STARTING TODAY, MONDAY FEBRUARY 24, WE AT AGINGWOMENBLOG.COM (We are Proud Aging Women) WILL BE POSTING IN A DIFFERENT SEQUENCE. WE WILL MAINLY POST ON MONDAYS BUT WE MAY ALSO INCLUDE OTHER VOICES OR CONTENT ON FRIDAYS. IF YOU WANT TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING YOU HAVE WRITTEN OR ENJOYED, WE ARE HAPPY TO INCLUDE IT. PLEASE LET US KNOW! IF YOU ARE NOT RECEIVING EMAILS AFTER YOU SUBSCRIBED, LET US KNOW THAT TOO SO WE CAN FIX IT.
Now, here’s a little story from Linda to start off the week.
Many years ago, in 1965, I was teaching English literature at a high school in downtown Washington D.C. after returning from the Peace Corps in Ethiopia. My students were almost exclusively African American, even though the school had been officially desegregated ten years before. I was one of the only white teachers in the high school, and I was searching for some sonnet or poem which would have some relevance to their experience. On that day I wrote Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 on the chalkboard, and after a few groans about it being by Shakespeare, they immediately noticed a line that surprised them. What was Shakespeare talking about? We were in the midst of an animated discussion about this parody of Elizabethan poetry, when in walked the Superintendent of Teacher Evaluation. She was there to evaluate my teaching skills, and she had an entourage with her. After a few minutes of looking around, she realized that the class was engaged in a spirited discussion of a Shakespearean sonnet. She pursed her lips, made a half smile and a wave, and walked out after a few minutes. I’m not sure she ever figured out why the class was so interested, but I did get a good evaluation! Here’s what intrigued my students.
Sonnet 130 by William Shakespeare
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.