As most of you know, I teach college literature and composition here on our little island. It offers terrible pay and hours, and I love it. Most of my students are active or retired military members, or dependents of military members, and I always have a handful of local Japanese students with limited English proficiency.

I have been spoiled the last couple of years with small classes who mostly believe me, who plunge into difficult literature and subjects, and who trust I will carry them through to understanding. This fall I had a class of skeptics. They were skeptical of literature, writing, and me. It’s okay, of course. I’m skeptical of me too most days. And skepticism if handled well can be a great place for learning to begin sometimes.

Students always come to my class wary of poetry—some ask about it the first day. “Are we going to have to write a poem?” big burly Marines ask me in horror and trepidation. I usually reply, “Have you deployed to an area of conflict?” Without fail, they all have. “Then I think you can handle a poem, but no, you won’t have to write one, just read and explain one to the class.” Their eyes widen and they guffaw and dodge and declare they can’t/won’t/shouldn’t/couldn’t.

This particular class was even more resistant to poetry than usual. I stayed late one night talking with a student who was frustrated because she claimed she didn’t understand any of the poems in our book. We picked out a short poem by Billy Collins called “Divorce.” She said she understood this one, but it was clearly too short for a presentation or paper.

“Why?” I asked. “People have written books over a few lines of poetry. There are entire fields dedicated to essays and scholarship about poetry.”

“It’s a JOB?” she said incredulous. “Why? Those people need to get a life!”

I laughed and shot back. “Yes, I probably do.”

Realization crept over her face and she reddened.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you. I just don’t understand. What’s the point?” she asked.

I grinned. I wait in anticipation to be asked this question each semester, and if no one asks, I still answer it during the second half of any course.

The point is this: words matter. Stories matter. Great literature holds up a mirror to our humanity and asks us what we will do with our horrors, suffering, and frailty. It is often an uncomfortable journey, but so rewarding. My skeptics and I leaned into each other for a semester and we asked hard questions together—listening, speaking, and laughing. I am unbelievably grateful to feast at this table year in and out, whether in a formal classroom setting, a coffee shop, or my own dinner table. It’s my prayer for you too, friends. May you listen well, speak softly, and laugh often in the coming year.