Teaching – Page 2 – Michigan Quarterly Review

Teaching

I Am What Is Missing: Our Stuff, Ourselves

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A few years ago, I was teaching a middle school writing elective at a well-regarded summer camp for the arts. The students in this class were not primarily interested in writing: they were there as young musicians, or dancers, or studying “general arts” which usually meant their well-off parents thought it more edifying for them to draw with charcoal and write poems and create spliced-together musical theater out of the latest pop songs than to let them spend the summer watching TV and lighting matches in the backyard.

I Am What Is Missing: Our Stuff, Ourselves Read More »

A few years ago, I was teaching a middle school writing elective at a well-regarded summer camp for the arts. The students in this class were not primarily interested in writing: they were there as young musicians, or dancers, or studying “general arts” which usually meant their well-off parents thought it more edifying for them to draw with charcoal and write poems and create spliced-together musical theater out of the latest pop songs than to let them spend the summer watching TV and lighting matches in the backyard.

On Being Bad

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* Mary Camille Beckman *

Sometimes—too often—I forget what it feels like to be thrilled by poetry. So, every day I press the cold body of the guitar against my chest and stomach and feel again what potential feels like—how well I might come to know this body and neck in my arms.

On Being Bad Read More »

* Mary Camille Beckman *

Sometimes—too often—I forget what it feels like to be thrilled by poetry. So, every day I press the cold body of the guitar against my chest and stomach and feel again what potential feels like—how well I might come to know this body and neck in my arms.

“Dead Turtle,” by Rebecca Makkai

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It was the first two boys in the classroom at 8:25 who started tapping the glass of the cage. “Kirby’s dead!” one of them shouted—later she couldn’t remember who it was, though she was sure Michael Curtis had been in the class that year, and he’d have been the type to shout, the type for drama. “He’s like this,” Michael said, lolling his tongue out and choking himself.

“Dead Turtle,” by Rebecca Makkai Read More »

It was the first two boys in the classroom at 8:25 who started tapping the glass of the cage. “Kirby’s dead!” one of them shouted—later she couldn’t remember who it was, though she was sure Michael Curtis had been in the class that year, and he’d have been the type to shout, the type for drama. “He’s like this,” Michael said, lolling his tongue out and choking himself.

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