There are times when I’m out after midnight, taping posters to lampposts and electrical boxes, my fingers freezing in the cold, that I wonder why I do this. What’s the point, really? Yeah, so we hold a poetry event. A few hundred people show up. Some are bored. We barely break even financially. For weeks beforehand, I get almost no sleep. People get sick of my emails and Facebook updates and delete me when I infiltrate their in-boxes. My jaw hurts when, yet again, my robot-mouth says, …and I have tickets to sell for Poetry Night. Five bucks now, seven dollars if you wait to get them at the door. And, yet again, I have to fight the same battle with the principal’s secretary about how many posters I’m allowed to hang in the hallway. My kids and wife get frustrated that I’m not home enough. I don’t have any time to dedicate to my own writing. I live in constant fear that a blizzard will white-out the show.

Then I read something like this in a student’s end-of-the-semester portfolio - So I have to admit, I was not crazy about performing at Poetry Night. When Mr. Kass asked our group to perform, I wasn’t sure. First, I was, like, well, maybe it’ll be fun ¬ but what?!? Can I really do that? I highly doubted my talent, but I decided to take a chance and go for it. As the days grew closer to the event, I became more and more nervous. Finally, day of, in class, the professional poets performed. As I watched Lauren Whitehead walk up to the microphone, she seemed so confident. I could not tell she was nervous; she seemed excited and proud to share her work. This made me view Poetry Night differently. Suddenly, I knew I needed to be confident and believe in what I was going to share. I shared this thought with my group and they agreed. When I got to the auditorium, my nerves grew and grew until Mr. Kass announced, “next up, we have L ---, M---- and H-----!” As I walked up the steps to the stage, I had this unreal feeling, like what am I about to do? I stepped to the microphone and my hand was shaking. I began to read, a quiet audience was waiting to hear my words. Suddenly I felt vibrant, full of confidence. Even though my hand was still shaking and I was still nervous, I felt alive. I started my reading, put as much emotion as I could into it, and the audience was laughing. Not only were they laughing, they were exploding with laughter. It seemed like my poem was done before it had even started. As I sat down in my seat, I heard the people sitting behind me say, “That was hilarious.” That night I could have done anything. I felt more alive than I ever had in my life. It was almost as if I had shed every self-doubt I ever had and, for once in my life, I truly believed in myself. It was the most amazing feeling I have ever felt. It made me love the art of writing even more. And it made me want to share my pieces to the world forever.

Isn’t that what’s all about for teachers? More than anything, isn’t that what we hope for? That something we convey will somehow make our students feel more alive, make them believe in their worth?

It’s not fun taping up those posters.

My robot mouth. My heavy eyes.

My freezing fingers.

Jeff Kass teaches Creative Writing at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor and at Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti, and directs the Literary Arts Programs at the Neutral Zone, including the VOLUME Youth Poetry Project, which meets every Thursday night at 7pm. He will post new blog entries every Tuesday and Thursday morning throughout the school year.