Poetry Speaks: "On Listening to Your Teacher Take Attendance" by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

On holding hope and gratitude

Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

Sometimes, June feels like another January, like the ending and the beginning of something all at once. I have six workdays left before I finish up my 13th year as a public high school library worker, and I always find myself getting reflective at the end of a school year. Before I started my job, I had an image in my head of what it would look like, which included quiet, beautiful wooden furnishings, up-to-date book collections, and students coming to me asking for help with research. I didn't foresee how noisy school libraries can be and how much I'd love it when they're busy and packed full. I didn't know about the mismatched furniture and inequitable budgets that mean some schools get more books and furnishings than others. I saw myself helping kids with in-depth research, but my most asked questions are not about ProQuest but whether I have an iPhone charger or a snack.

Nothing is exactly how I pictured it, but isn't that always the case, no matter the situation? The best and biggest surprise about my job is how much I would come to care about the students. I've never been much of a kid person. I don't want children, I never babysat, and other than helping out occasionally in my mom's preschool Sunday school class, I'd only worked with kids a little. I was excited to work in a high school but was a bit nervous about the actual student part. Sometimes, when people learn where I work, they're horrified on my behalf that I work with teens. Just like adults, teens can sometimes be the worst versions of themselves, but overall, most kids I've gotten to know have been great.

Getting to know students can be tricky in my position since I'm not in a classroom teaching like most of my colleagues. I'll see frequent library users often, but our interactions are usually quick and transactional. I've only been able to build relationships with kids through clubs. Though I started out working in two schools, I now work at five, making connections even harder to form. Thankfully, in one building, we have a student curators club for kids interested in helping with the library. They assist with book drives, displays, outreach, marketing, and book selection. In another school, I help lead a student and staff multicultural book club. These clubs have been such joys because of the bonds I've formed with the young people in my orbit.

In the student and staff book club, we've talked about a lot of controversial subjects, such as police violence, religion, sexuality, and racism. No matter the topic, the kids have always treated one another with respect. There's never been any yelling or name-calling. People can disagree without severing relationships or causing pain. In a world full of comment sections that make me sad for the fate of humanity, this kind of generous back-and-forth is a welcome sign that the kids are better off than we might think.

As I started my reflective journey this week, I reread this poem that I want to share with you:

"On Listening to Your Teacher Take Attendance" by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Breathe deep even if it means you wrinkle
your nose from the fake-lemon antiseptic

of the mopped floors and wiped-down
doorknobs. The freshly soaped necks

and armpits. Your teacher means well,
even if he butchers your name like

he has a bloody sausage casing stuck
between his teeth, handprints

on his white, sloppy apron. And when
everyone turns around to check out

your face, no need to flush red and warm.
Just picture all the eyes as if your classroom

is one big scallop with its dozens of icy blues
and you will remember that winter your family

took you to the China Sea and you sank
your face in it to gaze at baby clams and sea stars

the size of your outstretched hand. And when
all those necks start to crane, try not to forget

someone once lathered their bodies, once patted them
dry with a fluffy towel after a bath, set out their clothes

for the first day of school. Think of their pencil cases
from third grade, full of sharp pencils, a pink pearl eraser.

Think of their handheld pencil sharpener and its tiny blade. 

If I had to sum up this poem in one word, it would be "vulnerability." That feeling is one of the most vivid during childhood. Everything is new, and you're trying to figure out who you are and where you belong. The only thing worse than everyone looking at you is no one looking at you. I love the imagery Nezhukumatathil creates by mentioning the fake-lemon antiseptic and the freshly soaped necks, signals of newness and a clean slate. At the beginning of a school year, there's hope that good things will happen, that you'll fit in, and that your vulnerability will be rewarded by love and acceptance. I'm convinced school staff feel these things as much as the kids do. The clean slate that was there in September is gone by June, though, replaced by reality.

The reality is budget cuts, broken chairs, carpet stains, and seemingly endless testing. It's laptops that don't work, trash hidden behind Stephen King books, and lockdown drills. When I first imagined my job, I didn't see any of that stuff. But I also didn't see the admirable resolve of immigrant students who are slowly but surely learning English. I didn't know about the clothing closets and food pantries, that one of my former principals had a Costco-sized box of tampons in her office for anyone who needed them. I didn't foresee how some kids embrace their vulnerability in ways I never did at sixteen, wearing bold outfits, bright makeup, and living as authentically as they know how. Even though it's been 13 years, I'm still surprised by the students and the depths they can reach when they feel safe and seen, like my book club kids who discuss Louise Erdrich and James Baldwin and Elizabeth Acevedo with more insight than I expected from people who wear hoodies when it’s 90 degrees.

When Nezhukumatathil writes about a classroom of kids who are freshly bathed and sent out with their sharp pencils, I smile and think of the potential of September. I think about my hopes and imagine the desires the kids must feel for someone to know their name and embrace their uniqueness. Even though my grand visions might be exciting, I'll take the reality. I'll hold hope for improvement in one hand while holding gratitude in the other. Even in the messes and misses, I love my job. I love the teens I get to serve. I’m thankful for the kids who embrace their vulnerability so that I might better embrace mine.

I’m excited about my summer break, but I’m hopeful for year fourteen.

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What does the poem bring up for you? What are young people teaching you? I welcome your thoughts. Thanks for being here!