Your Secret Hideout

As an undergraduate English major, I underlined a passage in Vladimir Nabokov’s autobiography, Speak, Memory, in which he describes, as a boy, crawling through a dark tunnel between the sofa and the wall. It is a minor vignette in a sprawling book, but it stuck with me. Over a decade later in graduate school, I marked a similar description in Virginia Woolf’s memoir, “A Sketch of the Past.” “How large for instance was the space beneath the nursery table! I still see it as a great black space with the table-cloth hanging down in folds on the outskirts in the distance; and myself roaming about there … .” These two scenes jostled in my imagination and eventually sparked a dissertation about childhood spaces.

When talking to friends or strangers about my topic, they invariably lit up and began recalling their own childhood fort, nook, or hideout. I was struck by how universal these spaces seem to be, and how willingly people described them. I noticed, too, that memories of these spaces elicit different emotional responses. The small childhood space can be a site of blissful reverie or adventure, but it also can serve as a necessary refuge or safe haven.

While there are many versions, these spaces share a common purpose: within their real or imaginary boundaries, children discover and develop their capacity for creative play. Rather than forcing themselves to fit into the world, they temporarily escape and imagine their own. This is likely why these spaces inspire such terrific student poems.

The Lead-in and Discussion
I’ve led the following poetry lesson with second-graders and with college students, using surprisingly similar approaches. I begin by handing out (or projecting on the board) Robert Duncan’s poem “Childhood’s Retreat.” An audio recording of Duncan reading this poem is available at that link, and I generally prefer to let Duncan be the first reader of his poem.

Before pressing play, I briefly set the scene. I might share a photo of Duncan (I like to put faces to names for the younger writers especially, so that they can see that writers are actual human beings, often with pets, snappy outfits, and senses of humor) and explain that he is writing about a secret hiding place—somewhere he went as a kid to explore and to be alone.

Childhood’s Retreat

It’s in the perilous boughs of the tree
out of blue sky    the wind
sings loudest surrounding me.

And solitude,   a wild solitude
’s reveald,  fearfully,  high   I’d climb
into the shaking uncertainties,

part out of longing,  part   daring my self,
part to see that
widening of the world, part

to find my own, my secret
hiding sense and place, where from afar
all voices and scenes come back

—the barking of a dog, autumnal burnings,
far calls,  close calls—the boy I was
calls out to me
here the man where I am “Look!

I’ve been where you

most fear to be.”

The first time I decided to share this poem with my second-graders, I was concerned that the poem’s diction and lyricism might fly over their heads. To my delight, they were enraptured—even stunned—by Duncan’s deep voice suddenly filling their classroom. No one fidgeted, strayed, or spoke out. They were caught in the poem’s spell for the duration of the reading, and this has proven to the case with most subsequent classes, too.

With the poem still hovering in the air, I ask a few preliminary questions. Nothing analytical yet—just an initial call for impressions. Where is this place he describes in the poem? How does this poem make you feel as you listen to it? Then I read the poem aloud for a second time (with the second-graders), or I ask for a student volunteer to read it (with the older students). I don’t want to trigger a hunt-for-clues-and-literary-devices at this point, but I might preface the second reading by echoing Allen Ginsberg’s advice: Notice what you notice.

One of the things I love about teaching this poem is that Duncan makes several unexpected choices that students immediately pick up on. If a student remarks on the extra spaces between words, I ask, How do those extra spaces affect our reading of the poem? “They slow you down,” they say. Or, “They bring out the emotion in the poem.” Then I might reply, Can you explain why, or how, that works? It’s not important that students respond with eloquent answers to every question; on the contrary, I want to foster an inquisitive atmosphere with very little pressure to perform or provide the right answer.

Keeping the age of your students in mind, some other questions you might ask include:

• How is the boy feeling as he climbs the tree?

• What are his various motivations or wishes for seeking out this “retreat”?

• Can you think of any differences between a hiding “sense” and “place”? Why do you think Duncan chooses to make this distinction?

• Where does the tense shift in the poem?

• Who is speaking in the final lines—and to whom? What is interesting about this dialogue? What might Duncan be implying here?

• If students notice the two instances in the poem that deviate from the version Duncan read in the audio recording, invite them to speculate about the effects of these revisions (i.e., “boughs” vs. “branches,” “the shaking uncertainties” vs. “the shaking uncertainties of song”).

The goal, of course, is to give students the space to articulate their observations about the poem, to lead them toward those articulations with questions and promptings. If they impress themselves and each other with their insights, terrific! If they stare into space but you can see that their wheels are turning, that’s great too. “Close reading” is not the purpose of this lesson, but students are gradually developing and deepening their understanding that writers make stylistic choices, and that these choices can alter and enhance a poem’s particular magic.

 

Getting Onto the Page
Once the discussion of Duncan’s poem moves toward a natural conclusion (or sometimes, you might choose to interrupt the discussion at the height of excitement), I pose a personal question to my students.

To the second-graders: Do you have a secret hideout? Where is it? Who is allowed to go inside? Do you enjoy being alone sometimes? Why? You can expect many, many hands in the air. The challenge at this point is to sufficiently contain the buzzing energy in the room so that students can transfer it into their poems. A bit of conversation and sharing can inspire young writers, stir them up in a good way; too much can dissipate the energy before pencils have touched the page.

Some students will be ready to write with very little additional guidance, and I encourage these students to be as free as possible. Write and see what happens. Describe your secret hideout using delicious details. But some young writers need an extra nudge— something that will push them onto the blank page before they’re off and running. For these students, I write or project the following prompts on the board with the understanding that they are suggestions, not a list to tick off:

• Where is your secret hideout?

• Describe what your secret hideout looks like.

• How do you get inside your secret hideout?

• Are there any rules or secret passwords?

• Who is allowed in your secret hideout?

I’ve noticed that young writers like to exaggerate or imagine their secret hideouts with outrageous or fantastical details. Personally, I don’t have a preference between a literal description of a physical space or a fantasy fort. In fact, one of the key points about these spaces is that they permit an inward movement and trigger imaginative flight.

With more experienced writers, I use a different approach. I might start by asking students to briefly free-write about one or more places they used to go, as children or adolescents, to be alone. Often these spaces generate a range of complicated emotions for students, so the atmosphere in the room is quieter and more reflective. After students have identified and located personal childhood spaces, I invite them to share some of their ideas. Students who are still searching will find inspiration in other students’ responses and a light will go on. Once we achieve that feeling of collective readiness, I ask students to write quietly for five to ten minutes, sometimes with music playing in the room.

When the individual writing is over, I invite students to read aloud. In my experience, both second-graders and college students will raise their hands. There may be some poets who prefer to keep their secret hideouts secret, but others will be more than happy to invite new friends inside.

Some Variations
For homework, I ask my college students to revise the drafts they wrote in class with some additional instructions, such as: Consider Duncan’s use of enjambment, stanza breaks, and spacing. Make intentional choices about how to position the poem on the page.

If you have time to expand this lesson across two or more classes, you can include Gwendolyn Brooks’ “Keziah,” Yusef Komunyakaa’s “Venus’s-Flytraps,” Anne Sexton’s “Those Times … ,” Frank O’Hara’s “Autobiographia Literaria,” and Marie Howe’s “The Copper Beech”or “The Game.” Or you can consult a collection of poetry, memoir, and visual art in the anthology Dream Closet: Meditations on Childhood Space. Once I discovered the universality of this space, as well as people’s readiness to describe their own, I issued a similar “assignment” to some of my favorite poets, writers, and artists and collected them into this book.

My Secret Hideout

My secret hideout is in the Arctic.
I have a pet polar bear that I ride on every day.
I have a password that nobody can guess.
Inside  I  have  money.  ($1,000,000,000,000,000.)
You have to go in my jet to get in.
I have guards that chop your head off.
I have zombies that eat your brain.
The final obstacle is a huge snake.
It’s like a python but ∞ times bigger.
If you get past all that, your head will be exploded.
I have a vicious band of buccaneers
if you get past that.
If you conquer the pesky pirates,
the room of me will await you.
            —Frederick (2nd Grade)

My Secret Hideout

In my secret hideout you press a button
and then you see a whole new world
inside of you saying you can come in.
All you have to do
is ride a subway and get a ticket
that says “local express train.”
Then you get on and ride
to 604th Street and press
the red button and give
the ticket back then
you will have so much fun
at Central Street.
            —Alera (2nd Grade)

My Secret Hideout

My hideout is inside a whale.
I first go on my pencil slide.
When I get to the whale
it usually picks up its tongue
it waves to me. When he knows
I’m sleeping he turns off
the light switch in him.
When some aliens come
lasers come from the whale’s eyes.
When he swallows me there is
a rollercoaster in his fluid.
When a shark bites his tongue
he slaps them.
            —Alexis (3rd Grade)

Childhood Spaces

Don’t you know
That darkness played my haven
Read the script beautifully
When imagination was new
To me. I skimmed my sleep’s
Eulogy and drifted.

Two crutches lunge
Over my bed under
A sheet where my head
Gave my pillow craters.
A frontal lobe Frisbee
Tossing and turning like
Pies by Luigi
Or the clock on my cable box
Tock.

Tickets to my mind’s show
Were all mine
As my
Brother watched the dirty tapes
I escaped
From the sheltering world
To my world as my shelter.

Inside my sheer veil was vaster
Than a step from my twin
Onto my cloudy housing tiles
Through the giant metal door
With the twisting gold bulb
And into the concrete streets
That liquor shards made
obsidian.
            —Diamond Bradley (Brooklyn College)
 

The Laughing Place

Between two rocks
Sidling the river,
A fort. Laughter
Echoes off upper eaves
Escaping through
The downed tree roof.

I’m a soda jerk,
Working the levers
Of unknown time.
You are a customer
Sharing the news.

The rain leaks through
The thatched roof, trickling
Down, dampening shirts.
The river rises, raging
Against the banks
And over the south wall, soaking
The counter top rock.

There were times I
Went without you.
I had no one to serve, and
Nothing to laugh at.
            —Adam Gallo (Brooklyn College)