"The Man Who Gives His Name to this Book"

I’m not even sure that I can comprehend how badly today went.  I didn’t have any problems with behavior; I didn’t have any wardrobe malfunctions or anything else of the sort.  I had a really bad case of the brain farts.  There I said it.  I couldn’t remember anything that I needed to.  That being said, I am prone to that and prepare accordingly.  I script a lot of things I do in the classroom just to keep myself on track.  Questions I want to ask, answers to those questions, things of that nature.  I even have the time that class ends at the top of my notes so I can keep an eye on it.  But today, you just can’t fix stupid. 

I have read The Great Gatsby close to ten times.  I know the book in and out.  Heck I have partied with Tom, drank Gatsby’s liquor, and bought a car from George.  And then I tried to teach it.  I went through the great American novel speech.  I pointed out how the plot follows the standard linear plot format they all learned about in middle school, and gave them a quick refresher.  We talked about how no-one likes a speech from their father and how unreliable politicians, and narrators, can be.  And then it went the way of the stock market in 1929.  “Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book” would understand.  And that is precisely the point at which I lost it in the novel.  On the second page, to be exact, while trying to point out that our unreliable narrator was telling us he was going to be unreliable because he was telling us that his tale is a work of fiction, I said “What do we know about books?”  The students stared, unsure whether to raise their hand or laugh uncontrollably.  My CT in the back of the room knows where I am trying to go but he just smirks.  I am on my own and there is no stopping this runaway Duisenberg now.   I restate my question and one kid raises her hand, the girl who always wants me to bring her pop-tarts, and says “they tell us stories.”  I reply in the affirmative and quickly move on.  I am now so flustered that I gloss over the point of our unreliable narrator giving us the end of the story at the beginning of the book and move on to page 3 and tradition.  Oh it’s no better over here.  We discover the narrator’s last name but it might as well be etched in stone for me.  As I gloss over this tidbit of information I move on to where “we have a tradition” staring me in the face.  I can’t even formulate simple phrases now.  I must look like a deer in the headlights and I ask “what do we “know” about tradition?”  Again nothing from the students whom now, I believe, have come to understand the gravity of the situation and just watch the run-away train slam into the end of the period bell.  The girl that always wants me to bring her pop- tarts, silently gives me one of hers and walks out of the classroom.

In all seriousness this is how I felt today went with my juniors.  My AP class is going great guns and we had an awesome Shared Inquiry Discussion over the two chapters of Beloved they read over the weekend.  My CT and I discussed what happened with Gatsby and ways to prevent it from happening again.  He takes great notes and I was recording today’s lesson and was able to reflect, a little, it really is painful to watch.  We laughed and decided that I was trying to stop too often and point things out a little at the time.  I told him that I didn’t want to go over their heads and so I was trying to pull back a little and not overwhelm them.  He assured me that if they got overwhelmed they would tell me and that they would “get it” just like the seniors do.  He assured me that everyone has “those days” and that all in all I was doing a fine job, all I need to do is make a few adjustments.  I will and have made adjustments to my lesson tomorrow, I just hope Fitzgerald didn’t turn over in his grave.