oh mr. deans

this year, i decided to take an honors english class with none other than all of our favorite little man, mr dean. (or mr. deansie boy) and as i came into it, i had no idea what to expect. i do enjoy his whit and humor as well as his charm and knowing exactly what to say, when it needs to be said.

sometimes i am confused in that class as to what to do. his intelligence puts me back and confounds me sometimes. but his stories are the best. he tells me how much he loves my uncle Evan and how they love Doterra oils. and about how my uncle is a good man and how funny he is. mr. deans makes me laugh.

on some days i just can't handle his class though. such as when we take huge 100 question tests. and i have no idea what the questions are asking. but i love how he comes around and just answers them for me. i always end up getting a good grade. i love him.

and sometimes, i am truly inspired by the things we read and by him. this week i am inspired by the poem Song of Myself by Walt Whitman. besides it basically being an ode to himself that is really long, there is one part that stuck out to me, and who know why. here is how it goes;

"...I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times, How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights, And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the side of their prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there. The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks. Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself..."

i have no idea why i love that so much. but i just find it so complex, yet simple. and beautiful.
i guess you never what will speak to you in an honors english class.

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