amount of "buts" and "becauses" and "ands" in this awfully long message that's vague and doesn't make sense. I'm sorry that I made you kind of know a part of me when I'm not worth knowing. People are always saying time must be managed and that it's a valuable thing and heals all wounds and other shitty clichés. I am truly sorry for wasting yours though.

Thank you from here to there and everywhere,

just a girl who loves CD's and has never kissed a boy and listened to "The Dreamer" and "Kitchen Sink"and "Welcome Home, Son" over and over and over while spilling this motley splotchy ink on you.

I'm sorry for making a mess.

a letter to a former student

Truly yours. Your biggest fan. This is Stan.

Great to hear from you. I saw your parents a couple weeks ago. I see your sister on B days. I hope everything's going well on your mission. Speaking of cliches: nobody's perfect. Just do your best, man.

It's my 6th year teaching. (I had you my first year. That's crazy. It doesn't seem that long ago. But it does.) So much has changed. But, I'm still the same guy. I'm still trying to be myself as much as possible. I'm still trying to get my students to love to write (and read, sort of). I still like the students. I enjoy being around young people. They're enthusiastic. They're alive. They're full of angst. They're trying to figure out everything. I love that about them.

So how have I changed? Well, I've gained like 10 pounds. I'm going bald. I'm getting some gray hairs. I'm smarter. Yeah, I'm smarter. I think I understand more about teaching. I'm embarrassed by some of the lessons I've tried (although I will say that I busted out the lesson about Regina Spektor's "Samson", because I remember you once said it was a good one. I taught it this year for the first time since my first year). I think I'm more compassionate. I understand students have other things on their mind. I understand that students have a lot of crap they deal with outside of school. But I still struggle not to take things personally.

(These are deep, heavy questions by the way. I like them.)

How have the kids changed? The easy answer would be PHONES. But that's not really true. I'm tired of people blaming everything on the internet. I mean, everyone has a freaking iPhone, I mean everyone. And Twitter is taking over the world (maybe not, maybe just my world). It's actually not that bad. I like it. I use it. I do see how it affects them socially, though. I'm worried about my own kids and iPads and video games and ADHD and everything. My oldest son (Cy, he's 9) wants to play on his iPad and all I see is a socially broken 16 year-old who doesn't know how to talk to anyone or look anyone in the eye. (Wait, I just described myself at 16, and at 34 for that matter. Maybe we're all a little broken.)

This is a difficult question to answer. I try to look at students as individuals instead of groups of people or types or students in general. So it's difficult to quantify, if that makes sense.

So let's go to the final question: what impresses me about students.

I love seeing a young person trying to be himself/herself. Not worried about fitting in, just worried about finding himself/herself. Some of my favorite students are NOT popular. They don't have a lot of friends (because high school kids can be very particular about who their friends are). I like the students who aren't afraid to be alone and aren't depressed about it. Or maybe they just have one or two close friends and that's it. They don't need to be in a group of 15 to be happy. I'd rather have two close friends that 16 superficial acquaintances (even though I'm pretty sure that's how many of my friends I had in tuxedos at my wedding, I don't think I even remember all their names).

I enjoy seeing a young person be real. Again, this is related to the first thing. They're not worried about fitting in or saying the right thing. They're just interested in being real. They're honest. They don't know everything. They're not afraid to laugh at themselves. They're kind. They're especially kind to people below them (on the social ladder, even though there aren't very many). They don't look at friends as investments or social capital. They're just looking for kindred spirits. And they have passion. I love being around people that are passionate about something. Like art or writing or music or something. But not sports. I mean, I'm passionate about sports too...but that's not something that impresses me about someone.

I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.

Seriously, I'm glad to hear from you. Not much as changed here. I'm still teaching and still loving it and still writing and still wanting to write more and still watching the Oscars and still wishing I was writing my Oscar acceptance speech and still wondering if I'm going to write anything this summer and still trying to be a better husband and father and teacher and human being and still failing at everything but still trying and I forgot to eat lunch today.

Anyway.

Preach on.

Ideas

Some ideas for poems that never materialized.