Today we’re reading Shakespeare aloud in class,
and I can almost hear the anti-Elizabethan English deflector shields
rising in the hearts and minds of my beloved students,
the silver steel of disregard, the hearty clang of disdain,
mental gaggings, churnings of the gut,
eyes rolling so hard they almost slip from their sockets.
But it isn’t long before what once was a
groaning, grimacing ripple of teenage nausea
swells to a giddy symphony of students
reading their assigned roles in silly accents:
an Iago from Charleston, a Claudius from Queens,
even the surprise debut of a Valley Girl Viola,
Cordelia shifts from Southern belle to broken robot,
and a Cockney Caliban competes
with a football player’s falsetto in his heart-wrenching Juliet.
But somehow, after a short while,
the Puck played by the Kennedys
and the Witches of Jersey Shore
seem to fade from view, slipping into the wings,
preparing this world of a stage
for the pageantry of real players,
the ones I’ve longed to hear,
my glorious chorus of classes,
the dramatis personae of students
contributing their lines to the powerful play of life,
reading their part in my classroom with courage and conviction,
sliding beautifully into their own voices,
bravely confronting the pentameter,
sounding out each syllable with care,
aiming to stay true to character,
and I could not be more proud,
prouder even than the Bard himself,
as I stand and watch my players fill the globe.
