Enter the Bamboo

By Steve McCarty, English Department Chair

Every fall, I take my American Literature class on a nature walk around campus. My intent is to show students the variety of life that surrounds them. I place chestnuts on their open palms and watch as they recoil when they feel the burrs. We find walnuts and hickory nuts, sycamore seed pods (which look like Christmas ornaments) and catalpa seed pods (which look like long green beans). One time we saw a pileated woodpecker. Once a fox crossed our path just ten yards ahead. But the consistent highlight of the walk year after year is stomping through the bamboo “forest” near the campus front gate. Walking through it magically transforms teenagers into third graders. They love the sound of stalks snapping underfoot. Some are uncertain about entering, but once inside, a feeling of serenity washes over them. 

I usually break that serenity by grabbing two stalks and shaking them like an enraged primate. At first, the students look at me like they made the wrong decision to follow this man into the bamboo. Then one ultimately says, “Can I do that?” 

“Of course. I can promise you that you’re not going to break it.” She hesitantly grabs two stalks and shakes them, sending leaves fluttering down on her classmates’ heads. 

“That felt good.” 

Another girl looks up from her notebook. “This place is cool. Are we allowed to come down here?”

The question sounds absurd. Who could possibly object to a child enjoying time in nature? But then I realize how much of this generation’s lives are managed. Adults can imagine any variety of calamities that might befall a child walking unsupervised through the bamboo: scratches, abrasions, broken bones, concussions, contusions, etc.

One of the main knocks on Gen Z is that they are sucked into the world of their phones. But how much of their movement and schedule is managed? At times, the only “permitted” way to explore their world is through the little black mirror in the palm of their hands. 

Consider the questions I’ve been asked this semester:

“The book that I’m reading is really boring. Can I stop and read another?”

“I don’t like these poems that I’m writing. Can I just start over?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

What reasonable person would say no to these questions? The answer is that somebody has along the way, otherwise the student would not be asking it. It’s hard getting inspired when every action is subject to approval. I realize that part of the restrictions are for risk management. But at some point, students become so risk-averse that they don’t do anything unless they are instructed to do so.

If I don’t do exactly as the teacher asks, then I risk getting a B. Oh, no!

I have to ask myself: am I inspiring a student, or am I managing a student? A managed student will give no surprises. A managed student will only do what is asked and nothing more. A managed student will stay on the path. A managed student will never enter the bamboo.

An inspired student might try something she’s never tried before. A student last year chose to write a provisional patent for her writing project and had it approved by the U.S. Patent Office. But an inspired student might also have a project that “fails.” She might have big ideas, get lost in the project, and realize that she doesn’t have enough time to do the job. As a teacher, if I want her to chance writing something great, then I have to be prepared for something not-so-great and not punish the student for taking risk.

To date, I have not lost a student in the bamboo forest (*knocks on wood*). Once I was one body short when we came out the other side. I called out her name. No answer. I put my hands together and gave out a dove call. No answer. I called out her name in my “drill sergeant” voice. On the far side of the bamboo, I heard her say, “I’m coming.” 

I do my best to let students wander through the bamboo. They might not emerge in the place I expected them to, but they will emerge.