Chapter 2: The Write Way
I've read so many student journals over the years, inevitably I get caught up in the lives going on in some of them. The events behind the words. Grace's certainly held my attention. Each week, I didn't know whether to save hers for last, or just jump in and read it first.
Invisibility. The Recluse wrote, "I'm Nobody, who are you, are you Nobody too?" Who do I ask that, who asks me? The Third Wheel's refrain, the leitmotif of Silence. Walk into a room, a vacuum is heard, is not heard, which means nothing is there. Does a vacuum cleaner remove the silence, suck up invisibility? The Musician thinks his only hope is the notes, sound, sound, play it louder, play it longer, play it, play it, play me, play with me, be my friend, we'll miss our friend together, but after the missing, is anything left? After the popcorn is thrown, after the remote grabbed, anti-parental ally, the Porcelain reaction, is there anything left to say? Are you, indeed, Nobody too? Sometimes you see me so clearly, other times you join the ranks and look right through me, and all I can do is ask for bread and find the cheese, and be noticed more by my absence.
When not singing, when not strumming, the Musician really has very little to say. Oh, to be a guitar.
There were other students too – Russell's journal was keeping me intrigued. He lived alone with his father, a research biologist at Northwestern, and was drawing some interesting parallels between biology and poetry. At least his poems were not yet brilliant, although they could be.
It can be extremely difficult to hit your peak before reaching a quarter century, to be heading that way at 16. A young 16, a year ahead and two years behind. And I did not appreciate what I had till I didn't. I'd heard of writer's block, but it wasn't even a block, it just was gone. A vacuum. There was always so much to say, three volumes in five years, First Words at 20, followed by dimension, culminating in Accidentally on Purpose. Would I still have had more to say if I hadn't turned down the teaching fellowship at Amherst? The lure of the East, of Making a Difference. Why teach privileged college students to hone their already honed writing skills when I could actually help young high schoolers learning English in remote parts of India?
I thought, this will be fascinating. This ancient culture inspired John, Paul, George, even Ringo -- it will give me still more material upon which to write. Instead it all evaporated. I arrived after traveling 37 hours and I taught and found I had a flair. A calling. Maybe because I could so clearly remember being their age and how it felt to be on the edge, regardless of country. But after knowing my students, and the lives they lived and the hardships they surpassed, writing poems seemed trite, pointless. I had nothing left to say. I taught for my year, impressed by the dedication of people far removed from a St. Paul suburban split-level housing two happily married parents with three well-loved children.
But I was a pale boy with allergies in a country of constant sun and strange pollens. April was living in Chicago and told me of teaching opportunities there. I came back, got my certificate, taught inner city one year, then moved to the comfortable suburbs. Back to the familiar country of built-in garages and manicured lawns. I found I loved teaching English, loved seeing the reactions of students to unfamiliar authors that would become favorites, got caught up in the unique world of high-school academia. Twelve years teaching as I began my fifth decade. Soon I'd have taught more years than I wrote.
***
For the first three weeks, all writing assignments had been personal. Start with what you know, and kids certainly know themselves. For Critique, we had read and commented on two novellas and a collection of poems. Craft was all variations on the theme of Tell Me About Yourselves.
The end of September was time for the first creative writing assignment. The first topic was large, expansive – I was trying to teach the kids how to turn something personal in something larger than themselves, by fictionalizing it. "Think of the most memorable experience in your life," I instructed. "You can write about it in your journals, if you want, if it will help you organize your thoughts. But that's not your assignment. Ponder your moment. Then create a fictional character that has a most memorable experience. It may be the same as yours, fictionalized, it may be entirely different. But think about your own experience and what it is that makes it memorable, and then apply those same feelings to the character and story you create."
Alexa's hand shot up. "Can we just, like, write it as a memoir, you know, our own story?" she asked. Missing my point.
"What part of the phrase 'create a fictional character' did you not understand?" I responded. "No. You've been writing personal, "memoir"-style, if you will, for the past month. It's time to move on. Incidentally -- Yes, Russell?"
"You mentioned something about looking at other work we've written, not assignments?"
I had, the first day of class. Good memory. "Yes – I was just going to say. If you've written other stories, you can hand them in for extra credit. I'm also happy to take a look at them not for grades, just for feedback. You can set up an appointment with me Fridays lunchtime. I'll pass around a sheet."
*****
Friday morning I looked at the sign-up sheet. Four on the list – a lot for this early in the year. I'd have less then 10 minutes with each student for this first meeting. Lisa gave me a story she had written over the summer, her first, she said. Russell was interested in playwriting, wondered if maybe we could do original student productions. He had a 30-page manuscript in the works, which he gave me.
Grace came in next. She paced. "I have a lot of stories," she said.
"A lot?"
"You know I said I kept journals before?"
"Nice ones?" I couldn't help saying. She stopped pacing and gave me a reproachful look. "Sorry."
"That's where I wrote my stories, before, when I was younger. Before we had a computer. Now they're all typed in. But… I don't even know if you're even the right person to ask this. Forget it." She walked to the door.
She obviously was nervous. Exposing your writing is intimidating. Writing when you have the need to write presents an odd dichotomy. You're writing because there are these thoughts that must somehow be said, and you want them to be heard, read, by some of the world. But you also don't want anyone to read what you've written, because it's still your words and guts out there, and judgments are passed quickly, easily, capriciously.
"Grace!" I said. "You're here. Sit." She sat at a desk near the door. "Why do you write?"
She opened her backpack and pulled out a manila envelope. "Okay. I've been writing for, like, ever. Stories, making up stories. But I don't have anyone who can read them, who I feel will give me real feedback, really useful criticism. I know a lot of things I've written aren't anything special. But I brought five stories… I was hoping you could tell me what to do with them."
There was a knock on the door and Alexa poked her head in. "One moment, Alexa. We're almost finished." She shut the door.
"I'd be happy to look at your stories, Grace," I said. "If you're serious about writing, it's always helpful to get outside opinions. Not only from me, but even your friends, family. Leave something you've written lying around sometime. See if you get a reaction."
"I don't know about that," she said. "Nobody else has read them ."
"You may want that to change," I said. "Leave me what you have and I'll go over them during the next couple weeks."
She stood, handed me the envelope. For the first time since entering the room, her eyes met mine, and I saw that same apprehension as when she was anticipating a new direction in her journal writing. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll be gentle."
She smiled tentatively. "Just be honest," she said. "I need to know."
Grace left and Alexa came in. "Mr. Dimitri," she began, standing against my desk. "I haven't really written anything…" She paused, and I wasn't sure if she was done talking, but the moment stretched on.
"You haven't; written anything? So you wanted to discuss what you haven't written?"
"No! I mean, I have some ideas, and want to write stories. If I do, did you say you'd give extra credit for them?"
"I did indeed. Did you want to talk about some of your ideas?"
"No… no, I'm not sure, either. But I will. I have some... I'll give them to you. When I get something done with them. What if you don't know what to write about?"
"If you have a story to tell, that won't be a problem. If you don't, look around you. You may find ideas in unexpected places."
"I'll try that…" She said. "Looking around."
"I look forward to it," I said, kindly, not anticipating I'd see that much. Alexa struck me as a bright girl, a good reader, solid student, but not that creative. She continued standing in front of the desk.
"Was there something else?" I asked.
"Yes… I was wondering, do you know what play you're doing this fall? I mean, aren't auditions and everything going to be soon?"
Ah yes, the fall play. It always seems like the school year's barely begun and then it's time to start preparing for the play. The drama club does two plays a year at Upton Sinclair; I'm in charge first semester, and my colleague Jerry James does the spring. Jerry teaches sophomore English. We started the same year, and clicked right away. We share an appreciation of folk music and Shakespeare, and take turns doing a Shakespeare play every other year.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I was planning on announcing the information Monday. Why?"
"I just wanted to know if I could be stage manager."
Stage manager? Without knowing the play. It was usually a thankless job, but I couldn't guarantee anything. "We'll have to see what the interest is after I post the announcements," I said. I looked at the clock – it was time for my next class. I stood. "Monday afternoon we'll have the first tech meeting, okay?"
"Okay."
*****
As You Like It was my pick this year. I had my LCC class read it, too, and announced tryouts for the following Monday. I recommended that everyone in the class get involved in the production, behind the scenes or otherwise, to see the connection between words on paper and words enacted. Naturally, several journals discussed the play.
I love the theatre, Alexa wrote. Creating a play, putting it on, all the excitement. But never on stage, always behind, because behind the scenes is where everything is the most exciting. Where all the actors are interacting with one another as people and as the roles they play, and when you stage manage, you get to see everything about the play, both inside and outside. And you get to work with people what are the directors, who have much more experience, because they are the teachers, and you can learn from them, because they have been doing this for a long time, in college and in the community, so they know a lot about putting together a production. That's what I like doing. Putting together a production. Picking who will play what against who else's who. And Shakespeare is always the best kind of play because we can learn the most from him, since he influenced every other writer who ever lived or wrote a play.
The play's the thing for Princeton, Tad wrote. Superficially, Tad seemed an unlikely person for LCC – he kept up a façade of macho ignorance, but he was one of those smart ones who played dumb. While he was not the most perceptive with spontaneous class participation, his papers showed a good grasp of the literature we were reading. Baseball, clarinet, drama, and all the As. Plus those throwaway kissing scenes. No obligation, part of the scenery, requirement for reality. Shit (sorry Mr. D, not cleaning up at all here, like you said), who wouldn't want to do a play?
Shakespeare, Grace wrote in her journal. It's been more than a year since Cordelia. And the Death. Started to go right when he saw me read, and I didn't see, because he was always so strong, a little flicker, a stumble couldn't have meant anything. If I act again, now, the Bard again, his favorite, will I be able to do it? Will his spirit inspire me, will I have the conviction to deliver? Will I honor him, or forget him as Rosalind replaces Cordelia? I'm older now. I don't believe in ghosts.
I thought back to Jerry's production of King Lear. Grace had played Cordelia? I vaguely remembered; it was a difficult play to attempt at a high-school level, not one of Jerry's better productions. But just because Shakespeare is a challenge for a teenage cast is not a reason not to do it.
One thing I've learned over the past five years of producing high-school plays is to have realistic expectations. These are high-school students, after all, with mediocre acting talent more often than not. But that doesn't matter. Molly Carpenter, the retiring drama teacher, passed these words of wisdom on to Jerry and me, and I think they helped me. "Keep your expectations low, but your ambitions high," she said. "You'll never be disappointed, and you'll often be surprised."
I hadn't been involved in theatre, other than as an audience member, since I was in college, where I had numerous opportunities to direct, produce, even act, though I usually chose not to. It's important to know your limitations, and I knew I was not a good actor. I knew how to get good performances from actors, but I could feel myself unable to follow my own advice. I couldn't draw on personal experiences and use them, apply them to whatever role. I couldn't because I didn't want to. Some pain is best left alone.
In choosing to share duties as the drama teacher, I went back to the reasons I had gotten involved in drama in college. There is something intense and , well, fun, about being in a play, an instant community, where we all share this goal of devoting hours and hours, days, weeks of spare time for something that will be over and in the past in one weekend. Not unlike producing a gorgeous wedding cake, I suppose – art that disappears in an afternoon, recalled only by memories and pictures that can never truly recreate the actual experience.
So, we often chose more complicated plays. Almost any high school can produce a half-decent version of Our Town, but you can only experience that play so much. Once, actually, was more than enough for me. Molly warned us about that too. "Nod and smile when the board suggests Our Town, then do the plays you want. It won't hurt these kids to act in great plays." So far, no one's been disappointed.
(continued)