On Students, Mafia Wars and Human Rights Violations

I enjoy my students--and often write about them. This fall, on rather short notice, I agreed to teach an introductory English course at a local community college. After the first class meeting, I knew why I'd done so. It was the students--sixteen faces, full of expectations about a class they weren't entirely sure was necessary. It would require trust on their part.

After class, I decided to unwind by playing an online game a couple of friends enticed me into, called Mafia Wars. It's a sleezy little game that reinforces stereotypes, but it's fun. In about an hour, I was able to knock off several bad guys, including a neighborhood don, complete some assassinations with baseball bats and revolvers and increase my income by about $15,000. Then, I bought some land and added a deli to increase my monthly "take."

Pretty good for an English teacher.

Soon, my conscience began to bother me, so I wrote to a member of my Mafia, Cement Shoes Sammy, to inquire about his ethics for talking his former English professor into participating in such shady game playing.

This was not the first big adventure he'd talked me into. The last job Cement Shoes Sammy did on me involved lots of water and sinking. I shoulda established stronger boundaries with him on the first day of class.

Aw, never mind. I'd discuss it with his wife, aka, "Bullet Tooth, Tony." She'd see my side.

So, back to my affinity for my students. They bring me out into the world, just when my world seems to be making no sense whatsoever. The past two months, I've dealt with some health issues that have left my head spinning and my heart jumping.  Reminds me of playing

Things are not always what they appear to be.

So, why not lay aside worry about that over which I have no control and, for an hour and fifteen minutes, two nights a week, try to make a class predictable and conducive for students learning to write.

It would keep all of us feeling safe.

Before you get too philosophical on me, this is what's known as a double-edged sword. Aside from being wonderful, students can pose big problems. They can be treacherous.

For example, on the first day of classes, I ran into the mother of a former student. She introduced herself and when she told me her son's name (and added that he just couldn't wait to see me again--he was on campus, taking some courses, trying to figure out his life), I was in a panic.

He was one of the worst students I've ever had. His behavior was so provocative and bad that I threatened to go to the dean at one point. Just couldn't wait to get rid of the kid. And, now he is baaccck. 

Speaking of students and guerilla warfare, one of my favorite poems is "The Colonel," by Carolyn Forche, a piece about an El Salvadoran guerilla army leader whose brutal tactics illustrate the nature of warfare, its violations of human rights by torture and body dismemberment.

There's a connection between students, human rights violations and mafia wars (and English teachers--which is probably more apparent) and I'll show you what it is after you read the poem.

By the way, this does not read like a traditional poem, with an external (nor even internal) rhyme scheme. This is called a prose poem, because it reads like a short piece of prose. But, read it out loud to another person and pay attention to the effects it produces.

THE COLONEL

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, (Line Removed by Jane). He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

May 1978 Carolyn Forché

Well, I've had my ears to the ground lately, and it seems my crime family, in Mafia Wars, has endured an onslaught of attacks in the past few days. Perhaps it's someone who doesn't like English teachers. 

O.K., so the moral of the story is: Beware of anyone who displays guerilla-like behaviors, including those who want you to climb into water. Colonels, students or teachers. If what you have heard is true, it's better just to listen.