fandomhigh | Learnin' with Mr. Peanutbutter, Thursday, period 1

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Learnin' with Mr. Peanutbutter, Thursday, period 1

"Oh captain, my captain!" Mr. Peanutbutter howled when the old fashioned school bell rang to start the class. Yes, actually quite literally howled. "Oh! Captain! My! Captain! This is the beginning of a very famous poem! You know it's very famous because it was used as a central theme in a very famous movie. Which just goes to show you: poetry, while seemingly silly and completely inconsequential, can actually have a big impact on society." He shrugged. "Or, well, it used to. That movie's pretty old. And the only lines from that poem I know are 'oh captain, my captain'. But it really probably isn't super important."

Mr. Peanutbutter pulled his chair around to the front of his desk and sat on it backwards (he'd been practicing -- it turned out it worked best when you had a chair without any arms on it!), leaning his forearms on the top.

"So let's talk about poetry today. As an adult with a successful career, a large house, and a beautiful wife, I have very little need for poetry in my life. But as teenagers, full of confusing hormones, looking forward at a ruined economy with nothing to show you what your future will look like but wildly popular dystopic YA fiction, poetry might mean a great deal to you. Perhaps you have a little journal you keep in your room where you write down all of your greatest worries in awkward meter. Maybe you wander around campus in between classes trying to find that eternally elusive rhyme for 'orange'. Poetry can be a great escape for the disaffected teenager, apparently. I don't really know; I was really popular as a child and everyone in my hometown looked and behaved exactly like I did. But this class isn't about me. It's about all of you."

He nodded empathetically at the students for a long, awkward moment, then stood up and went to the chalkboard.

That's right, not a whiteboard, an actual, old school, salt-of-the-earth, covered-in-still-vaguely-legible-'erased'-words-and-math-formulas chalkboard. We're not real sure where he got it.

"So what do we know about poetry? Well, first off, it rhymes." He wrote "rhymes" on the board. "Also, it does something I've heard referred to as 'scanning'." He added "scans". "I don't know what that is, but it seems to be important. And lastly, it's expressive." "Expresses" went up on the board, and the whole list -- of three things -- was underlined. "And for some reason, they're not songs, even though songs are clearly more fun. That's -- I think that's everything? Sure! Okay. So we're going to write poetry today! About something we really care about, like -- balls! Let's write poems about balls. I'm going to say it should be at leeeeeeeeeeeast . . . four lines. That rhyme. About balls. Take . . . twenty minutes." He tapped his piece of chalk against the base of his chin, leaving a little dusty streak in his fur, then nodded. "And then read them out loud!" Who needed lesson planning when you could make an assignment up on the fly?

"Oh, and just to let you know, I did not receive any notes from the producers about last week's episode. So let's keep up that good work! And Faith -- don't think I forgot about your homework assignment! I want to hear all about your five mile run last week. Now -- get poetring! Poetric? Poemish. Write poems!"

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Poetically

Peridot

Kuzco

Rhys

Faith Connors

Steven Universe

Cassandra Pentaghast

Anders

Hanna Heller

Hyacinthe

Look up the rest of "Oh Captain, My Captain" on your phone, maybe

Peridot was just going to sit there. Squinting. A lot.

Was there any point to this exercise?

She was turning speculative looks toward the door.

Faith put her head down on the desk the instant she sat down, but she looked up when Mr. Peanutbutter mentioned her name.

Great. This was great.

Hyacinthe had grown up poor, with little education outside of the most basic, and certainly had never studied poetry. However, he was born and bred in Terre D'Ange and poetry was one of those things they just did. Eisheth had given Terre D'Ange music and writing and arts and they had taken to those with a passion.

And so his hand shot up into the air. "Beg pardon, Messire," he said politely, "but not all poetry rhymes."

"Interesting theory," Mr. Peanutbutter said. "But actually the things that don't rhyme are called 'novels'. Or 'novellas' in the French. And I should know! My wife is a writer!"

It was possible Diane could feel this ridiculousness all the way out in Mr. Peanutbutter's LA. And was facepalming.

"Also because I'm the teacher."

In another LA, a zombie was raising her fist to the sky and clacking out something that might have been "BLANK VERSE!"

...but probably wasn't.

"Those--those are two different things," Hyacinthe said, still confused but trying hard to explain anyway. "Novels and poems are not the same, but 'tis not their dependence upon a rhyme scheme that differs them."

Hya. Hya no.

At least four lines that rhyme about balls. Yeah. That's your assignment. From your teacher who doesn't know what saying a poem "scans" means.

Yeah, this was going to be rich.

"... This planet is a big wet ball.
I got stuck here in a fall,
But I don't want to be here at all,
So I'm trying to call...
...
For help."

There were four lines that rhymed. And since Peridot didn't know what 'scans' meant, either, that wasn't so much a concern.

Kuzco glared at his paper. Where was Theme Song Guy when you really needed him?

"Dogs chase BALLS
But I am not a dog at ALL
I'm an emperor and ALL
of you need to CRAWL.

SO THERE."

Kuzco, that was a terrible, terrible poem.

Faith spent the first fifteen minutes of the assignment idly doodling and she pretty much had to wing it.

Not that she cared, but she didn't want it to be a whole thing.

She looked very uncomfortable when she stood up to present.

"I don't care
About balls,
Maybe you care,
Since you're a dog and all.
You can buy balls
At a sporting goods store
I've never bought any
So I can't tell you more."

Well. Great try.

Steven already really liked this class.

"How many cool things can come in a ball?
There's gum and there's meat, first of all
For sports there is basket and base
Which are fun when not thrown in your face
So let us be all be glad
That such a shape is to be had
Because the ball is the best of them all."

He gave it his best, and he really kind of wished he was singing it.

Hyacinthe was a sixteen year old boy and his teacher just bade him write a poem about balls. It took him most of the twenty minutes to finish it, as he needed to verify the Cruithne words for what he wanted, but in the end he was only too glad to share his work.

"My balls lie gentle on her hand
Her grasp is firm upon the shaft
With one move more, I'll be unmanned!
Her mouth curls up, for she has laughed,
'And now you know, my lovesick fool,
Not to challenge La Reine du Pool!'"

It was a poem about billiards! He was a creative genius.

Edited 2016-09-09 06:22 (UTC)

Faith, for instance, might tell him about her five mile run last week. Or, more likely, glower at him from across the room. That's a possibility, too.

Faith did spend most of class glowering at him from across the room, but she stalked over to him before class ended.

"My run was fine," she said. "I saw a lot of birds. It was very exciting."

It wasn't exciting at all, but maybe if she shared details he'd let her be done with it.

"Birds are great!" Mr. Peanutbutter said. "Did you bark at them? Did you chase them?! Well, no, I guess not, you're not a dog. Still, well done. How long did it turn out to be? Did you manage all five miles?"

"Yup. All five." Her tone was flat because five miles wasn't really a big deal for her, and sharing this stuff felt weird, anyway. Why did he care what she did? "It took 30 minutes and afterwards I took a nap. It was a very successful day."

Eh.

"That's great!" He sounded like he really, truly meant it. Because he really, truly did. He might not know a damn thing that was worth teaching, here, but he absolutely already cared deeply for each of his students. "I think, next time, you should try to make it six."

Faith had never known anyone who was so caring before. It was weird and strange. What was so wrong with maintaining a healthy detachment from people you didn't know very well, and even people you did know but didn't want to know any better?

"I'll try," Faith said, very dryly. "If I have time."

She definitely had time. She had two classes a week.

Nothing, so long as it was actually a healthy detachment. It just wasn't how Mr. Peanutbutter rolled. It wasn't in his big, excitable yellow lab heart. He was loving and loyal and there was very little that Faith could do about that.

"That's all I ask," he said solemnly and with tremendous wisdom. "And I'll love to hear all about that run, too, next week!"

Also, she was apparently going to keep getting homework assignments. Hurray?

"Mr. Peanutbutter?" Hanna had a very important question. "I have a question about the class... goals. I think."

"Really?" Mr. Peanutbutter's ears pricked up in surprise. "Well! You've come to the right place! What's teaching about except answering questions?"

He was maybe actually asking. Maybe.

"What are we being graded on?" Hanna said. "Or rather, what are we trying to learn? What is the class about?" Because this week had been a major departure from last week, and she had the feeling she was missing something.

"I'm glad you asked that, Hanna." Not because he had an answer. But because this part would be great for the promos. "What is any class truly about? It's about . . . learning. Learning how to be. Learning how to think." That last bit was actually a purpose of good education, but he'd only managed to stumble over it. He had no idea of the actual depth.

"Oh. Oh, okay." That made a kind of sense. Hanna still had her moments of credulity even after various very strange teachers. Chalk it up to the ones who were very non-traditional (see: Pinkie Pie). "I wanted to be sure that I wasn't missing something."

"Oh, no, you should try to never miss anything." This was terrible advice. "Carpe that diem, Hanna. Carpe that diem like it's a ball someone's just thrown for you. Go get that ball!" He barked and panted. "Go get it! Go get it, girl!" He howled -- then cleared his throat self-consciousl. "Er, the metaphorical ball, I mean. Though real balls are fun too!"

Edited 2016-09-09 04:52 (UTC)

Hanna startled when he howled, and started to reach for a knife she wasn't even wearing, before stopping herself and looking awkward. "Right now?" she couldn't help asking. "I mean, yes. Of course." Wait, what was she agreeing to? It was hard to be sure, except that Mr. Peanutbutter had an awful lot of enthusiasm about it.

At the end of my senior year of college, I went to my advisor/poetry professor to thank him for teaching me to really appreciate poetry. His response?

"Someday, I hope you'll learn to forgive me."

This ones for you, you bitter, drunken southern bastard. *raises a glass*

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Learnin' with Mr. Peanutbutter, Thursday, period 1

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