Leaving on a less intense note.

So I just got out of my 11am class, American Literature II. Today, we discussed this poem, titled "Patterns" by Amy Lowell:

I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon --
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

Well, clearly, this is a poem I relate to being an Army wife and having to contemplate what I would do if my husband didn't come home. I would say 90% of the poems we read in the class are about war, wives back home, etc. just because we are reading in an era of wars (Civil War through WWI now--which is where this poem takes place). I often have very strong feelings about these poems for very obvious reasons, but don't share these feelings about the poetry in class as my classmates do. I guess I try to not bring down the morale of the class. Today, I couldn't help but talk about this poem. The question our professor asked us was: "What are the patterns Lowell talks about?" I know all too well what Lowell's means by the patterns. I let a few students give their answers, then I raised my hand. My voice shaking a bit, and having to stop and take a breath to get it out, I answered:
"I know exactly what these patterns are. When my husbands gone, I squeeze myself into patterns, as many patterns as I can, so that I don't fall apart. Those patterns are classes, work, teaching, events. Anything that brings organization to my life, just as her corset brings her. When my husband is home, we naturally live life on a whim, free of patterns, just as she knew her fiance and she would do if he made it home. I have always thought [at this point with a tear in my eye], that if my husband doesn't come home, I will adopt a baby, and I will care for my child and teach my students, just us two, until the day I die. That pattern, that daily organization, will be the only thing that holds me together. That's why she goes back to relying on patterns at the end of the poem when she finds out her fiance isn't coming home."
My professor was, I think, dumbfounded. Instead of responding my answer, he immediately called on another student. This student talked about how, even though it wasn't the exact situation as the poem, he knows when he is out of school in the summer, he is bored and just about goes crazy because there's no organization--he can't even remember what day of the month it is. His answer was just as valid as mine--he brought a common understanding to what these patterns are.
So then, something happened that made me angry. My professor said "Yes, why don't we end there...on a less intense note." I almost felt he was chastising my openness, my realness with my class. And he gave my classmates less credit than they're worth--as if he thought they didn't need to leave with such heavy thoughts on their hearts, or that they couldn't handle such honesty and truth. I chose to speak up today because there are some things that I wish people my age could understand. I spoke up because I wanted them to know that they should appreciate their lives and their lack of patterns as young people. They can still live life on a whim--go out to the bar, go on road trips with friends, anything they want. People don't realize how free they are, until that feeling of freedom and whimsy is taken away. I hope, that even though my professor wanted to cover it up, that my classmates took something away from what I said.