The most significant lesson I ever received in Literature classes was that everything is actually about abortion.
My regular teacher was out for the day, so the āthis guy works here but nobody quite knows what heās supposed to doā substitute was in for her. His name was Mr. Moony. I suspect, knowing more now, that Mr. Moony was the special education coordinator for gifted and talented students. But thatās all besides the point.
The only thing that mattered about Mr. Moony for this story is that every student knew you never learned anything when he was in, because he was always batshit insane. He would completely disregard plans, throw them away, and tell us to do something different.
When he came in, we had just finished reading Waiting for Godot. We were well on our way to an AP Lit exam, tired and worried, and we had a practice essay coming up based on this play. And he said, āyouāre all burnt the hell out, so Iām going to write an essay for you.ā We all cheered because, hell yes, a lecture day. We didnāt have to do shit. We could all tune out and stop caring.
And then he started going.
We were enraptured. This man deconstructed the two act play into a masterpiece, quoting ancient literature on theology and God, as well as personal details about the author, to reveal to us all that, actually, Waiting for Godot was the authorās roundabout way to show the anguish behind the politics of the pro-life/anti-choice movements, and the authorās criticisms of abortion.
He went on for a half hour, writing faster than we could really keep up with. By the end of his rant, we were all nodding along. At the end, he slammed his hand on the board and shouted āABORTIONā to really make his point.
āSo, do you all think thatās what this story is about?ā
The majority of us nodded, myself included. And this man looked at us, scrunched his face like Kermit the Fucking Frog, and went, āno the fuck itās not. I made all that up.ā
There was a beat of everyone feeling like their time was wasted. Some students very frustrated because they were trying to take notes and just realized it all was fabricated. One or two who were angry about being woken up to him shouting abortion.
And then he looked at us. āHow many of you only believe itās about abortion because thatās what I just told you to think?ā
Quite a few raised their hands.
āThen I did English good.ā
The rest of the time of class was spent with him teaching us various styles of analysis, though sadly my amnesia has claimed most of this part from me. I remember my belief in English being entirely shaken at this point. But at the same time, I also got what he was saying, and it opened my eyes to new things.
There is no right answer in literary analysis. Thereās just answers people want to hear, or answers that are compelling, or answers that arenāt those things. The answer that Waiting for Godot was about abortion was not something all of us wanted to hear, but he made the answer sound compelling ā and so we were riveted.
My next essay I wrote for that class was about the setting of the play, and how the entirety of Waiting for Godot centers on the anxieties of losing the modern family ā and even modern life as we know it ā to technology, and via that idea, the climate crisis.
I got a 100%. My teacher highlighted my (thankfully anonymous to the class) essay, particularly because the first sentence was ācompelling,ā due to my absence of proper grammar rules; Iād started it off by just saying, ātrees.ā
That was the day I really knew I loved English ā not just enjoyed reading and writing, but genuine love of playing with the language. And itās this love that I try to instill into my students.
