On Curriculum | Cait McReavy Curriculum is a séance. Reaching beyond the veil of time and Robbing the graves of history. The dead, in their hedjets and petticoats, Peering up at you from the space between the lines, Of history books written by men with blood between their teeth. Did you know--- did you know--No we didn’t, And not by accident. Curriculum is a mirror which shows nothing. Shelf after shelf of universal texts which know nothing about you. These people don’t look like me. Seven years of bad luck to anyone who wondered Why Fitzgerald and Twain? Why Salinger and Hemingway? Did you forget to invite Angelou and Baldwin and Woolf and Wilde, To this dinner party where all we eat is phonemes? Curriculum is a love poem in which you changed the pronouns, Because you’re not sure if your class is ‘ready for that’. And no one else writes that anyway. At least no one you’ve learned about. “Artistically impressive, but you misspelled ‘failure’”, And “the sentence structure is all wrong, could you take it down a notch?” You don’t put that essay on the fridge, You don’t title the poem about your first crush “Allison”. Curriculum is “I wish I could forget what was taught to me. When the teacher didn’t mean to teach me anything.” It’s knowing that your identity has only ever been an elective. Curriculum can be: “My future students will see themselves in the things that I teach.” (In the way that I didn’t). Curriculum will be: “I see you.” “I see you.” “I see you.”
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