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Tag: english class

Class Assignment

Poetry by Margaret D. Stetz

the famous poet gave a reading
at my school
because the English teacher
knew him
attendance was required
his voice was dry and white
what I imagined
certain wine was like
though I’d never tasted any
something you had to
twirl inside a crystal glass
not drink with pleasure
his shirt was Oxford cloth
white and sharply ironed
the reading was
informal
so he’d left the top two buttons open
rolled the cuffs
his shoes were loafers
which I’d only seen on girls
(adults I knew wore lace-up shoes
and uniforms to work)
his hair looked dry cleaned
freshly pressed
when he began to read
he gazed straight
at the first two rows
where young men sat
a group I’d never seen before
(did they travel with the poet
like a set
of matching luggage?)
the young men
also white
not quite as starched
were silent
bobbing heads
to show they understood
the Classical allusions
gliding past me
like a boat along the Styx (the only line I got)
I knew there must be
witty twists and plays on words
because the poet
sometimes slightly raised his eyebrows…
soon I was nodding
face pitched forward
eyelids lowering
I shook myself to stay awake
reciting in my head
the lyrics of a Beatles song
the record that
I couldn’t wait to play again
when I got home


Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women’s Studies at the University of Delaware, as well as a widely published poet. Read her earlier poem “Robins” from the August 2022 issue of The Bluebird Word.

You Never Know

Fiction by Paul Dubitsky

My very first class, on my very first day of High School was English. How could I possibly like English class? I didn’t like to read. I didn’t like to write. I expected it to be my least favorite.

My English teacher, Ms. Mac, assigned seats alphabetically. Mine: second row, first desk.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

She asked the class, “What did you read this summer?”

“What did you read?” What a dumb question. It was summer; I didn’t read. Sure, this was the class with the smart kids, but c’mon.

She called on each of us. Up and down the rows. I heard all kinds of answers, The Great Gatsby, Great Expectations, War and Peace.  

Are you kidding me? War and Peace?

My turn next. Think man, think.

The teacher stared right at me. “What about you?” 

I thought I might impress her with honesty. “It was summer, I didn’t read…wait. I did read the newspaper.”

Was that a smirk? Or hint of a smile?  She asked, “What did you read in the newspaper?”

Fair question. Deserves an honest answer.

“The Daily News. The sports pages. I follow the Mets.”  That oughta  impress her.

Ms. Mac put a hand on her hip, turned away and stared out the window. She seemed lost in thought. She slowly shook her head. It seemed that we shared a common thought, this could be a long year.

Finally, she turned away from the window and looked back at me and asked, “If someone called you the epitome of asinine stupefaction, would you be angry or pleased?”

I shrugged, then decided to give honesty another chance. “I don’t know.”

This couldn’t get any worse. But wait, it could, and it did. In the third row, second desk, diagonally back from me, sat the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I heard her whisper, “What a jerk.”

The teacher walked closer to me. She leaned in, resting her hand on the corner of my desk. She smiled, not a smirk, a warm, caring smile. In a soft gentle voice, meant only for me, she quietly said,  “That’s why you need to read.”

Life is funny. Ms. Mac became my favorite teacher. That pretty girl became my wife.

You never know. It turns out, they both valued honesty. As for me?  I still read about the Mets. You never know.


Paul Dubitsky is a retired, medical professional who has been encouraged to write by friends who have enjoyed his stories.

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