A Case for Darkness in School Literature
They call me “the murder teacher.”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it.
I taught nothing but Ninth Grade English for several years: all freshmen, all the time. By the time students enter high school, they have very definite feelings about English class, school, and reading in general. So, on day one, I give them a wonderful comic by Emily Carroll called “His Face All Red,” in which a jealous, muppet-y looking man who kills his brother in the deep, dark woods. Or maybe he doesn’t, because something with his brother’s face comes back out acting as though nothing happened.
And now, if nothing else, I have their attention. I don’t know the types of texts students are getting in elementary and middle school these days, but I know when they get to me, they are hungry for the kind of story that might bite back. I’m not under the illusion that all students read what I assign. But it’s heartening to hear, in hushed voices before class, students telling their friends off for not reading: “Are you kidding? This one was so creepy!”
I think darkness in literature serves two key purposes. First, engagement. My kids are never so generous with their attention as when two of them come to the front of my class, borrow lightsabers, and act out the death of Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet. Violence is inherently interesting. Why fight it? And better yet, why leave them with the clean, PG-13 violence of Fast and Furious and Marvel movies? Show them the grotesque stories of Roald Dahl (“The Way up to Heaven,” for example), and let them feel the weight of it.
Second, I feel like darkness allows students to be uncomfortable in a safe environment. Years ago, I proposed a film study of The Dead Poets’ Society to the school where I taught. We needed to discuss the ideas of tradition and progress, and what better film to encapsulate that idea than Robin Williams’ Mr. Keating challenging Welton? I anticipated my students would feel excited, and then upset at BIG OLD SPOILERS the suicide of Neil, and then outraged with the school and parents’ handling of the situation. I thought that as a class, we could work through those feelings. I never found out, because I was told we couldn’t teach it. The suicide meant the story was off-limits (never mind that I taught Romeo and Juliet a month before), and the discussion was over. Suicide is a difficult subject. But it is also a real and urgent issue that invites discussion, particularly in the context of a fictional student overwhelmed by parental expectation and feelings of being misunderstood. And if those conversations, grounded in respect and care, can’t happen in an English classroom, where do we expect them to turn up?
None of this is to say students should be forced to read something that makes them uncomfortable. Students should have the right to request alternate readings if they feel unprepared for or overwhelmed by a topic. But I can’t help but feel that taking that choice away from them in the classroom by focusing on “safe” or light stories does students a disservice. Students should have stories that interest them and make them think, and the best way to do that is to advocate for it. Teachers are desperate to give students books they want to read, even when higher-ups may feel less than comfortable about obliging. If students and parents push for the kinds of books that ask questions and take us to dark places, teachers will have their back. We might leave our comfort zone somewhat, but look around: reality is grim, and everyone should enter into it armed and ready.