Ladies and gentlemen: April is National Poetry Month.

Normally, this is a non-issue. It’s fine. In fact, if anything, it’s an excuse to basically not do any work in Language Arts for a full month.

Dearly beloved: When you have Ms. H (not her name) for English, poetry month is not a non-issue. It is hard, it is painful and it kindof makes you willing to consider either murder or suicide—whichever opportunity presents itself first.  

Oh, yes. A woman of average height, short, graying hair and strong (ahemahem stubborn) opinions and ways, Ms. H is a hardass, a perfectionist and has a fairly jaded attitude towards her students (in my humble opinion).

With Ms. H, it’s her way or the highway. And ladies and germs, the highway is not Route 66—no one is getting any kicks on this ride.

Anyway.

Where all my previous teachers had been lax and made National Poetry Month a fun, silly event, Ms. H was unforgiving and intense about it. She shoved poetry down our throats every day, practically forced us to find a random poem and “share” it by threatening our class participation (which is why 3 girls read Robert Frost’s The Road Less Travelled all at once…) and even gave us assignments on it.

Dudes. She waxed poetic until I really considered faking an attack of some sort.

Yeah, I’m good at spazzing. What’s it to you?

Anyway, in the last week of April, she lit the fire under our a***s (excuse my French) and set up an open mike afterschool for those of us “who wanted to share”. She ‘reminded’ us yet again about class participation. And yet she didn’t guarantee extra credit.

Being the crazy broken-red-Converse -geeky-t-shirt-wearing-Zeppelin & Zappa-listening teen I am (I could go on all day, folks), I rationalized that lyrics were basically poems and that it was my solemn duty to indoctrinate everyone (classmates and teachers alike) in the glorious splendor that is Zappa’s lyrics.

I take it you see where this is going… ;)

 

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