I'll Never Forget

I'll never forget the color of the sky that day. That azure would become the backdrop for the blackened plumes on the video clips played in a loop on every television station.

I'll never forget the togetherness, the unitedness. We were of single-mindedness in our sorrow, numbness, and rage. No one seemed capable of understanding what had happened; indeed, I couldn't fathom the abstractness behind the devastatingly concrete act.

I'll never forget the profound loneliness, even among the thousands who attended the memorial service on the campus mall. It was warm, but not hot, a signal that autumn was drawing near. The mall on September 12 should have been home to students playing frisbee, chatting with friends, and enjoying college. Celebrating the joys of youth. Instead, we sat morosely, together yet alone, instantly sobered, suddenly aged, realizing that the world was no longer the same.

I'll never forget.

Prometheus' Fire

Like so many Americans, I claim To Kill a Mockingbird as one of the books that have most influenced my life. It helped me realize the importance and beauty of literature. I often cite the text as one of the reasons why I became a teacher.

I recently read Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee, recommended by a close friend and fellow lover of literature.

One passage from the book struck me:

When [Harper Lee] couldn't be found during social hour before dinner, she could often be spotted with John Steinbeck, standing in a corner discussing favorite books.

The thought of two of my favorite authors discussing literature gave me pause. What had they discussed, I wonder? What books, what authors would the titans of American literature admire?

As a teacher of writing, I often remind my students that the acts of writing and reading cannot be divorced from one another. But somehow I managed to forget this myself. I had always assumed my favorite writers were also avid readers, but I had never ventured to dream what filled their bookshelves, crowded their nightstands, spurred their own craft.

The Trifle of Standard Usage

After much consideration, I picked up Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters. (Steinbeck never disappoints.) The text is a posthumous collection of letters Steinbeck wrote to his editor every day he worked on Eden. It's raw Steinbeck—typed from his handwritten letters long after his death, and unrevised.

The publisher's note, however, states that there are a few corrections in spelling and the like: "Steinbeck was normally permissive with his editors on such points, though he strongly resisted what he called 'collaboration' on more important matters." There is a footnote that elaborates on the nature of those corrections:

Although Steinbeck's spelling in general was exceptionally good, he consistently spelled the word "rhythm" without the first "h"; usually inserted an apostrophe in the possessive pronoun "its" while omitting it from the contraction "it's"; omitted the apostrophe from "the day's work" and the like; tended to make two words of such compounds as "background" and wrote "of course" as if it were one. Only changes of this very minor order have been made here.

In the great shadow of East of Eden, its and it's is indeed very minor. But as a teacher of writing, my mind stalled on these minor points. That one of the greatest American authors couldn't be bothered to use an apostrophe correctly gave me pause. The American canon has no finer text than East of Eden, paradoxically simple yet complex, universal yet personal.

It's difficult to believe that Steinbeck was ever sloppy in his writing and thus relied on his editor to clean up his proverbial mess. His letters not only have remarkable grammatical correctness (far beyond the trifle of its and it's), but they also employ a level of diction and variety of syntax that suggest Steinbeck's raw is rather refined.

My devotion to Steinbeck is so strong, I find myself questioning the absolute value of standard usage. I doubt I would forgive a lesser writer for lacking such knowledge of his language; in fact, I'm sure I wouldn't. But good grammar does not a good writer make, and perhaps visa versa.

Searching for Satiety

During summer especially, I thirst for literature. For as long as I can remember, I've slept with a book on my nightstand, or opened on my chest. I buy purses that are large enough to carry even Atlas Shrugged, so I'm prepared for waiting in a doctor's office or on line at the grocery. The weight of books is a consideration for my checked baggage when I travel. I even have nightmares about not reading the great works of literature in my lifetime.

But the problem with reading great literature is this: What next?

I'm about seventy-five pages shy of finishing The Lacuna, a book that has consumed my time and my thoughts. I've hardly put the book down in days, but now I slow my pace. Once I finish reading this novel, what can I read next that won't be a disappointment?

After I finished reading East of Eden, I asked friends for suggestions. Forgetting my distaste for postmodern literature, I took a friend's suggestion to read DeLillo's Mao II—a good book, but not on the same shelf as Eden.

After I finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany, I contemplated beginning the novel again immediately, but instead reread Great Expectations—the novels are similar in their ambition. I knew Dickens wouldn't starve me after Irving's feast.

Ironically, with so many works of literature I'm eager to read in my lifetime, I find myself unable to find titles to satisfy me now, the craving I have today. Do I begin something new, take a risk on a book that may be bland? Or do I cleanse my palate with an old favorite?

How could I not love what I do?

An email I received from a former student:

THANK YOU!!!!!! So much for all your support and encouragement and letters (o so many letters) this year. I have been invited to join Teach for America Memphis Corp as a History Teacher for next year. I look forward to inspiring others to be better as you have inspired me.

Recruiting for the Dark Side

I've recently written about the mixed feelings I have when students want to study literature, or not. I'm often tempted to lure a beloved student away from his chosen major to come to the Dark Side. But I stop myself—I don't need a good student's lifetime of struggle on my conscience.

***

Recently, I recalled Mrs. Dorsey, my TA for a CORE class in Women's Lit. Mrs. Dorsey was a returning student—she was probably in her early sixties—working toward her Ph.D. After the course ended, in an email I revealed to her that I was majoring in architecture. Her reply was almost immediate: why architecture? She knew I had a love of literature, so why not make it my life? She ended the email with a sentence I'll never forget: "I guess English's loss is architecture's gain."

Over the next day or two, the seeds began to germinate. Well, I wrote, what could I do with a degree in English, anyway? Her response was lengthy and bulleted. Her campaign had begun.

By the end of the summer, I had decided to change my major to English and figure the rest out later. I thrived in my lit classes, I was accepted into the creative writing concentration, and I excelled as a peer tutor.

I should have been an English major all along.

***

Ten years later, I remember Mrs. Dorsey with fondness. I give thanks to the Fates for leading me on that wayward path to an English degree, and eventually to a career in teaching. I can't imagine doing anything else.

So maybe ours isn't the Dark Side. Maybe I need to be someone else's Mrs. Dorsey and plant those seeds of change.

For Dad, con amor

It's not unusual for people to identify with others who speak the same language. One of my college roommates spoke to her sister in Spanish, although each of them spoke English fluently. It was a connection they shared and embraced.

My students, many of whom are multilingual, tell me similar anecdotes. Even children who do not speak their parents' native language retain some of its words and expressions. My mother, who doesn't know more Italian than she can find on a menu, swears in her ancestors' language with fluency. Our lexicons so often reflect our experiences, and even the experiences we have with others. Language is an emblem of shared experience.

Although I have always thought of the Italian-American idioms as being the language I shared with my family (and the greater Sopranos-watching community), I recently realized that I participate in another language with a much smaller number of speakers, population: 2.

A few minutes ago, I sent an email to my father. I forwarded him an attachment of my director's observation for my reappointment. The body of my email:

I thought you might enjoy reading que tu hija hace. Te amo, xoxo

I'm not a native Spanish speaker, but my father technically is. (He speaks it fluently but doesn't read or write it.) Our emails and text messages are often an assortment of English and Spanish phrases cobbled together, often misspelled, using only the words we can summon as we type. As a writing teacher, I would call it reckless composition, but as a writer, I recognize this as language representing a shared experience—and a fondness that transcends language.

Improving on self-improvement

Last night I chatted with the assistant director of our department (and the instructor of our graduate seminar). I have tremendous respect for this young Ph.D. for his passion and scholarly accomplishments. I've even been thinking lately that I would take advantage of the university's tuition remission to pursue a graduate certificate or even a Ph.D. After all, why not?

But then the AD confessed to me that he no longer enjoyed reading—students' papers ruined his taste for it, and his nights, weekends, and summers filled with scholarly research don't leave much time for it.

I was awe-struck. How could someone so passionate have lost his love for what drove him into the discipline? After all, writers are nothing without their readers.

Since this conversation, I've been rethinking my goals. Besides the fact that earning additional degrees will monopolize my spare time for the next several years, I hate the idea that it may also dictate the rest of my life—and alienate me from the reasons why I became a teacher.

Does it make me a bad teacher for not wanting to pursue my own education? I of course value education highly, but perhaps I've been tainted by the belief that I need formal education to be well-educated. It's my hope that having my own hobbies, and my own reading list, will make me a more complete person and therefore a better teacher.

A Matter of Priorities

Recently I spoke with some graduate students who asked me about my diet. I explained that being gluten-free is challenging, but it helps that I make so much of my food from scratch: chicken stock, sausage, pickles, cheese, the yogurt I was eating at the time. One of them asked, incredulously, "How do you find time for all this?"

I replied, "I make time for my priorities."

As I said it, I thought about my blog—my poor, neglected blog—that's only had two new posts in the past two months because I just haven't had the time. My heart sank a little.

The Smartest Person in the Room

In the course of my regular blog reading, I came across one titled "Stop Thinking You're the Smartest Person in the Room." I expected it to discuss the humbling experience of knowing the students sometimes are smarter than the instructor.

But the article wasn't what I had expected. The title of the article comes from a student's course evaluation. The author of the blog, a self-described feminist scholar, attributes the comment to the Internet-induced democracy of learning; her Ph.D. weighs more heavily than the students' online pursuits. This may be true, but is "smart" synonymous with "educated"?

I've taught many students who were clearly smarter than I. Intimidating, yes, but also an opportunity. Especially in the humanities, we work to teach students to think. Because I've had more training and more practice, I can help them think in ways their bright little minds hadn't considered. No true educator laments the intelligent student; we're always eager to provide more of a challenge for the students who seek it.

I needn't be the smartest person in the room to help those students learn.