Ch. 1: The Awful Truth
by Emmet
Is that what I want, now, just future credit from a former student? My own books forgotten. And the Well Ran Dry. How sad to be emptied at 25, to have your identity revolve around being a poetic genius and then have nothing come. The fallout of altruism.
It’s ironic that the path that led to my love of teaching also led to the end of my own writing. Don’t look back, Bob said. At 23.
Poems, stories, more poems, used to flow, unbidden – I couldn’t write them down fast enough. I, who never believed in writer’s block, who took my genius so for granted, the genius that got me through high school, the genius that was appreciated in college, honed, recognized, published, lauded.
A rare impression of déjà vu the first time I saw her in class, red hair a shade darker than mine, slightly plump, as I was at that age, reserved. But I didn’t know then that she would be the special one this year, or that she would significantly change my life. I’ve been lucky enough to have had a few notable students over a decade of teaching, those who have had a certain perceptiveness, advanced for their years, an ability that they could only have at this transitional stage of life, the certain know-it-all naiveté of late adolescence, combined with rare, intense brightness that allows them to express insights beyond the average high-school junior.
After the first essay, I was again reminded of myself, though I hadn’t yet connected the name to the face. I knew from the opening paragraph that Grace Manning might be one of those students we teachers all don’t admit that we hope for.
Maybe I appreciated her more because this was an introspective year for me. I had turned 40 a few weeks before class started. (Yes, my parents named us each for the months in which we were born: August, April, June. At least none of us were born in February.) I was determined not to be a mopey cliché, age is what it is, but in spite of it all, there’s something about turning 40 that made me stop and think and review my life – past and future. “What do you expect?” my friend Chris says. “If you’re lucky, you’ve reached the exact middle of your life. And in many places you’ve already made it through two-thirds of your life. So smile! Take what comes. Enjoy.” She was a year older and had already come to terms with the experience.
The class was Literature: Craft and Critique, an honors class. Students didn’t have to apply to get in, but they had to understand this was a reading- and writing-heavy class. Read a book per week, daily journal writing, weekly writing assignments, both creative original and literary criticism. I didn’t mind teaching my other, more basic courses, but this was my favorite one to teach, both because of the works covered, and because of the students. Only those who were really interested in reading and writing took this class – it had a reputation for being the toughest offered. Because it was.
The first assignment that I gave on day one was an in-class 20-minute essay, and it always elicited a laugh, because these honors students didn’t think I was serious. It also gave me a sense of how they responded to any assignment, however frivolous it may seem. “I want you to write an essay, three pages, right now. Theme: ‘What I did during my summer vacation.’”
Hesitant laughs at first, then groans, always groans, when they realized I was serious. I smiled, I looked over the classroom. I had taught people of all ages, from elementary to adult ed, but high-school juniors were my favorite -- I could still influence how they thought. They already had the development of a couple years of high school. They had more worthwhile ideas to express than a freshman, the 17-year-olds did, yet they weren’t yet in the senior year gotta-worry-about-college-essays frame of mind.
The groans, then the essays. Which I read that night, with a glass of wine, sitting on a stool in my kitchen, an old Melanie album playing in the living room. Sucker for those crooners. This assignment served three purposes. One, it gave me a sense of their innate, spontaneous writing ability, of what I should be able to expect from these kids this year. Two, obviously, it told me what they did over the summer, and gave me a sense of who each kid was – did they work, did they play, did they laze around, what did they do? And three, it told me what they thought was important about what they did., what they needed to share with the teacher, how they viewed me as their reader.
I went through the pile of essays. Scrawling, almost illegible handwriting, tiny, cramped, precise letters. Some essays were humorous, some were poignant, some were merely boring. There were camp counselors, life guards, waiters, trips to Europe, hiking, even Disney World. There was a list of all the television programs seen in July, with episode summaries. And then there was an essay that began:
This summer started with a honeymoon for six, the perfect party during the year my life turned excruciatingly upside down, inside out, twisted, rippled, drained and gone. A perfect life and family ruptured behind the scenes we didn’t see, secrets revealed I’d rather never know, but now can never not.
The minister fixed sinks and built fountains.
In Hebrew, ring is taba’at.
The taba’at of my father is buried in a garden, thrown into a well, drowning in an ocean.
It is no longer connected to him. A piece of worthless precious metal, a whole broken circle.
A Musician who shouldn’t be a brother, new sister who is Porcelain, old sister who is Much Too Cute in a house that is much too small because there’s no more room for me.
There cannot be a new father, even if there is a new ring.
I couldn’t put it down for the three pages, written in blue ballpoint, slanted, legible. I looked at the name, Grace Manning, trying to picture a face. It took me a few days to learn everybody’s names. I remembered, suddenly, the redhead, and wondered if she were Grace Manning.
The next day, when I handed back the essays, my hunch proved correct. Grace was indeed the reserved redhead. I saw her shuffle the pages to the end, where I had written, “Remarkable writing.” I saw her smile.
But no student is perfect, not even the special ones. After handing back the essays, I discussed my expectations for the class, and handed out the notebooks they would use as journals. I explained, “These are your journals. You all are in this class because, supposedly, you like to write. Journal writing is essential to your development as a writer -- and reader. You need to be writing every day. As part of your grade, you are expected to keep a daily journal, which I will read, thoroughly.”
“But what if we want to say private things?” The inevitable question.
“You are writing to be read.” I paced as I talked, walking among the desks, associating names with faces. “That may include private things. But you know that I will be reading them. If there are more personal thoughts you do not care to share with me, you can keep a personal diary. But this is your writer’s journal. Your observations, your thoughts – I want your feelings, your reactions. I want you go to the depths of your feelings. Because it’s important as writers for you to connect to that part of you. I do not want to see, ‘Today I finished six homework assignments and had a milkshake for snack.’ I just want you to observe the world around you and write what you see and feel, every day. Clear?” I looked around the classroom. I got a few nods. I looked at the clock. “We’ll start right now. Take five minutes. I’ll be reviewing your journals every Friday. Since this is a short week, I’ll look at the journals next Friday. For Monday, read The Dangling Man by Saul Bellow and explain the title to me by Wednesday. Now write.”