Season of Change

by Kerri Buckley

Victoria sat in her velvet armchair staring off into space. The ruby colored softness was comforting. She had been that way for several hours, ignoring the phone and the coffee she'd made in the early afternoon. Her long brown waves were caught up in a red ribbon, matching the long linen dress she wore. The last rays of sunshine filtered through the sheer white curtain and splashed over the golden hardwood floor, creating a light show over her huge assortment of jade plants. This display would have normally delighted her, but she was too lost in her thoughts to notice. Her legs draped the arm of the chair and made her look more like one of her high school students instead of a teacher. Summer was over and school was about to begin. Usually this fact made her terrifically happy, but this year her enthusiasm was lukewarm. Something was very different.

In the past year she'd almost lost her life to cancer, and everything was colored by this experience. Coming through the other side of the illness caused many changes—a turning within—more than ever before. Life was different now—she was different. Faced with a new year and new season with the same curriculum left her feeling empty. A stack of books lay before her on her large oak coffee table alongside an empty lesson plan. These books were the standard classics- books she deeply loved and yet she gazed at them without interest. This apathy startled her. She had a week to figure out how to add life to her classes and to continue to create her own. Ten years of the same curriculum suddenly seemed absurd. Still, language arts were her first love. She sat in silence, contemplating her situation. Most of her students had expressed their appreciation for her classes and some had even gone on to major in English in college. The problem was not in the course content—it was solid and classical. Her teaching, she felt, exemplified quality and high standards. She sipped a bit of the cold coffee and made a face. It did not, however, ignite fires. Suddenly, because life was more precious and because she felt differently about the way she spent every minute now, she not only wanted to spark the flames of future Hemingways and Austens—she had to. She wanted not merely to teach, but to create fireworks and memories and had very little time to decide how.

The next few days were spent pouring over her journals, painting and making collages. She decided she would note in her last year's journals the sentences and ideas that stood out and seemed significant to her about teaching and about life. She searched magazines for images and phrases that she thought she should include in the new plan. Some of the images were used on collages; some were laminated to make cards her students would draw out of a box. She was up till dawn several nights with artwork covering the floor, sipping chai and writing down everything she wanted to include in her lesson plans. Days were spent on the phone to bookstores, libraries and publishers. She began to feel excited again. The last few days were spent shopping for new books, fine papers, art supplies, and journals. Once at school, teachers were to spend a week preparing classrooms before school officially began. She painted the room a soft terracotta, tore down old posters, put up new art, and rearranged tables. She brought in coffee carafes, a coffee grinder, tea bags, coffee beans, and chai. Several other teachers stopped in the hall outside her room and stared while she worked to clean and decorate the room for the new season.

On the first day of school, the students entered the room. They looked around slowly, then at her, confused. In her crisp white shirt, navy blazer and jeans, she knew she looked professional, but casual. A sign above the door said Literary Café. "Please take any seat," she said with a smile and a wave of her arm. She felt anything but casual, but nervousness about all of the changes was better than feeling jaded. There was lively jazz playing softly. A delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee permeated the room.

There were prints of masterpieces on the walls by Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Monet, and Renoir. She'd had two sofas delivered and the classroom chairs were arranged around small round tables, each with a single rose. A table against the wall offered French press pots, stacks of white café mugs alongside teabags, sugar, and pitchers of cream. A silver tray lined with doilies had an assortment of pastries. It had been and would be extra work, and the last five minutes of every class would be spent cleaning up, but it was all worth it. Twenty students stood in the middle of the room as if in shock. Two groups of nervous girls sat down gingerly on the sofas, looking curiously at their teacher and the room.

She took a deep breath and began. "Good morning. I am Victoria Rose, Ms. Rose, and this class is language arts. This morning we have brewed coffee, chai, and hot water for tea and hot chocolate. Because it is the first day of school, I have croissants and pastries as well. After I'm finished with this introduction please take five minutes to help yourself to whatever you'd like and I will pass out your packets." The students looked at her in amazement. One boy shot a fist in the air and said, "Yes!" There was a round of murmurs. The girls on the sofas looked at each other, smiling. "The year that I've planned for this class is very different from the past year." She stopped, then smiled and continued. "I hope you'll feel that way, too, after I've explained my plans and my philosophies. Language arts are what I love and what I do. It's my job to teach you everything that I can in one short year so that you will not only have very definite skills—you will also love one or more aspects of the literary arts. This year we will study the classics; there is a list of required reading." There was a soft groan in the corner. "We will, however, make literature and writing come to life by writing and producing our own zine. We will turn this room into a literary café for other students one Friday evening a month for student salons—with poetry, readings, book discussions, food, and drinks. Each one of you will make decisions on the café and help organize these events. It will be a place for teens to gather, talk, and learn. We will study other forms of fine art as well and you will write about it. This means you'll be listening to Count Basie and Mozart's The Magic Flute—yes you'll study a little opera in language arts." She laughed as she heard a gasp and noticed a few astonished faces. "You will all keep writing journals and write every day in class—this is a very important habit that many writers and artists cultivate." There was a mixture of quiet responses. "I have scheduled guest speakers to come in several times a month to speak. We'll have poets, novelists, and freelance writers who write columns for magazines and newspapers, an editor, a publisher, and maybe even an agent." The students were looking at each other. "We'll have several public readings ourselves featuring our own poetry and essays at two local bookstores that strongly support what we're doing. Parents and friends will be able to come and hear you read your own work." Again, a round of nervous whispers. "Additionally, each one of you will choose your favorite part of literature and a favorite author and poet and you will teach the class yourself." She paused, waiting for another flurry of energy to subside. "We will have short field trips and extracurricular assignments to bookstores, art galleries, and libraries. You will be interviewing writers, some of them famous…" She saw some eyes widen. "And other people in the world of language arts—you will write and publish these things in the zine." She paused.

"I had cancer last year." Her voice softened. Each student suddenly looked serious. "It is important for me to surround myself with only beauty and excellence after going through such a life-changing experience. Out of gratitude for my life, I have vowed only to do what I love and throw out all unnecessary components that no longer support that vow. It's my job, as your teacher, to help you also see beauty and excellence—in tragedy, in comedy, in brushstrokes, words, and in your own lives. It's also my job to support you as you make your own contributions of excellence to the world." One tall, thin boy with light brown hair looked up. "Ms. Rose, what if our writing isn't good enough to read in public; what if we make mistakes?" All the students looked at her. She smiled. "You will surely make mistakes, I can promise you, but I want you to remember that every mark you make on paper and each word you deliver with feeling is your own contribution to the world and it's important and valuable. I also want each of you to never forget that as long as you are alive, you can always begin again." There was silence. All eyes were on her. Then everyone seemed to relax. "Now, shall we all have coffee and discuss the importance of language?" The atmosphere was suddenly festive as the new school year began.

Kerri Buckley is a writer and artist. A native of Kansas City, she currently lives in the Pacific Northwest. She teaches classes and workshops throughout the region.