December 11: Concern, the Future, Disappointed in Myself

"Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?"

Old Spencer poses this question to Holden right at the beginning of the book.  Spencer is worried about Holden's imminent flunking out of Pencey Prep.  But it's a pretty existential question.  Obviously, Holden doesn't expend a whole lot of thought over his future.  Growing up, for Holden, isn't very attractive.  It's giving up everything he holds most important:  innocence and hope and invincibility.

I know what Holden's getting at.  I think I spend way too much time worrying about the future.  I think about it all the time.  Which is kind of silly, when you think about it.  I mean, I'm fretting over things that haven't happened, that may never happen.  I'm worrying over the possibility of struggle and pain.


Tonight, I had to audition for an organist job at my wife's church.  Basically, I have been fulfilling the duties of this position for the last 12 or 13 years.  The church leadership has decided to make this position official, with a job description and everything.  Well, almost everything.  They're cutting the salary in half.

Anyway, I auditioned, and I sucked.  I let my nerves get the better of me.  I stumbled and stopped.  It wasn't great.  I'm highly disappointed in myself.  I'm not the kind of keyboardist who can sit down with a new piece of sheet music and play it flawlessly.  I need practice.  I had none tonight.

I've been seriously disappointed in myself a lot recently.  I spend a lot time questioning my life choices about jobs and schooling.  Maybe I should have finished up my PhD.  Maybe I should have gone on a national search for a real job at a university.  Maybe I should have not bought my house.  Maybe I should just have remained a renter and let someone else worry about taxes and utilities.  Maybe things would be better.  Less stressful.

But I can't change the past.  I can only live with the consequences of my past choices.  I'm a poet.  I'm a teacher.  I'm a church musician.  Basically, I'm all these things that don't really pay with a whole lot of money.  If I had made a few different choices, I think my family would be more secure and safe and happy.

Saint Marty could have been a computer programmer.  A plumber.  An auto mechanic.  Instead of a disappointment.

Been there, done this

December 7: Exam Paper, Grading, New Cartoon

"You glanced through it, eh?" he said--very sarcastic.  "Your, eh, exam paper is over there on top of my chiffoniere.  On top of the pile.  Bring it here, please."

Old Spencer really grills Holden about his exam paper.  Holden has failed Spencer's history class, and Spencer is trying to talk some sense into Holden before he leaves Pencey Prep for good.  Of course, Spencer makes no headway with Holden at all.  Spencer's simply too old for Holden to take seriously.

I have been grading my students' final exams all day long.  I took a couple short breaks to drive my daughter's friend home after the sleepover and to go to church this evening.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to get back to it.  I have to be done by Tuesday.

I don't have a new poem for you guys this evening.  I haven't had any time to be creative, aside from drawing a couple of cartoons.  I've also been busy trying to trap a mouse I spied yesterday morning in my bathroom.  Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while already know about my mouse phobia.  It's a strong phobia, bordering on absolute, irrational terror.  My wife has also seen the little bastard in the living room underneath the Christmas tree.  We're not talking about a cute, cartoon Christmas mouse.  This is a diseased, black-furred pest.

Saint Marty is ready to firebomb his house to kill a rodent.

Confessions of Saint Marty

November 5: Concern for Your Future, Observation, Prayer for Strength

"Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?"

Holden's teacher, Old Spencer, poses this question to Holden at the beginning of Catcher.  Spencer's trying to "put some sense" into  Holden's head.  After all, Pencey Prep is the latest in a line of schools Holden has flunked out of.  The future is not in the forefront of Holden's priorities, to say the least.

I am the exact opposite of Holden.  The future is constantly in my thoughts.  And that is just as unhealthy as not giving a crap about the future.  It causes sleepless nights.  Anxious days.  Distraction.  Unhappiness.  Plagues of frogs.  You get the idea.

My current cause for anxiety is a classroom observation.  As part of my yearly evaluation at the university, I must be observed by a full-time faculty member.  My number is up this Thursday.  I will have a guest in the back of my classroom, taking notes, watching my every move, waiting for me to make mistakes.

OK, I'm exaggerating.  The guy is simply there to do a job.  He told me not to get worried or stressed.  However, being the kind of person I am (Type AAA), I can't really follow his advice.  I have to prepare a lesson plan that makes me look good.  Or at least intelligent.  At the very least, I want to look like I know what I'm doing.

That's my goal.  That's my prayer.

Dear God,

Sometimes I think of You as the guy in the back of my classroom, taking notes on my screwed-up life.  That's not a very comforting image, and it's probably not very accurate, to boot.  Unfortunately, I grew up eating helpings of guilt every day.  I can't help myself.

In the next couple of days, could You please help me out?  I need some strength and courage to make it through my class observation on Thursday.  I'm a good teacher.  I know that.  I shouldn't be worried.  I know that, too.  But, again, I can't help myself.  I'm hardwired for worry, stress.  I can't help myself.

So, strength.  Give me strength.  And confidence.  I could use some of that, too.  Strength and confidence.  You did it for Moses.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

Chapter One:  How to Not Shit Yourself

May 2: Old Spencer, Exam Paper, Final Grades

"You glanced through it, eh?" he said--very sarcastic.  "Your, ah, exam paper is over there on top of my chiffonier.  On top of the pile.  Bring it here, please."

Old Spencer is a little ruthless here, grilling Holden at the beginning of Catcher.  Spencer is trying to guide Holden, give him life advice.  All Spencer manages to do, however, is disgust him and piss him off.  After Holden fetches the exam, Spencer proceeds to read it aloud to him.  Holden sits and listens, mortified.

I spent all of last night grading my Intro to Film students' final exams.  I finished the job this morning.  In the space of a couple hours, I managed to read, comment on, and grade 23 of them.  And I enjoyed it.  I thought it was going to be torture, like eating mashed potatoes laced with ground-up glass.  Instead, I coasted through it.  Then, I dragged out my calculator and finished totaling final semester grades.  I had to fail no student.  There were a pack of A's, a gaggle of B's, and some C's.  It was a good class.

Now, I'm sitting in a lecture hall, watching The Wonder Boys with Michael Douglas, waiting for my students to not show up and collect their graded final exams.  Yes, I'm Old Spencer, expecting Holden Caulfield to walk through the door so I can hand him his essay questions.

After The Wonder Boys ends, I will pack up my belongings, bring them back to my office, and be done with teaching until the fall semester begins.  It's a long four months without university paychecks.  Even longer now that I had to shell out $400 for a brake job.  Yes, I'm a little melancholy right now.  I'm going to miss this part of my life.  Miss campus, students, and colleagues.  I like the academic hustle.

Until the end of August, unfortunately, Saint Marty's title is simply going to be "medical records clerk."

Farewell, academia

April 12: Exam Paper, a Turd, P.O.E.T.S. Day Funk

He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something.  "We studied the Egyptians from November 4th to December 2nd," he said.  "You chose to write about them for the optional essay question.  Would you care to hear what you had to say?"

"No, sir, not very much," I said.

Old Spencer is making Holden feel pretty lousy about himself at the beginning of The Catcher in the Rye.  Holden knows he's flunked Spencer's class, and now Spencer, in a misguided attempt to help his failing student, starts reading Holden's essay exam out loud, making Holden feel even worse.

Yesterday evening, I attended a poetry reading given by one of my good friends.  Matt's new collection has just been released, and Matt was typically charming, funny, and brilliant last night.  The room was packed, mostly because everyone knows he's charming, funny, and brilliant.  By the end of the reading, I was feeling great for him and lousy about myself.

As Ricky Ricardo says, "Now, Lucy, if you just give me a chance to 'splain."

I left the library last night really excited.  When I got home, I started going through my binder of stuff, trying to assemble a little packet of chapbookable poems.  After about an hour, I came to the conclusion that, in comparison to what I'd heard Matt read earlier, my poems were, to paraphrase Holden, pieces of turd.  I proceeded to descend into one of the foulest moods I've experienced in a long time.

That mood has extended into this morning.  I am in a P.O.E.T.S. Day Funk.  I'm afraid to start looking through my poems again.  Afraid that I'll simply confirm last night's impression of my work.  My plans for this evening aren't going to lift my spirits, either.  My wife and I are having dinner with Matt, and then we're going to the university's MFA celebration.  That means listening to MFA graduate students reading excerpts from their theses for a couple hours.  I'm hoping some of the poets will suck so that I can feel a little better about myself.

Saint Marty ain't havin' a good day, folks.

This pretty much says it all

April 2: Flunking, Grading, and Saint Isidore

"Do you blame me for flunking you, boy?" he said.

Holden's history teacher at Pencey Prep asks Holden this question.  Old Spencer is trying to get through to him, the way that Mr. Antolini tries later in the novel.  I think Spencer is earnest in his effort to help Holden, but Holden is reluctant to accept advice from anyone over the age of about ten.  He views most adults as phonies and sell-outs.

I understand Old Spencer.  I just spent the last three or four days correcting my students' midterm exams.  Most passed without any problems.  However, out of two classes containing over 70 young minds, there are always a few people who simply fail.  In fact, they don't just fail.  They fail on an epic, Cecil B. Demille scale.  This semester, I had three or four midterms like that.  And, like Old Spencer, I'm trying to understand how it could have happened.  I've spent more than a little time asking myself, "Where did I go wrong with these kids?"

I've been in the teaching profession long enough to know that I'm probably not to blame for these F's on my midterm.  Each one of these students probably has legitimate reasons, like Holden, for his or her poor performance.  Divorcing parents.  A terminally ill grandparent.  Drug or alcohol abuse.  But I still find myself rereading their midterms, trying to acquit myself of any wrongdoing.  I want my students to succeed, and, when they don't, I tend to point fingers at myself.

I've always felt a little bit like a fraud in the classroom anyway.  I can't believe, sometimes, that I get paid to do the stuff that I do.  I earn money for talking about movies and books and poetry.  It's a pretty good gig.  And I've been doing it for a while, which means somebody thinks I know what I'm doing.  But I'm no Saint Isidore.

Isidore was a Spanish archbishop around the year 600.  His feast days is April 4.  The thing that makes me feel inadequate when I think of Isidore is that, aside from doing all the holy and saintly stuff, he also found time to be a "voluminous writer.  He composed a work containing the whole circle of science, which shows his vast erudition.  This is one of the earliest encyclopedias on record.  The Saint was versed in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages."  Talk about a show-off.

I wonder what Isidore would have said to the student who talked to me after class yesterday.  She had just received her failing midterm grade, and she looked close to tears.  After the lecture hall emptied, she apologized for performing so poorly in my class.  She said she'd just found out her parents were divorcing during Christmas break, and she hasn't been able to recover from the news.  She feels like her life is spinning out of control.

I let her talk, and I stood there and listened.  She was being raw and honest, and her whole body was shaking with the effort.  After she finished, we talked about ways to help her pass the class.  I talked to her about the student counseling center on campus, told her she needed someone to talk to, someone who could provide professional guidance.

By the time we left the room, she was laughing and breathing visibly easier.  She's not out of trouble yet, but I think I provided her some comfort and good advice.  That's what Isidore would have done, I'm sure.  I think that's what Old Spencer tries to do, in his own clumsy way, as well.

Saint Marty said a prayer for his student last night.

I like Old Spencer's pajamas

January 3: Vicks Nose Drops, Sick People, Book Club

The minute I went in, I was sort of sorry I'd come.  He was reading the Atlantic Monthly, and there were pills and medicine all over the place, and everything smelled like Vicks Nose Drops.  It was pretty depressing.  I'm not too crazy about sick people, anyway...

Holden is visiting his history teacher, old Spencer.  Old Spencer asked him to stop by to say goodbye before Holden leaves the school permanently.  (As I said yesterday, I believe, Holden is being kicked out of his boarding school at the beginning of the novel.)  And old Spencer has the grippe.  He's sick, and Holden can't stand being around sick people.

I'm sick at the moment, and I can't stand being around me.  It's a strange illness, sort of ebbing and flowing all day long.  Sometimes, I feel just fine.  My head and nasal passages are clear, and I have tons of energy.  Other times, my head and nose are filled with mucus, and all I want to do is go to sleep.  That's the way it's been all day long.

I spent most of the day getting ready for my monthly book club meeting.  Cleaning the bathroom.  Sweeping the floors.  Cleaning strawberries and a pineapple.  Melting chocolate for my chocolate fountain.  I also mailed off the last of my Christmas poems to distant relatives and friends.  I haven't had a lot of time to relax.

Tonight's book was Fannie Flagg's A Redbird Christmas.  It's a short, sweet little novel about a man dying of emphysema who moves to a little town in Alabama called Lost River.  There, he's befriended by the town's citizens and learns for the first time in his life the true meaning of love and happiness.  It reads like a fable, especially at the end, and I loved this book.  Flagg has a way of tempering the sentimentality of her stories with wry wit and a twist of the Southern gothic.  All of her characters are just a little off, and that's what appeals to me.

A Redbird blessing

So this night, when Saint Marty feels like he's suffering with the grippe, like old Spencer, he gives thanks for his book club, and Fannie Flagg, and a Christmas fable.