Incandescently | Dead Poets Society

Five

"If it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts." Leo Tolstoy

"A man is not very tired, he is exhausted," Father elucidates, as he saunters through the rows of desks, just passing by my side, "and don't use 'very sad', use..." He pauses, his hand outstretched and gesturing to Knox, who starts to ponder an answer to Father's statement. After being jokingly called a twerp, Knox responds with the adjective morose, and Father exclaims his joy at the more descriptive use of language. "Now," he continues, "language was developed for one endeavour, and that is? Mr Anderson?"

I tilt my head aside to see Todd's eyes turn away, his lips fumbling slightly with nerves as he avoids making eye contact with Father, who jokes with him in an attempt to get him to converse. Very briefly, they make eye contact, but Father can clearly see the anxiety behind Todd's eyes so he instead asks Neil next to me. "To communicate," he answers, to which Father shakes his head and, with a smirk, he instead says that the correct answer is to "woo women".  

A few weeks and secret Dead Poets Society meetings later, Father announces that he is going to educate the classroom on William Shakespeare, to which almost everyone groans and rolls their eyes in response; Neil and myself are the exception. "I know, a lot of you look forward to this about as much as you look forward to root canal work," Father quips, before he continues to insist that we will be learning about Shakespeare as someone who writes something that is very interesting. 

"Now, many of you have seen Shakespeare done very much like this," Father persists, as he tightens his facial expressions and his voice becomes much more nasal, and he then he recites: "O, Titus, bring your friend hither." Everyone laughs and applauds, the volume growing as he impersonates different variations of Shakespeare, including Marlon Brando and John Wayne. Lessons that follow include readings of Shakespeare and other works, imbedding analysis and criticism to poetry, and how to perfectly construct essays. 

Then, towards the end of a Friday afternoon lesson, completely out of nowhere, Father stands atop of his desk and asks the entire classroom why he is doing so. "To feel taller," Charlie jokes, a few chuckles following as Father lightly taps a bell on his desk with his foot, pretending to be the host of a game show as he thanks him for playing. "I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way," he answers, after which he slowly turns around in one spot, his eyes glancing across the entire room.

"You see, the world looks very different from up here," he comments, with his hands lightly placed inside his corduroy trouser pockets, "you don't believe me? Come and see for yourself." He invites all of us to come and take a stand on his desk, adding that if you think you know something, you should take a second look in an alternative way. "Even though it may seem silly or wrong, you must try," he insists, as I stand close behind Neil who extends his hand to assist me in climbing up onto the desk chair, himself already standing on the desk. 

Father steps down as Neil helps me up to the desk, his hold on my hand staying just a little longer than I expected, and I could have sworn that he gave it the lightest squeeze before removing his own. "You must strive to find your own voice, everyone," Father advises just as Neil drops off the desk, and again, he turns around to help lower me down to the floor. I take his hands in mine, but when I stumble slightly after my feet, he manages to catch me by my side and raise me back.

With distinct embarrassment, I hurriedly return to my seat and bow my head down slightly, trying to hide my uneasy flushed face. "Thoreau said, 'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation', don't be resigned to that. Break out. Don't just walk off the edge like lemmings, look around you." The bell rings as the last handful of students walk up, on and off the desk, and as Father starts to make his way towards the classroom door, I watch as Todd waits patiently behind everyone else. "Now, in addition to your essays," Father starts, "I would like you to compose a poem of your own. An original work." Amongst several groans, he further adds that he wishes for everyone to deliver it to the entire classroom in our lesson next Monday morning.