Skip to main content

Great Writing





 







An essay I love is "An Ode to Mrs. MC," by Summer Pierre.  https://medium.com/spiralbound/an-ode-to-mrs-mc-1c09a53a0b08


This is an essay in pictures. The speaker is recalling her son's Kindergarten teacher. Yikes! Kindergarten. The son in question--Gus--struggled with transitions....and Kindergarten seemed daunting. But Mrs. MC worked wonders.


Mrs. MC--with her hippie-ish gray braid--beamed at the children and said, "1....2...3...Eyes on me!" She re-branded homework as "fun work," and she made sure the children knew what they were doing before they unpacked their bags. She used humor, so that Gus would often burst into laughter, inexplicably, at the dinner table; he would recall a private joke. 


What makes the essay special is the details. Gus--I imagine him in Park Slope, somewhere--wears a necktie with his tee shirt. The anxious mom throws up her hands at the idea of K "homework." School administrators, trying to describe Mrs. MC, settle on some questionable English: "She's like....SESAME STREET!" "She's....VERY...unique...."


The story builds to a big, sentimental ending, which is entirely "earned." The closest comparison I can make is to the smart, "domestic" essays in Michael Chabon's book "Pops." I'll continue to think about Pierre's essay, and about Gus and Mrs. MC, as my son makes his way toward the Age of School Attendance. I'm inspired by Pierre's story.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...