Woody as Joker, and College Rec For Anthony David D.

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I've had very little time for creative pursuits during this hectic first quarter and three-offspring soccer season. A couple things here and there, though, including work on a recording for my daughter and her best friend of a song they wrote together. This to make up for not letting her go to Kings Island with friends, because her mother and I are united in unreasonable meanness.

Another school has requested a perusal script for the musical I wrote. Fingers crossed.

The band is moving along despite membership shake ups.

I've done no writing of my own.

I did, however, get the chance to revisit a piece I wrote four years ago that I was always a wee bit pleased with.

A former student stopped by my room to ask me to write a college recommendation. College recommendations are par for the course in this job, but rarely am I asked to write one for a student who graduated four years ago. This kid, who I always liked very much, left college to go on a "find myself" expedition that landed him in China teaching English. How cool is that? But now he's ready to go back to school, and needs a college rec to do it.

But how am I supposed to write him a rec? I haven't know him for four years.

Apparently there is a program at Columbia exclusively for students who have been out of school for two years or more. They are looking for non-traditional students (they certainly have found one in this kid). So they know that the academic recs they get might be from relationships that ended years ago.

I was comfortable with the idea when I realized that he didn't want me to write a new rec. he wanted me to send the one I wrote years ago.

College recs are tricky, but don't often call for much creativity other than finding ways to be honest about shortcomings that make students look good. But this kid, an unusual student whose strengths might not be apparent on his transcript, was applying to Kenyon, which I felt was a good match, and a school for which I could take some risks in my writing. So I took a big risk and wrote an unconventional letter that I think really captured the kid.

This letter was passed around in the Kenyon admissions office, ended up being published in a journal for college admissions counselors, and was remembered and cited by the president of the college when she spoke here some years ago. Toot-toot goes my own horn, small though it may be.

In the four years since I wrote the lettr I've grown uncomfortable with how much of a presence I am in the letter. Still, it did the job then, and I hope it does the job for him again, and I include it here because I like it, and he was, and I hope still is, such a creative kid.

I got his permission, and I changed his name.

TEACHER RECOMMENDATION FOR ANTHONY DAVID D.
WRITTEN BY DEAD LENNIE
TEACHER OF ENGLISH AND THEATER

This is a college recommendation I wrote for Anthony David D. when he was my student in 2004. He has asked me to send this letter as a snapshot of who he was in high school. It was a pleasure to see him again, and it is a pleasure to share this letter.

For what it is worth, Anthony David’s recent emails to me suggest that the former struggles with grammar noted below are now a thing of the past. And his recent life suggests that those things about him I most admired have only grown more inspiring.


When Anthony David asked me to write this letter, I was thrilled. I am a huge fan of this kid, and I was pleased to have the opportunity to introduce him to your school.

Now I’m starting my fourth attempt at this letter. Turns out, Anthony David is not an easy kid to capture on paper, especially in something as formal as the Recommendation Letter, capital “R” capital “L.” Anthony David is generally an informal kid. He’s also a kid that perceptive teachers gush about – usually at lunch, informally. My formal attempts at capturing him have fallen short. But if you and I were out to lunch – someplace casual – Max and Erma’s, maybe - these are some of the things I’d say about Anthony David D. between sips of tortilla soup and nibbles of my BLT:

“You should have seen him in the fall play. I mean, what was I thinking when I cast this show? This play, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) – do you know this show? This show depends on speed. It’s hilarious, and Anthony David is hilarious. But the whole last, I dunno, half hour depends on speed. They race through Hamlet three times, each time faster than the last – and the last time BACKWARDS. So what do I do? I cast an ADD kid with processing issues – issues with speed, in other words – in the lead role. I mean, what was I thinking?

“But I took the leap, and Anthony David flew. You should have seen him. He was brilliant. Brilliant. The audience will never know how hard he worked to do what he did on that stage. They only know that it was an unforgettable, hilarious, sidesplitting performance by one of the funniest kids that stage has ever seen. You should have seen it. It was amazing. And the part where he improvises, alone on stage, talking directly to the audience? Some folks were laughing so hard they couldn't breathe. I was one of them, and I had seen it a million times.

“Really. You should have been there.”

Pause. Slurp some soup. Sprinkle some salt.

“He’s always been like that, though. He’s always been surprising. Once, his, ummm, his sophomore year, I think. He took my theater class. He’s a fan of Shakespeare, so he was going to do Romeo’s speech in the tomb, when Romeo thinks that Juliet is dead. Well, we knew the theater was unavailable, so I figured we’d just do the scene in my classroom. But Anthony David realized that the cubbies in the hallway look sort of tomb-like. So he opts to do his scene in the hallway.

“Okay. So he disappears for a while, and then when we all go out there, he’s dressed up, and he has these teddy bears – like a dozen teddy bears – all over the hallway, on the floor, in the cubbies. There are all these teddy bears. The Capulet tomb, see? ‘Oh no,” I’m thinking. ‘He’s going to play this for laughs. He’s going to go for a cheap joke. He’s going to butcher Shakespeare and he’s going to sink his grade.’

“But he didn’t.” Quick bite of my BLT. Wipe my chin. “Traffic is stopping in the hall at this point, and Anthony David launches into the speech. ‘Let me peruse this face,’ he says, kneeling over a light brown bear. ‘Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!’ and so on, until he goes to another bear, this one Juliet. People are gathering throughout the speech, each approaching with a giggle but then falling silent. Then, at last: ‘Thus with a kiss . . . I . . . die.’

Silence. No laughs. Then, applause. Cheers. He nailed it. Kneeling in a school hallway with a teddy bear in his arms, he gave everyone a mid-afternoon glimpse of the power of Shakespeare. It was brilliant. He made it look easy. This kid. I tell you.

“Pass the salt.”

You do.

“Thanks. You know, he was a pretty tough student. I had him freshman year, and it was rocky. He has some learning differences – grammar will always be tough for him, for instance, but the bigger problem was just his organization. He never got things in on time. But I have him now, again, as a senior, and he’s amazing. Very organized, and things get done. But there’s a bigger issue. Somewhere along the line he gained confidence, and now? He’s got this drive, this hunger. He can’t get enough information. I think he’s read more about Hamlet than I have.

“He gave a presentation in class about sources for Oedipus and Antigone explaining this controversial theory he found. His presentation ends up lasting two days. It was amazing. He is passionate about learning. He was inspired.

“One night, we were driving back to school from a play I took some kids to see, and I started asking Anthony David all these questions about his home life. I’ve known this kid for years through plays and classes, but I didn’t know too much about his life. So I ask. I knew his parents were separated, and I suspected they were pretty uninvolved with his school life. I didn’t realize how uninvolved they really were. They’re good people, but Anthony David was pretty much on his own – for meals, even, most of the time, as far back as middle school. So I asked him straight out, there, in the van. I asked, 'So, this growth you’ve had. I mean, you had some struggles, with organization, with getting the job done. Now you’re this great student. You’ve had a transformation. You did that on your own? All on your own?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Pretty much.’”

Now, at Max and Erma’s, I shove my food aside. I wipe my mouth, and I lean toward you. I’m looking right in your eyes.

“This kid. This Anthony David D. He’s smart – moments of brilliance even. He’s passionate. He’s a hard worker. Grammar? Not his thing. He’ll always have to work at the technical side of writing. But his ideas have substance and depth and subtlety. His leadership injects the entire school with fun, but keeps us talking about what’s important. His spirit – he’s got more school spirit than anyone here. This kid – he’s why teachers get out of bed in the morning. He’s inspiring to inspire. He’s done amazing things. He’s going to do amazing things. He should do them at your school.”

So that’s what I would say if we were out to lunch.

You’ll get the check, right?