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.