Kindred Spirits. Or Not.

"Once in a generation a woman comes along who changes everything. Tina Fey is not that woman, but she met that woman once and acted weird around her." - Leading quotation from the back cover of Bossypants, also a helpful analogy for an episode in my Bryanston life.

If, in this analogy, the English Poet Laureate is "the woman who comes along and changes everything," I am Tina Fey.

A few weeks back, the school had somehow wrangled Carol Ann Duffy (current English Poet Laureate, first woman to do it) into coming and performing some of her poetry to the kids. She would also, as poets do, be eating lunch here.

As a member of the English department, I'd been encouraged to attend the lunch (a standing-up, nibbling finger food affair) and do my bit to minimize the chance of awkward silences between Bryanston and Carol Ann Duffy. The logic was that we could all "hide behind each other," which I thought a splendid idea, until I forgot.

I don't know what came over me. I'd first read and enjoyed her poetry at the tender age of two hours ago, so there was no hero-worship to blame for my enthusiasm.

I was seized, I think, by the deep-seated instinct to "Be Nice to Comp'ny." Similar to the "Don't Eat Those, They're For Comp'ny," edict, the "Be Nice" corollary dictates that one banish all concern for personal comfort in favor of welcoming the visitor. I'd internalized this rule to mean that, in these luncheon party trenches, there was a social bullet with my name on it. Ergo the second she walked into the room, I stepped forward and introduced myself.

"Hi, my name's Sarah Kate. We've both got double-barreled first names! Do people get confused with yours, too?"

A pause. If I'd been able to, I'd have clapped both hands over my mouth.

"Sometimes they drop the Ann," she replied.

"Oh, I so get that. We just can't give up though, can we?"

SHUT UP, said my brain.

And fortunately, I did shut up. We were saved by another English teacher coming over to introduce some students who were vastly more poised than I had just proven to be.

Through further chit chat, and greater filter control on my part, the lunch was redeemed, but it was a close shave.

That evening, after she had finished a performance of her poetry, the other English faculty were getting her to sign copies of her work. My head of department flipped open a just-signed copy, found a poem she liked, and chuckled to read the title out loud. She passed the book to me, and I smiled as I started reading the poem to myself.

"Well, now you have to read it to us," said her husband.
"What? No way; I can't follow that," I blurted, gesturing toward Carol Ann Duffy, who stood listening to this exchange.
"Oh, come on."

And I thought it would be childish to persist in buttoning my lip, so I just read the thing. In front of Carol Ann Duffy. Which is sort of like showing an artist a digital picture you took of their painting.

I took my leave soon after, thanking Carol Ann Duffy for her visit and pleading Chess Club as my excuse.

"Oh, a chess club. Are you any good at chess?" she asked me.
"Oh, no. Not at all. That's why I go to Chess Club," I said, idiotically. And like an awkward phantom, I was gone.


The next time I meet the English Poet Laureate, I'll think of something better to say.

OH WAIT.