Odes, in general, should be read with a wary eye. After all, the fuel that powers them is love and adoration, two things which blur the lines like literary Vaseline.
Praise that flows from a mother's lips, however, is the most suspect of all forms of adulation. How, pray tell, does one filter out the shared genetic codes, the familiar blood types, the way each head of hair swirls in the same direction, and end up with something that even vaguely resembles the truth?
(That said, I'm convinced that I am completely capable of writing a spot-on, unbiased love song to my children, one that rings only of truth rather than unmet, outlandish dreams.)
This ode, however, is one not muddied by a single, shared womb. Rather, this ode, sung to other people's children, is that rarest of the breed, one that is 100 percent true.
The impetus for this ode was found in a pile of homework that was staring me down, not the typical source of such flowery praise. As I dug in, my editor's pen sharpened and at the ready, what I found was not last-minute cat scratchings meant only to appease the minimum standard, but gently unfolding gems, not a one of them written with me in mind.
That is the real power of teaching journalism. If my students succeed in telling a good story, it is not because of anything I do. Rather, their motivation is heightened by the thought of their peers perusing the work. And that is a powerful motivator not to be underestimated.
And so, yesterday, while the birds tweeted and the sun shone, each tempting me to leave my abode for greener pastures, I tied myself to the proverbial mast and ignored their siren songs, committed to getting through at least a handful of student stories written for our upcoming magazine. This issue's theme is fighters, and the kids tackled that subject from perspectives both concrete and symbolic.
At one point, I thought I was reading the New York Times. That's how wonderful these stories are.
Here, on a page stained with the remnants of an after-dinner snack, was the story of Elsie Eiler, Monowi, Nebraska's sole resident. Mayor, town-council president, tavern owner. It was a story my editor sought out on her own. She even skipped a speech tournament so she could make the three-hour drive to Monowi, where stories beyond my imagination sat patiently in the tavern. I felt like I was reading really good fiction.
When the topic of "fighters" was revealed to the staff, Kelsey knew immediately that she wanted to tell Chad's story. A super senior in his fifth year of high school, Chad does not have the burden of saving a town on his shoulders. Rather, he is simply intent upon saving himself. In the past two years, he has watched both of his parents die from cancer. Although two generations separate Chad and Elsie, the wisdom that peeked from the pages of his story made Chad and Elsie seem more like contemporaries.
And then, having tasted two such terrific stories, I turned my back on the sun and the birds and the lure of a Friday afternoon and gave myself over to stories of roller derby athletes who have discovered their feminine mystique, teen boxers who have found a way out of lives they do not want to lead, ghost chasers who take on the more invisible enemies of this universe and adoptive parents who have--almost literally--traveled to the moon and back for their foreign-born children.
I am happily befuddled by this place I find myself in, surrounded by a newspaper staff whose members seems to feed off of each other's enthusiasm, nudging themselves to operate outside of their comfort zones. This motley crew of teenagers have introduced me to zombies and firefighters, Winnebago elders and former South-Omaha gang members. They have spent the night in a 24-hour diner and spooked themselves in a haunted Omaha park. They have asked the tough questions--and the silly ones--and have made all of us better people as a result.
It is to them, then, that I sing my love song. To these kids who wake up each day, putting one foot in front of the other, the kids who find the courage to seek out stories worth sharing, especially from those whose voices have too long gone silent. They are some of the bravest people I know.
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