Literature matters

Last night, I attended Curriculum Night at my kids’ high school. My husband and I rushed from class to class, choosing between two kids’ schedules and trying to decide which classes were most important to hear from. As I sat in these stuffy high school classrooms, I found myself feeling much like I did as a student. Sometimes bored, or discouraged, or inspired. In the Language Arts classroom, I felt at home. 

I have always been a reader and a writer, and I’m a former high school Language Arts teacher. As a student, my Language Arts classes were always the classes I fell in love with. It wasn’t every single class—some years were yawningly torturous and some days ended with me sitting in the hallway after arguing with my teacher about whether “irregardless” was grammatically correct. But it was always in those rooms where I discovered something about myself and the world—where I learned what language and literature can really do. And what it can do is remind us why we’re here and what really matters. 

I didn’t love school as a student, and that’s part of why I became a teacher. I wanted to try to make those difficult days a little better for kids who felt like I did. But because of my experiences as a school-aged student, I dread Back-to-School night every time it rolls around. Hustling across a crowded high school listening to teachers give the same canned spiel six times in a row? Sounds awful. 

And yet every time I end up sitting in those classrooms, listening to some poor exhausted teacher on hour 16 of their day telling adults what their class is all about… I miss it. Because what I see in their tired faces is almost always hope. It’s almost always joy when they start to talk about what they’re doing with the students. It’s almost always excitement when they explain what they want the kids to get out of their classrooms. Because they know that what they do matters. 

And it does. I miss teaching in so many ways. I miss looking out into a sea of faces that are feeling much like I did last night—bored, discouraged, inspired—and being able to watch those faces change over the course of our time together. Something incredible always happened in those classrooms, no matter how tough the year was. I miss watching teenagers discover language and stories that spoke to them. I miss hearing kids who, at the start of the year, resisted writing with every fiber of their being tell me at the end of the year that they’ve been writing every day and that, yes, it helps. I miss talking about literature and writing with 165 teenagers every day and constantly learning something new.

As I sat in that Language Arts classroom listening to a weary teacher talk about teaching my old subject—11th grade Lit—I felt that same hope and joy and excitement come over me. She talked about finding ways to help the kids connect with the content. About teaching Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Things They Carried and The Gangster We Are All Looking For. She talked about making space for her students to explain why some of them think AI is valuable in the classroom (though she’s not yet convinced, thank goodness). She talked about trying to teach The Crucible in our current political landscape with a directive from the district not to communicate her personal feelings in regards to McCarthyism and witch hunts. Thankfully, as we discussed at the end of the night, the kids are alright and they know more than most adults give them credit for. 

Teachers know. We search for and see ourselves in the art that surrounds us. 

And that’s why literature matters. Because it is us. It reflects the best and the worst and the ugliest and most beautiful parts of us. It reminds us of what it means to be human. To be alive. I felt at home in that classroom, surrounded by books and student writing, because it was a room full of everything we are. 

Every time I sit down with this magazine, whether it is to read submissions or edit accepted pieces or order an upcoming issue or meet with my fellow editors, I am reminded that literature is life. It may not be my exact life or yours, but we see ourselves reflected in some way every time we pick up something to read. Every time we talk about a piece of writing, we grow in ways that can be imperceptible or life-changing. 

As you sit down with our most current issue, I encourage you to see what happens. How do you feel when you start reading it? How do you feel afterward? Are there pieces you want to talk about? Maybe you’ll see yourself in here, or you’ll find an old co-worker, or you’ll remember some work fantasy/nightmare you had. Whatever you find here, I know you’ll find something in these pages that makes you think and feel, and I know it will change you in some way. Because literature matters. And so do you.