“Welcome to the Rock!”
So, it’s about that time in the semester when I’m finding it pretty hard to be inspired. Or, ya know, maybe to find inspiration? To inspire others? I don’t really know, but it’s that annual thing, I think, when the summer starts to leave and the leaves start flirting with fall and whatever joy I stashed away in my fridge for winter starts to stale and expire. It’s that bittersweet yearly cocktail of boredom, futility, angst, exhaustion, and longing for that nostalgia that comes from dusting off those plastic pumpkins and making sure your jacket still fits.
Inspiration is vital for teaching. Yes, objectively we know that part of our job is to inspire, but we also recognize that in order to do that, we must also be inspired. And… well…sometimes that’s just really hard to do.
So earlier this month, when a colleague asked me if I had heard of the Broadway musical Come From Away, I knew that her text might very well offer the ignition I needed to drive myself for the rest of the semester.
I’d seen Come From Away a few years earlier, during its Broadway tour of Indiana. If you haven’t seen it, not to be That Guy, but you totally should. Apple TV released a Hamilton-esque staged production of it last month! Seriously, check it out. It’s the true story of the seven thousand passengers who were stranded in the small, isolated town of Gander, Newfoundland on September 11, 2001. For five days, the locals hosted these strangers in their homes, schools, and churches. The fed them. Clothed them and bathed them. Asked for nothing but did everything to provide the type of unconditional hospitality that is so sorely lacking in the world today. I’ve seen a lot of musicals over the years, and truly, few have resonated with me, and continue to do so, as profoundly as Come From Away.
Now, aside from the unabashed display of human selflessness and the unbridled compassion relayed by the Gander citizens, the play itself has nothing to do with teaching. But maybe those things are enough…
After my colleague and I swapped a few texts about the play, I spent the next several days returning to the soundtrack on my drive to school. Crying most of the way, TBH…
For some reason, the opening number still leaves me with chilled skin and watery eyes. It’s powerful yet vulnerable, assertive yet reflective. So much so that, given the fact that my students—preservice English teachers—are also struggling to find inspiration in their lives right now, I decided to examine the lyrics of the opening number as a class to see if the lives and philosophies of a bunch of dramatized Canadians might have something to offer our journey as Indiana English teachers.
With a seamless weaving of pride and humility, the citizens of Gander open the show by chanting:
Welcome to the land where the winters try to kill us and we say,
“we will not be killed.” Welcome to the land where the waters try to drown us and we said,
“we will not be drowned.” Welcome to the land where we lost our loved ones and we said,
“we will still go on” Welcome to the land where the winds try to blow,
and we said "No!”
Later, in the song’s interlude, the music becomes more somber, the vocals more melodic and restrained. The characters sing:
You are here, at the start of a moment, on the edge of the world. Where the river meets the sea. Here, at the edge of the Atlantic, on an island in between there and here.
When my students and I arrived at these lyrics during our analysis, one of them suggested, “It’s like school!”
“What do you mean?” I probed.
“Like, school is kind of on the edge of the world, right? It’s like this gateway from the kids’ childhood—the smaller river—and their lives as adults, the sea.”
“Yeah,” another one chimed in. “School is sort of this island between there and here. Like the song says. It’s the edge of the world, a start of a moment.”
“And it’s really hard!” one of my quieter students added. “Going back to the earlier lyrics, there’s a lot of things in school we can’t control. Bad things, right? Things that try and hurt us and break us or bring us down.”
“Yeah, and we can’t let it. Teachers are islanders, right?” They’re really making connections now, I thought. “Just like the people in the song. They’re proud to be islanders. They’re strong and choose to live in a place that’s harsh and cold, but they do it anyway, and they’re happy.”
“These last lyrics really tie the ideas together,” another student joined the conversation. The lyrics she was referring to came at the very end of the opening number. “This is what really has to do with teaching!” The lyrics said:
To the ones who left, you’re never truly gone. Our candle's in the window and our candle's always on. When the sun is coming up, and the world has come ashore. If you're hoping for a harbor than you'll find an open door. In the winter, from the water, through whatever's in the way, to the ones who have come from away, we say,
“Welcome to the rock!”
Our discussion lasted about an hour. It left me inspired. Not just by the song or the show or the precious spirit of humanity and resilience and compassion and hospitality that they both embody. My students inspired me. These future Indiana English teachers. They saw something of themselves in this song about a rock, and for a moment in a Tuesday afternoon, as the summer started to leave and the leaves started flirting with fall, they each seemed a bit more excited—confident, even—about the winters and the waters and the winds of our profession.
Our class ended with a handful of young teachers, standing on their islands, fully prepared to embrace whatever worlds ultimately come ashore. Their candles are in the window. And, at least for now, they’re still lit.
No need to welcome you all to the rock, Indiana English teachers. You’ve been here the whole time. Thank you all for being Islanders. Our world is grateful.
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