Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…If I DID own the characters I'd have Charlie all to myself! And Neil would still be alive…and Charlie would be mine…and Mr. Keating would still have his job…and Chet Danbury would have had his butt kicked by Knox…and did I mention Charlie would be mine? I did? Oh, okay! LoL Italics are quotes taken right from the movie. Thanks to the brilliant writers for wonderful quotes and scenes to write fabulous stories around!
The poem is, bolded and italicized, 'THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED' By Robert Frost.
This
will be a 7 or 8 chapter story. After Mr. Keating leaves Welton, he
sits at a coffee shop and thinks of each boy and what difference he
made or could have made in each young man. First up…Todd Anderson.
THINKING OF TODD:
I couldn't shake the fact that I was here: at a crossroads in my life. I sat at the local coffee shop, drinking coffee, thinking back to what happened. I had just been fired for something that I wasn't sure was my fault. Sure, Welton needed a scapegoat and I was just perfect for that role. A teacher who cared about his students being able to voice their opinions; able to think for themselves.
But, all I could think of at this moment was Neil. He dared to find his voice. He dared to challenge authority and look where it landed him. He was my prized pupil, though I could never say anything. His eyes sparkled when I told him of the Dead Poets Society and I knew I had to give him that book. I could see it. He loved poetry and learning English. He came to life when we studied Shakespeare. And once I had a feeling these young men started up the DPS again, I prayed they'd be careful, but no one counted on Charlie Dalton's stunt.
I had to contain a smile and a laugh when I thought of Charlie. He was always pushing the envelope. Phone call from God. I still laughed at his stunt, as stupid and as reckless as it may have been. It was this stunt that led to the downfall of the newest chapter of the DPS. I sipped my coffee, remembering him in the student lounge, telling the tale of what happened in Nolan's office. Of course, he added dramatics. No one would have guessed that he had just received a thrashing from Mr. Nolan a couple hours earlier.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
I felt like Frost's poem. I had a couple options. Return to London and finally get married or stay in Vermont, under the slightest hope I could see more of the impact my teaching had on these boys.
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
I knew going back to Hell-ton would be risky. I knew it. She warned me, but I wanted to return. To make a difference. Well, hoping to anyhow. 'O Captain, My Captain!' Those words still rang in my head. Thanks to Richard Cameron, I was missing the opportunity to see Todd Anderson continue to grow.
Can't say I was bitter. The coffee was a little bitter, but I managed to drink it anyhow. I couldn't be angry or bitter. Things always happen for a reason, right? Maybe my time at Welton was done and over with because Todd Anderson finally learned to speak up with out fear.
Mr. Anderson. A shy little mole. I adored him the way any father should adore his son. I was only fifteen years older, but looking at Todd, I remembered how I was at Welton my first couple of years. 'And no, at that time I was not the mental giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a ninety-eight pound weakling. I would go to the beach and people would kick copies of Byron in my face.' The boys slightly laughed, but it was true. And the more I taught, the more I saw myself in Todd Anderson. I wanted him to find his voice. I smiled in memory when I realised I had.
It all started with an assignment Todd didn't do. 'Mr. Anderson thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, Todd? Isn't that your worst fear? Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal.' I walked up to the blackboard and began to write. "'I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. W. W.' Uncle Walt again. Now, for those of you who don't know, a yawp is a loud cry or yell. Now, Todd, I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric "yawp." Come on. You can't yawp sitting down. Let's go. Come on. Up.'
Todd reluctantly stood and followed me to the front. 'You gotta get in "yawping" stance.'
'A yawp?' He questioned.
'No, not just a yawp. A barbaric yawp.'
Todd remained at a controlled low voice. 'Yawp.'
'Come on, louder.' I urged.
'Yawp.' Would he ever let go and YAWP barbarically?
I was disappointed. 'No, that's a mouse. Come on. Louder.'
'Yawp.' A more valiant try, but still not a barbaric yawp.
I was getting frustrated with his control. 'Oh, good God, boy. Yell like a man!'
'YAWP!' He yelled at me. Finally I thought!
'There it is. You see, you have a barbarian in you, after all.' I beamed with pride. He tried to return to his seat but I stopped him. 'Now, you don't get away that easy.' I turned him around and pointed at the picture of Whitman above the chalkboard. 'The picture of Uncle Walt up there. What does he remind you of? Don't think. Answer. Go on.' I snapped my fingers and started circling around him.
Todd very quietly stammered. 'A m-m-madman.'
Again, I pushed. 'What kind of madman? Don't think about it. Just answer again.'
'A c-crazy madman.'
I was disappointed in his words. 'No, you can do better than that. Free up your mind. Use your imagination. Say the first thing that pops into your head, even if it's total gibberish. Go on, go on.'
'Uh, uh, a sweaty-toothed madman.'
I was proudfully shocked. 'Good God, boy, there's a poet in you, after all. There, close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close 'em. Now, describe you see.'
I put my hands over Todd's eyes and begin to slowly spin around, hoping that this would help him find that poet that was aching to come out. 'Uh, I-I close my eyes.'
'Yes?'
'Uh, and this image floats beside me.'
'A sweaty-toothed madman?' I pushed, hoping he'd follow.
He did. 'A sweaty-toothed madman with a stare that pounds my brain.'
I was ecstatic. 'Oh, that's excellent. Now, give him action. Make him do something.'
'H-His hands reach out and choke me.'
'That's it. Wonderful. Wonderful.' I removed my hands from Todd but he continued to keep his eyes closed.
'And, and all the time he's mumbling.' I can see Todd's mind working.
'What's he mumbling?'
'M-Mumbling, "Truth. Truth is like, like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold."'
The students began to laugh and Todd opened his eyes. I quickly gestured for him to close them again. 'Forget them, forget them. Stay with the blanket. Tell me about that blanket.' I knew that if Todd didn't focus on it, he'd lose the poet in him he just discovered.
'Y-Y-Y-You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream.'
Todd opened his eyes, at a class stunned and silent. After a couple moments, they cheer and clap, leaving Todd with a smile on his face.
I pressed my forehead to his. 'Don't you forget this.'
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I knew the moment Mr. Anderson stood on his desk, that the voice that lay dormant in him for the seventeen years of his life had been awaken. Maybe, just maybe, I had done exactly what I was called to do. I thought of the Walt Whitman poem I recited once to the boys. 'O me, O life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?' Maybe I had already contributed my verse in the powerful play.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
