A student told me today that in her country if you told people you were afraid of dogs, they would think you were normal. But if you told people you were afraid of spiders, they would think you were crazy.
Well, okay.
I learn something every day.
Have you learned anything surprising lately?
I don’t remember when I started to care about women. (And I’m not going to say women’s issues because it’s not a self-contained status sort of thing. We’re half the population—-nothing special interest about that.)
In grad school I complained about a professor who told the class his favorite bar was called “The Silent Woman” and out front it had a picture of a woman with her head chopped off. I was told he had tenure and to go away.
In college I complained about a physics professor who said, “You ladies with your pressure cookers will understand this…” I was given extra points on my grade and told to go away.
In 10th grade a male classmate who sat next to me in the computer class told me repeatedly how he was going to find out where I lived, force his way in, and show me how he was “a real man.” I complained to the office. They told me to avoid him and try not to provoke him. (Even by sexist standards, I failed to understand this. I was a flat-chested, make-up-less bookworm. Short of not existing, I didn’t see how I wasn’t going to provoke him.)
In 7th grade I was sent to the office for slapping a boy. He had me pinned to a wall and was about to punch me. He wasn’t sent to the office. I didn’t get into trouble because, as the guidance counselor said, everyone knew I was “really a nice girl.”
In 5th grade I had a button on my person that read, “A woman’s place is every place.” I’d found the button in a bowling alley parking lot. I think it had already been run over. But I pinned it to my purse.
In 3rd grade I complained to teachers about a boy because, “He shouldn’t be talking to girls that way.” He had looked up my skirt and asked me to kiss him. I kicked him really hard. I was told to play nice. He got in no trouble at all.
And those are only the moments I’m going to share.
Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of about violence against women around the world and in school shootings. And today I read a piece riffing on the famous quote, “Well-behaved women seldom make history”.
And another piece about having The Right Reader.
It’s funny how everyone agrees with the saying, “You can’t please everyone,” until they’re the one not pleased.
Recently a male facebook friend made disparaging comments about the Duchess of Cornwall–Camilla Parker Bowles. His main complaint wasn’t that Charles had cheated on his wife. Sure that was bad. But the bigger sin was to cheat on his wife with someone ugly, and he hoped the if William ever cheated on Kate, it would be with someone pretty.
I am insecure about my looks, and I had to ask my friend if he really thought that women judge unattractive were underserving of loving relationships. Really? Honestly, while I think Charles is a cad, I reluctantly admire his ability to devote himself to a woman whose looks are constantly insulted in the media. Here is a man who ignored his pretty, young wife for an older, dowdy woman. How cliche breaking is that?
In most places a woman is only as valuable as she is pretty. And virtuous.
I think one reason I had trouble killing a character in a short story recently was because that character was a teenage girl. Before her death, she had not been virtuous… Gosh, now I’m rethinking the ending again. Don’t we have enough violence against women and girls? Then again, because it happens, shouldn’t we write about it?
So, I realize that my “right reader” would be someone who cares about women too.
Do you ever consider how your characters reflect the culture or an issue that matters to you? And I don’t mean being didactic about it. Just, do you consider such things?
My school is now on spring break, and I won’t see my students for a week. Some of my students are from Japan.
a well-loved student
What words do you use for tragedy? Shouldn’t a writer know? And what do you say to someone who is so very far away from home and family?
Why should anyone though imagine they have the magic words to make anyone feel better?
My students are from all over the world–from countries with uprisings, terrorist attacks, earthquakes, and their own personal tragedies.
Writing seems to make sense of things from a distance, but not necessarily things sitting next to you.
Not for me anyway.
One student from Japan is young, skinny, and always has a very cool camera. His hair never looks brushed and his clothes sag and look like after thoughts. He waits an extra minute to leave, often causing you to say, “Um, did you have another question?”
“No.”
He makes funny comments in class and odd grammar mistakes.
I hope his family is okay.
Another Japanese student is an older man, close to retirement, here for a year while his wife is back home. He has no fear of going anywhere alone. Recently he went on his own to a dude ranch, and supposedly he is going to Cancun for spring break. In class he moves a hand in the rhythm of whatever I am explaining and when I’m done he nods sharply and says, “Yes.”
I hope his family okay.
Another student from Japan (though not my student now) was demur and sweet, and yet would write stories of being drunk and passing out on stairs. “Like a dream!” she wrote. In her story, friends carried her to the roof and she woke up under stars and blood in her hair. “It was very fun!”
with one of my classes a couple years ago
P.S. One Halloween a student from Japan dressed up as Darth Vader. Coincidentally another teacher dress as Obi Wan Kenobi. In the middle of my writing class, the doors flung open and Obi Wan dashed into the room, Darth on his heels. They stopped, spun, clashed light sabers, ran on and out the doors on the opposite side of the room. Our Darth went on to marry a Korean girl and take her back with him to Japan. I don’t know where they are now.
All hopes to Japan.
*
NHK World News channel isn’t loud, it doesn’t fill the screen with nonsense, it doesn’t have everything you expect from FOX or CNN.
Today this message from a student appeared in my inbox.
Am very sorry to disturb you on this beautiful wednesday .well just wanted to let you now that am really sorry , I ll be late because I overslept my dream was magic, I mean fantastic.
This may well be my favorite excuse ever.
And what’s your favorite excuse?
One of my students has decided to write a novel. He’s 20 and French. His novel is a thriller with a dash of sci-fi. The premise is great, and the writing can really come together if he gives it the attention it deserves.
I’ve never had a student want to write a novel. Or at least, I’ve never had a student confess to wanting to and actually putting forth real effort. This student has written eight chapters already, and I read them in class during the moments students have to work quietly at their desks.
He has no clue how the publishing industry works. This makes him extremely optimistic about his novel’s future.
Then there is the student on the other side of the room. Today I said to him, “I want to believe that you are less interested in doing the work quickly and more interested in doing your work well.” For once he looked chastened and focused on his paragraph.
The assignment was to write a list of family members who are important to you. Pick one person from that list and write a paragraph describing your relationship.
The student who can never stay focused for more than two minutes at a time asked, “Three sentences are enough, right?”
The budding novelist across the room said, “If that’s all the relationship is worth.”
Indeed.
Be brief and concise. Sure. But how many words is any story worth?
My son and I walked up the concrete steps after spending about an hour walking around a nearby pond, taking pictures of action figures, and watching a woman and her sons try to get a frisbee out of a tree. The sun had come out from behind the clouds turning the air sticky. The walk up the steps from the water had worn me out and I was out of breath.
At the top of the steps I saw a student who I’d not seen in a year. She’s a facebook friend, but she didn’t post much. I hadn’t kept up with her except for the comments she left on my photos. She’d always been polite and earnest if a bit odd. The other students never liked her much.
Of The Great Gatsby she’d said, “But why does he cheating if cheating is wrong?” and a few minutes later, “He must leave his wife because Daisy is very beautiful.”
So I see my student at the top of the stairs and I’m out of breath and my son is running up ahead, and I realize, just as my student sees me, that she is in a wheelchair. And as I cheerfully say,” Hello! How are you doing?” I realize that she no longer has one leg.
And my brain dashes about wildly trying to process this information as if it could cram this news into my skull and out would come the correct response in 3 seconds.
Haven’t you ever been in a situation where you desperately and quickly want to say the right thing and you know you’re going to fail?
On the bright side, I can use that feeling in my writing.
