Reading Salinger

When my seventh period seniors were in their seats and settled, I started talking.

“I’ve got something I want to talk about. This is maybe not the best group for me to do this with; members of this class tend to be a bit skeptical about emotional kinds of topics" – well, they did, and they knew it – “but this is important to me, and it’s important to me to do it right now."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, the stillness kids have when things get heavy. They thought they were in trouble, and I didn’t correct the impression. If wondering if they were being scolded would keep the cynics along for the ride, that was fine. Good, even.

I said, “When I was in teacher school, one of my professors said that when dealing with topics you feel strongly about you should ask yourself a question: Am I doing this to serve my students’ needs, or my own?’ The implication is that if what you are saying is not for your students, you shouldn't be saying it. I agree with that advice, generally, and though I don’t always succeed, I try to hold to it. That said, I’m going to talk about something, and it’s going to be for me, not for you. It’s self-indulgent, and I apologize. I hope it’s of value to you, but I’m doing this for me. I want to be able to look back at this day and remember that I stopped what I was doing and took some time.”

The class had no idea what I was talking about, but they could see that I was emotional. A couple of them nodded support even though they didn’t know what was going on. I paused to regain my composure. And then I told them a version of this story.

I have wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember, but I’m not quite sure when I decided I wanted to teach English. I’m pretty sure it was in the seventh grade. My career choice had a lot to do with Ed Zettler, especially something he did on the last day of school.

That year I was a new kid – returning kid, actually – in a strict Catholic school. It was tough year for me, but I loved English. I liked Mr. Zettler a lot, and he liked me; his class was a sanctuary. On the last day of school, he was cleaning out his room. Some kids surrounded him, angling for the junky treasure he was tossing out. But then he called me over and handed me a book, saying, “You should read this.” It was Catcher in the Rye.

That book had a big impact on me, as it does to many people, and one of the big things it taught me is that you don’t have to understand a book to love it. The summer of my seventh grade year, I didn’t understand Catcher in the Rye. But I loved it – and this was before I knew that loving Catcher in the Rye was some sort cultural statement. It’s a cliché to fall in love with the first sentence of Catcher, but it wasn’t a cliché to me, so I did.

I loved Holden. I loved his voice. I was transfixed by his unrequited love for Jane Gallagher. I loved that the book had just enough naughtiness to make me feel I was getting away with something. But all along I knew there was more to the book than I was getting. When I realized it was a classic, I wanted to be taught the book, at school, in a class, with a teacher. (I loved Holden, but I wasn’t him.) I was eager to get to high school, where I assumed it would be studied. When I got there, I was eager to get to American Literature, where I knew it was studied. By the time I got to my junior year, I had read the book a couple more times.

I was thrilled to be in Sr. Margaret’s class – she was (and is, I’m sure) a wonderful teacher, and she, like Ed Zettler, has had an influence on my career. But she was also the English teacher at Bishop Watterson who did not teach Catcher in the Rye.

As soon as I got to college, I scoured the course catalog for a lit class that listed Catcher. I found Intro to American Literature. Good course; smart, funny instructor. When it came time to cover the novel – for only one day, according to the syllabus – I said to the instructor before class, “So it’s Catcher today, right?”

And she said. “Oh, yeah. I guess. I hate that book.”

We spent fifteen minutes on it.

Eventually, of course, I got to read it in a school with a class, but I was the teacher. I taught it for years at two different school. I read books about it, I read Salinger’s other works. I designed a senior elective for kids who love it. And though I've not taught that course or American Literature for a number of years, I still have my favorite interpretations (It not a sad ending! He’s not in an insane asylum! “Caul” is significant, tied to his hunting cap! And to Allie’s hair! So Mr. Antollini patting Holden's head isn't creepy! It's Holden's apotheosis!) I don’t know if I taught it well; I imagine I was a bit over-enthused and didactic.

Through the years I've read about J.D. Salinger, all of the eccentricities, the tawdry rumors, which are probably lies and probably true, too. I used Salinger's quirks and reclusiveness to capture students’ imaginations. Regrettably, I even expressed half-kidding glee that Salinger would most likely die soon. When he dies, I said, if the reports are true that he never stopped writing, then there may be a vault filled with Salinger's works waiting to be read by the likes of us.

The Catcher in the Rye, the actual, physical book, is an artifact in my life. A section of my bookshelf is dedicated to different editions of the novel. (To me, the real Catcher is the maroon one with yellow typeface.) When I travel to different countries, which I’ve done only twice, I buy editions in different languages. In China, that wasn't easy. When copies of Catcher are left in halls and lockers at the end of each school year, I grab a couple. When I have guests who’ve never read it, I give them one.

That story - my history with The Catcher in the Rye - is the story I told my seventh period class today. I was unprepared for how hard it was; I choked up a couple times, especially at the wishing-Salinger-dead part. I was embarrassed by the whole scene. I imagined how I must have looked and thought about how I react to zealous fans of pretty much anything; I see them as unsophisticated and a little pathetic.

I abandoned my plan to read the class a Salinger story; I wouldn’t get through it.

By eighth period, I had regained my composure. Again, I told the class how much Salinger and Catcher means to me. This time I was less embarrassed and less embarrassing. I read them one of my favorite stories, “The Laughing Man.”

I’d like to say they were transfixed, but "respectful" would be more accurate. Even "patient." I’d like to say they loved the story, but I’m not sure they understood it, and my explanations fell flat. The reading, as I admitted, was for me more than for them. I want to know, tomorrow, a year, five years from now, that on the day J.D. Salinger died, I took note. I told my students what he meant to me, and I read them one of his stories.