Please welcome today’s guest writer, Jessi Dykstra. Jessi graduated from Calvin in 2022 with a degree in secondary English education. She is currently working as a high school English teacher and theater director in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spends her time obsessing over Greek mythology and rewatching the cinematic masterpiece that is Kung Fu Panda.

I hate American literature.

Let’s read that again.

I am an English teacher, a graduate of Calvin University’s esteemed English program, and I hate American literature.

The initial statement brings on a very expected reaction of shock and awe from my peers and professors alike (and the oh-so underwhelming ok, and? from my not-so-English-minded friends).

These statements are always followed by the question: Why? To which I respond and say that European literature is just so much better. From my love of Dante (thanks, Professor Holberg) to my passion for British literature (and you too, Professor Schmidt), there’s not enough room in my heart for American literature. I am a creature of extremes, by nature; meaning I either love something, or I have no choice but to loathe it. Mediocrity is not an option and feeling “medium” is not a stance.

And so, I hate American literature. Or, should I say, I hated American literature, until irony once again came knocking at my door.

I’m convinced that God is a being of humor. Moreover, God is a lover of practical jokes, because when I was told my first teaching job was going to be teaching American literature, I swear I could hear someone snickering from up in the clouds.

Now it was going to be my job to teach tenth and eleventh graders not to hate American literature, and boy, did they hate it—probably more so than I did—which was impressive. I started with Gatsby, which, much like Gatsby himself, was dead in the water in terms of piquing their interest. So I tried Native American lit, specifically mythology, which they thought was kinda cool but ultimately led to a riot (I wish I was joking). So we switched gears: Puritan lit. I think I might’ve bored them into submission, which worked at least, until we hit the philosophical mind-warp that is transcendentalism. Who knows how many kids we lost in the woods (both literally and figuratively) during that unit. The Crucible went over well; it was interesting, passionate, and I finally caved and bought their attention with extra credit.

I wouldn’t say that my first year of teaching was unsuccessful; on the contrary, my students learned a lot, and from what they told me, it wasn’t my class they hated but “all this boring old stuff” with “weird words” and the fact that I actually made them read (my bad).

I, however, was unsuccessful in teaching my students to not hate American literature.

Which brings us to the present. New city. New school. New classes. No American literature. You can probably imagine my internal monologue: Oh thank God (literally) no American literature! I hated that class!

But instead, I found myself pacing around my new apartment, annoyed at the silence (and change) as I unpacked. I typically turn to Spotify (Nicki Minaj can turn anything into a party), but I soon found my brain reciting the lines of Anne Bradstreet’s “To My Dear and Loving Husband.” After that, it was Edward Taylor’s “Huswifery” and “Upon a Wasp Chilled With Cold.” Definitely a different vibe than Nicki all together. And it was shocking.

It was shocking that something I had once avoided was now on replay in my brain. That what I once found detestable was now my comfort upon entering a new place—the familiarity I clung to within the change. What once felt like a burden was now shouldering my anxiety. In essence, I was Grinch; my heart grew three sizes that day. I felt a warmth creeping into my heart that hadn’t previously been felt. A comfort in the Puritanical conceits, in the sense that somewhere, within these words, God had nestled Himself quite comfortably, ready to burrow into the hearts of awaiting readers.

The feeling reminded me of the joy that radiated from Professor Hettinga’s face every time he spoke about American literature (a class I later thanked him for). His passion was contagious enough not to dispel my hatred but to grab my attention. At times, I even felt left out. What was so great about these poems? What turned what would be an otherwise boring lecture into something that felt so personal, with joy so palpable? And now the answer was hitting me, right in the heart:

God.

I love American literature. I love that it has a sense of worship. I love that it anchors God to everyday tasks. I love that it fills my heart with questions. It’s a love that Anne Bradstreet puts to words better than I:

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray. (“My Dear and Loving Husband,” ln 7-10)

Jessi Dykstra

1 Comment

Brenda Payne on February 2, 2024 at 2:36 pm

What an amazing writer you’ve become, my wonderful tea party partner! So well written! I, too, hated American lit in high school, but have gained a much better appreciation of it since. Love your references to God’s humor, as He has shown it to me multiple times in my life. Enjoy it!
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