NaBloPoMo: Day 2 Brother, can you spare a dime?

Underwater

I'm always flattered when I get a message from someone that says, "Hey, did you move your blog or something? I keep checking and it looks like you haven't written anything." Or when somebody walks up to me at a party or at church and says, "Why haven't you written anything lately? I need some vagina!" I get the seriously warm fuzzies. I do. And I've gotten a lot of that the past few months, because it's been years since I've gone 6 months without writing here.

For several reasons shortly after I wrote my last post I entered into a period of crisis -- not a cry my eyes out, call the therapist (oooh, that's what I need!), hide the knives, she's gonna blow! kind of crisis. Maybe more an epiphany about not just writing here on this blog, but my value in several areas of my life. So tonight I'm going to write about that, and I'm sure I'll sound like a whiny baby, but I need to write this issue and get past it.

Toward the end of the school year, I realized I was going to have to quit teaching at the magnet school for the arts where I was teaching creative writing. I didn't want to. I loved most of the kids, and I'm good at what I do. Too good, in fact, for the job I was in, but that's not why I quit. I quit because I was hired as an adjunct, and what you should know about any job with the word "adjunct" stamped on it is that stamp might as well say "drop 'em and bend over" instead. The shitty life of an adjunct is well documented.

Turns out when I signed the contract to work at an hourly wage for 15 hours/week -- because the school district won't pay any single adjunct for more than 15 hours/week -- I didn't realize I would be expected to work anywhere from 20-30 hours/week. That is, if I wanted to do my job right and well, which I did. Writing teachers carry a heavy grading load. One paper can take anywhere from 20 minutes to 45 minutes to grade. And I assigned a lot of writing. When I figured out how much I was actually making, I was under minimum wage.

After my boss told me I was going to have to take another class for no raise in pay, I knew I couldn't continue there. First, because I felt small. I'm worth more than that. I really am. And second, because that shit is illegal. It's against federal law to require an hourly worker to volunteer extra hours. And it's illegal for obvious reasons. I could say a lot more about that, but I think you're all smart enough to figure that shit out.

So I made the decision to walk away from a job I should have loved. A job that made people think I was something special to be teaching there. And that the kids I taught were very lucky to get to work with me. It was a job that sounded so good rolling off the tongue. Turns out none of that will pay my mortgage.

And then I started looking around at what I do in the rest of my life, and I realized I have a lot of skills, but nobody wants to pay me for any of the time I spend doing those things I'm good at. It wasn't just the teaching of writing I was doing practically for free. I was being asked frequently to do everything else for free too.

For example, music. Hell, the name of our band is Free to a Good Home. We've never been paid for a gig, although at times money as been made from our music. However, I've bought a lot of equipment that we need in order to be a band. And I periodically have to replace that equipment. If I added up all I've spent on being a musician over the decades .... let's just say it's an expensive hobby. And I do it because I love it. Because I can't breathe without it. Because I don't want to live if I'm not playing music. It's not just a hobby. It's a passion. One that other people benefit from as well, without having to pay a dime (except my piano students. Bless them.)

Once I started listing things I do or am asked to do for free, I couldn't stop. There are the people I barely know who ask for free tarot readings. And strangers who want me to officiate at their weddings, which includes writing a custom ceremony, but don't want to pay me as much as they'd pay for a night of pizza and beer. And the people who want me to write their memoirs. Do you know how long it takes to write a fucking book? OK, I turn down most of those requests. But thinking about the barrage of requests made me feel smaller, simply because of the expectation that what I can do has no value as we define value. 

I don't turn down everything though. There's my church, where I certainly don't expect to be paid, but I still give a lot of hours. And other things like TEDx, which takes months of work to pull off. And theater, when I get a chance to do it, which isn't often. The dog-sitting. Writing bootcamps. The requests for time and energy from the neighborhood association; and then the guilt when I don't or can't help out. Mowing the absentee next-door neighbor's yard so it doesn't attract vagrants; boarding up the house on the other side when vagrants broke into it ..... The list could go on.

And since I've quit teaching, my granddaughter is with me at least 5 days a week. Even when I was teaching, I sometimes had to take her to class with me. You have to know, I love spending time with my granddaughter. I never resent her being with me. I miss her if I don't see her for a day. But there's a difference between spending time and providing free daycare with the expectation that I will always be available. Because then I don't get to choose when I do it -- kind of like all those years I was a stay-at-home mom. And I don't want spending time with her to become a burden. It's complicated.

It's complicated because I need to find something to do that doesn't make me feel small and used. Feeling used is quite different from feeling useful. I need to raise my value, even if it's just in my own mind, by doing something well and getting paid for it. Being the perpetual volunteer isn't working for me. Nor would it for most people, am I right?

Back to writing here on this blog. I love hate love hate love writing here. I love it when I do it, but I have to force myself to sit down and do it. One reason is because I don't have deadlines, so I can either do it or I can watch Netflix, or go sing karaoke, or rub one out, or read something somebody else got paid to write, like a book. I am as passionate about writing as I am music. As unable to live without it, although lately I've been satisfied with writing clever Facebook status updates.

So I need to consider whether I can continue to use my writing time and energy here on this blog, where I feel safe and comfortable and can write about vaginas or any other damn thing I want, or whether I need to find ways to make money with my writing. Ways that don't include teaching, because I'm not getting sucked down that drain again.

Somebody said to me after I quit my teaching job, and not in a very kind tone of voice, "Why were you teaching anyway? Was it for the money or for the kids?" The implication was that I should do it no matter how little I was paid because .... "for the kids." I heard that a lot at the school too. That we weren't there for the paycheck; we were there for the kids. The answer is if I'm going to do it, I have to do it for both the paycheck and the kids. We measure value in this country with currency. Money. If I'm valuable to that system, I need to be paid fairly for my time and effort. Who could argue?

I'm at that point with writing too. I can't give as much time to Coraline as I do and still regularly write here at 3:00 am simply for the joy of writing and for the connection with those of you who like to read here. That leaves no time for creating an income stream. So I need to try to create income from writing (which won't happen with this blog) or do something else, which would leave little time for writing here.

If that last paragraph sounds convoluted, I guess that's where I'm at. I'll be writing here every day this month. I've committed to that. And then, I don't know what will happen. If it's just one more burden, one more freebie I'm handing out, then I'm going to set it down for as long as I need to.

As I read back through this post, I realized I could have simply said I need to get a fucking job that pays real money, y'all!  I just had to use all the words instead.

ch...ch...ch....choices

My favorite holiday is just one week away. I love Thanksgiving because it's the only holiday when we celebrate those things that sustain us: family, friends, food. It's not about religion or patriotism, costumes or love. It's purely about the bounty of the season. I refuse to see it as a shopping holiday. That's blasphemy.

In the week leading up to Thanksgiving I would like to focus only on laying in and preparing food, making sure everybody who can fit in my dining room knows a place is laid for them at the table, and making a home for my new puppy, Doc.

Life is never that fucking simple.

I will do all of those things, but in the midst of it all, I have a decision to make that's nagging at me like sand in my underwear. A really hard decision. One that will affect me, and one that will affect other people. I have a choice to make, and none of my options are good ones.

I fucking hate that.

I can't write about the situation that brings me to this decision, this choice, although if I did, the decision might be made for me. And that might be a relief, but to do so wouldn't be ethical. But if I choose one direction, I will end up writing about it, and I will post it here. If I choose the opposite, I'll just have to swallow it.

I have a choice to make.

One thing that makes this decision hard is that one choice could be a sacrifice and I'm the lamb. I've had to do that before: in my church, in my homeschool group, teaching at the university (that cost me my job), and in intimate relationships. So many stories. So many swords I've fallen on because I thought I had to do what I thought was right. And here I am again.

Whistle-blowers in the movies become heroes, but in real life, they often find out they're blowing a dog whistle. And the only people who hear the whistle are the top dogs, who are more likely to beat you with a newspaper than to toss you a bone for being all honest and upright and ethical and shit. Other people will simply be annoyed by the subliminal noise and do whatever they can to make it go away. And then life goes on as before, except for the whistle-blower, who finds herself whining outside the pack.

Enough of that metaphor though. It's not the first time I've brought a knife to a gunfight. In fact, that's kind of my MO. How's that working for me, you ask? I've lost friends, I answer, but I know I did the right thing. Was it worth it? you ask. I'm not sure, I say. Some days I'd rather be the person who lets other people take the fall. I'd like to wear the Miss Popularity sash for a minute.

It's also not the first time I've wished I had a mentor, someone whose advice I valued over even my own. And yet, I've never had a mentor in all my many years of life. Lots and lots of wise friends, but never a mentor. It's just not me, I guess, but I wonder what that would be like. I've simply never met anybody I want to put on that pedestal. Not that I don't value the advice of my friends and family, and most of all my kids, but I've never had a mentor, someone to lead me through life.

Maybe what I really miss is having a best friend. How pathetically junior high is that? Or maybe I just need a therapist. Recommendations? Or maybe I need a sponsor. Is there a 12-step program for people who are addicted to fixing what can't be fixed?

Back to the difficult choice .... I seem to find myself in positions like this more often than other people do. And my friends will agree. People expect it now; they wait for me to step in and be the bad guy. And even if they don't know me like that, I must put off the lemon-ammonia scent of someone who will take the bullet for everybody else if they just wait long enough.

Fuck me for being born a red-head, because that's got to be it. That's got to be why I'm fated to walk through these fires. The hardest thing about being a fire-breathing perfectionist is that  nothing is ever perfect, and it's hard to tell what's good enough and what I should walk away from. Either way, I'm going to disappoint somebody -- myself or a lot of other people. Or more likely, everybody.

I've vague-blogged long enough. How do you make hard decisions? Who do you go to for advice? Do you have a mentor? Will you be my mentor? What's your default when you have 3 choices and none of them are good? Why isn't life ever fair?

I wish I could filet this issue and lay it out here on a soggy newspaper for you to examine, but obviously I can't. Depending on which way I swing, I either will blow the whole thing up and write about it here one day soon, inviting more haters to circle .... or I'll slink off and never say another word about it ... unless I write an anonymous letter and post it on a dim, smoky back room bulletin board where nobody will ever read it or even fucking care.

April Fool

Consider this my April Fool's Day post. I was just joking when I didn't post last night.

No, really I'm sick, and all I had energy for yesterday was teaching teenagers and my evening with my 2-year-old granddaughter Coraline, which lasted until almost midnight. I actually feel worse today, so here are my terribly random, foolish thoughts.

*********

In spite of my 3 days of failure last month, I'm trying to decide whether to make a commitment to writing every day in April. The jury in my head is still out. On the one hand, I write more and that's always good. On the other hand, I need more sleep. I guess if there's a post here every day, the decision has been made.

*********

My junior class didn't show up for class yesterday. The bell rang; the seniors left; the juniors across the hall went into their classroom. I sat alone in my classroom .... waiting. I shuffled some papers, looked out the window, drank some water, considered a 30-second power nap. No students. Finally as my co-teacher was closing her door, I walked over to my door and asked if she knew why my students weren't coming to class. I felt, I have to admit, somewhat bereft

She just laughed and looked down the hallway. I stepped out and there on the stairwell were all 19 of my students, being quieter than I've ever seen them. We all laughed pretty hard at their trick, and then I laughed again 10 minutes later when I remembered it was April Fool's Day. Did I mention I'm sick?

When I told my daughter Elvira about it, she said, "Were they late to class then?"

I said, "Probably some of them were. Maybe all. I don't think I went looking until the second bell rang."

"They're lucky you're the teacher they pulled that on then," she said.

"Why?" I asked. "Who wouldn't think that was funny? It's a creative writing class. They were being creative."

"Because at least half of my high school teachers would have sent the entire class to detention for that little stunt," she said. "They must trust that you wouldn't."

"The thought never crossed my mind," I said. "Who wants to be an asshole like that? No wonder you hated some of your teachers."
I've gone over that conversation several times. I don't understand those teachers who would punish an entire class for an April Fool's joke. But I have to imagine that they would think the kids were trying to put one over on them by wasting class time? Or that they were usurping some authority? I don't know how those teachers think. I do know life is too damn short to treat kids that way, and I look forward to seeing what they come up with next year.

*********

I had to miss karaoke tonight. Even with drugs, I couldn't get off the couch except to fix food. I hate missing karaoke. First because every night is different, and I'm afraid I'll miss something interesting, like last week when a guy thought he was going to get a 3-way with his wife and me. He was so wrong. But that's another story.

The second reason I hate missing karaoke is because I've gone 11 weeks in a row, according to Foursquare, and I wanted to continue my streak. I was tempted to lie. Karaoke is close enough to my house to come up on the list of possibilities. I could just check in anyway .... but I didn't. I'm a fucking Pollyanna, I am.

Have you ever lied on Foursquare?

*********

Since I turned off my internet, which I haven't missed one tiny bit so fuck you TWC, I've been on a House of Cards marathon ... if a marathon can last for several weeks. And I've come to a decision. 

My new alter ego is going to be Claire Underwood. I know I'll never be a tiny, fit blonde woman with a pixie (do they still call short haircuts pixies?) who runs for miles and can wear 4" heels for 17 hours without limping or slipping them off under the table, but I'm sure some version of that woman lives inside me ready to out-maneuver anybody who tries to fuck with me or the Vice President of the United States.

So if the temperature drops to below freezing when you're with me, you'll know this hot-blooded redhead just went Claire Underwood on somebody. Put on your hat and mittens.Liquid nitrogen is a soak in the hot tub compared to Claire Underwood and me.

*********

A student was caught on camera and suspended for receiving a blow job in the stair well. It's not my job to judge my students' personal lives, only their writing. However, in spite of the stunning notoriety he will receive in addition to that blow job, I do think he was a fool to get caught. And because he got caught, he deserves every zero he gets. Some lessons learned in school have nothing to do with academics.

*********

Finally, one of the requirements for all of my students this quarter is that they submit a piece of writing somewhere. A large part of my junior class plans to submit to a local literary magazine -- a freebie that comes out a couple of times a year. Most of them are excited about it.

When I contacted the publisher, who used to teach at the same school and who is a personal acquaintance, to get some back issues, she said she expected me to submit too. I hadn't really thought about it, but I agreed that she was right.

(And then I immediately fell into the pit of insecurity that surrounds every writer and thought, What if a student, or students, gets an acceptance email and I get a rejection? What then? And my response, as I climbed up out of that fucking pit once more, was, I'll be

(thealchemistskitchen)

proud as hell, that's what. Every teacher should want her students to surpass her, and I certainly do.

That doesn't mean I want a fucking rejection email just so I can put my largess to the test though. I'm not that free of ego, nor will I ever be.

So now I'm down to the deadline, which is Friday at midnight, and I have no idea what I want to submit. They accept any genre, but they especially want nonfiction, which is mostly what I write these days. I'm sure I can send something I've posted here, but the fact is, I've been functioning barely above the minimum this week.

The piece should probably be G-PG, because they take submissions from all ages. That should narrow my writing down to almost zero, right?

Help me out here. Have you read anything here you think might work? Something that's not about vaginas? (Or maybe, since I can send 3 pieces, I should try to sneak in a vagina piece?) What do you think?

Last post of September: The courage to write

This is the final post of September. My commitment to post every day in September was ..... well, it was a failure, I suppose. I missed either 3 or 4 days. I don't care. Perfectionism is over-rated. I'm satisfied with the month's output, and I hope you are too.

One post in particular, "Censorship Down Under" -- a post I almost didn't publish -- got significant attention. A lot more people than usual responded to it on Facebook and in the comments section, and several people wanted to talk about it in real life.

And then late last night an editor at Blogher, a huge women's blogging network where I occasionally cross-post, picked it as the editor's choice on their Love and Sex page. I was so flattered and honored I blushed right here at my computer when I read the email from the editor telling me she'd chosen it.

I've answered a few comments there, and as of 2:45 am, the time I'm writing this, there were over 2500 reads. That's a shit-ton for me. Later this afternoon, she added the Great Wall of Vagina section of last night's post, which I uploaded this morning. I theorized if she liked one vagina post, she might like another. She did.

I will say it's odd having somebody else edit my writing, which she also did. She also took out the photo of naked vaginas that I agonized over including in that post, and used one that's not so graphic. But you know what? I was a magazine editor for 10 years. That's the way the business works. I'm just grateful that she highlighted that post, and not just because it made my ego swell up to the point I had to have an emergency brain drain put in, but because it started an important conversation with both women and men.

And that's what most writers pray for every night when we get on our knees beside our beds -- right after, "Please let me win the lottery let at least one person read what I wrote tonight."
*******

I've been substitute teaching in a friend's creative writing class at a magnet school for the arts recently. I've taught there twice, and I'll be teaching another 11 days in the next month.

I teach both a senior and a junior class, and creative writing is like their major. It's what got them into the school, which requires an audition for the 7 magnets in the school.

Friday I had them write on an index card whether they felt safe -- because I think it's terribly important that students feel safe in a writing class. I asked them to tell me why they didn't feel safe if they answered no.

The senior class is small, only 9 kids: 7 boys and 2 girls. All of them said they felt safe. They are comfortable sharing their writing with each other and with me. They support each other, and so far, I haven't seen any bullying or mocking. Good-natured teasing, but no meanness.

The junior class -- 18 kids -- is just the opposite. Most of them said they don't feel safe. They are reluctant to share their writing in class or with each other in groups. They said they don't want anybody to see their vulnerability. Some of them will share, but many won't. I've heard some of the girls in the class are bullies. They don't pull any shit in front of me, but I probably know which ones would if they thought they could get away with it. I suspect they are intimidating even when they aren't doing anything. I know all to well how bullies function.

I told that class today if they didn't get over it, they would never make it as writers. Or actors or dancers or musicians or artists. I said if they couldn't get over their own fear of showing vulnerability through their words with their friends and family or their classmates or even with strangers, they would never make the connection people need to feel in order to invest their emotions in the writing.

I told them if they ever wanted to be writers, they had to learn not to give a shit about what other people think. Yeah, I'm a hypocrite, but the caring is why we do it and the not giving a shit is how we manage to put it out there one more day.

I was probably banging my head against a brick wall with most of them. That's what teaching is like. The ones who got it, probably already had it. The ones who are afraid will still be afraid.

Although I want to, I'm not sure whether to tell them about this experience -- partly because I'd have to talk about vaginas in a high school writing class. I'm not even sure if that's appropriate. Partly because they can google like nobody's business, and I'm not sure I want them reading my blog. Boundaries. It's not like I post photos of my own vagina -- although that was suggested today -- but I'd still feel a little funny if I knew they were reading here.

But I would like to tell them about how I took a risk, and it paid off. Not in dollars, but in emotional connection with people who read and understood. I want to tell them about how I couldn't sleep after I published that post in the middle of the night, because I had admitted I didn't really like looking at those naked vaginas, that they made me uncomfortable. And about how I worried I'd lose readers for posting the photos or for being a bad feminist or for writing about vaginas too often.

Not that I'm beating myself up about worrying. I'm not. Plenty of people understood and acknowledged why it was a risk.

I just want every one of those kids to write something uncomfortable and then share it -- with strangers, classmates, friends, family. I want them to experience cutting themselves open and examining their feelings and reactions in words, even when they don't like what they see. And even when they don't know how other people will react. And even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

I guess it's not something that can be forced. I just hope someday they get to experience writing something difficult, sharing it, and receiving back the gift of understanding, conversation, reassurance and connection like I did this week.

That will give them a reason to keep opening up and keep writing.
*****

Thanks for reading this month. I'll probably take a break for a few days so I can get a couple of good night's sleep, but I'll be back soon enough. Stay tuned!

Only an English teacher would read this

Last night I wrote about missing my students' stories now that I'm not teaching any more. There's a flip side though: the things I don't miss. And what I don't miss most is grading. I don't miss reading stacks of papers written by students who don't listen in class, don't read my handouts, don't take the time required to write and then revise .... and who pulled the same shit the past 12 years of school so they can't write one sentence that makes sense.

Think I'm kidding? I'm not.*

Somebody shared this website on Facebook a few months ago when I was in the middle of a typical quarter: Shit My Students Write. I read through seven pages of it before I realized I already had the same kind of writing to read, and it was sitting in stacks on my dining room table. I didn't need to read the funny typos and misunderstandings other teachers get in their students' papers, because I got paid practically nothing for reading and grading my own students' papers. I could put up my own damn website.

Don't believe me? Think the teachers on that website are exaggerating? I don't blame you if you do, which is why I feel the need to validate what you read there.

Here, posted entirely without permission, are a few first sentences from a stack of ad analysis papers I received from one class during one quarter. And let me preface this list by saying that these are not first drafts, and I gave strict orders to the entire class to read the first sentence of their papers aloud before they turned them in to me and make sure it was perfect.

• An engineer who had no previous experience created Skky Vodka in 1992.
• The capo and the tuner, two devices both known to the average guitar player as essential item need to play.
• While looking through the Women Health Magazine I seen that bathing suits were on sale for ten dollars per piece.
• Celebrities have a great affect when it comes to selling product weather there are there owns are someone else.
• In our society today women are so disturbed by the way there menstrual cycle makes them feel. I am a woman and I can tell you from personal experience that they are some of the most grueling pains you could ever imagine.
• Every women know what is is like to get their period. 

This list is representative of about 75% of the papers I read. And these are just the first sentences. There were more sentences in each paper. Many more. 

I once asked an entire class -- around 25 students -- if they had read the papers they just turned into me. Almost all of them said no. They wrote the papers and then didn't even read them once to see if they needed to make any corrections. They came into class thinking I would mark every error on their papers, and then they'd just change the things I marked and they'd get an A. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Writing is hard work. It really is, and I'm the first to whine about it. My students were not stupid. Somebody failed them. And I failed a significant number of them myself, but not in the same way. I hated that because I wanted them to succeed -- but often more than they wanted to themselves.

Nope, I do not miss grading papers. Yes, it was a big part of my job. It's too damn bad somebody didn't start doing it sooner.

Don't even get me started on No Child Left Behind. Could George Bush pass my class? I doubt it. I really fucking doubt it. 

* This is not about the students who do work hard and who do love to learn. Those students were often frustrated too.


I leave you with this spoken word poem by Taylor Mali titled "What Teachers Make." I promise I'll write about vaginas soon.

 

Only an English teacher

After I found out I wouldn't be teaching at the university this semester, I wondered if I would miss it. Teaching becomes an identity, although I identify more strongly as a writer and an editor.

Almost daily on Facebook a former colleague will post a sentence from a student paper that a typical Japanese sixth-grader would be ashamed to turn in. Or someone will post that the stack of papers is only four feet high now, and she only has six hours of grading left to do.

At those times, I do not miss teaching. I don't miss wading through papers that I'll spend more time grading than the students spent writing. I don't miss trying to make sense of a jumble of random words, and then trying to figure out how I can give positive feedback that will turn that shit into gold.

But I do miss my students. I miss the classroom interaction -- watching a light bulb come on now and then, learning from them as they learn from me, creating a safe place where a classroom full of strangers will become friends. I miss their stories.

Many months ago, I wrote the post below. I didn't publish it then because I didn't want to violate any of my students' confidentiality. I changed details and left enough vagueness I don't think it could have happened, but I wanted to be sure.

Now, so many months later, I don't even remember the names of some of these students, although I do remember their stories.

This is one thing I miss about teaching: learning my students' stories. And sometimes watching them succeed in spite of their struggles outside the classroom. Tomorrow, just to keep the balance, I'll post something I don't miss.

A Facebook friend shared this video tonight. I have heard every excuse in that video just this quarter. I was even accused of punishing a student because his 30-something uncle died of AIDS. Of course it wasn't because he missed 3 out of 4 weeks of class and didn't turn in any assignments.

The only difference is that I don't get the opportunity to respond as succinctly as the teacher in the video. Sometimes teaching is the most frustrating profession I can imagine. It can really fucking suck. And sometimes ... sometimes it simply breaks my heart.

I was hanging out on Facebook tonight, avoiding the stacks of papers I will have to read tomorrow because I didn't do it tonight. I may even have to sit out my weekly karaoke night to get ready for two days of conferences Thursday and Friday. Back-to-back, ten-minute conferences with each of my students for two days. I actually enjoy the one-on-one time with them. We get a lot done. But it's draining, and I'm already crispy.

Early this quarter, some of the students in one of my classes asked for a free-writing assignment. I don't think that's ever happened. They said they wanted to try to write something that would disturb me, because I had told them they couldn't disturb me by swearing in some of their informal writing.

 I said, "OK, I'll give you your assignment," and the next week I scheduled a "disturb Reticula" free-write for both classes. Let them take their best shot.

A few of them read their pieces aloud in class, but not as many as usual. More of them wanted me to wait until after class to read what they wrote.

One kid was sure he disturbed me with his graphic description of a father being brutally murdered in front of his young daughter, and then her subsequent rape and murder. He didn't though, this kid who carries a Bible with him to class every day. I told him he'd have to try harder than that, and we laughed.

One girl wrote about being shy in person, but leading a double life as a web-cam porn star. At the end she wrote "JUST KIDDING!" and a smiley face. She's not shy, so I believe her. I think she will be one of the few who get an A this quarter. (Note from the future: She did and she came in and danced around my office.)

But one girl wrote about how she was raped when she was 14 and she hasn't been happy since--not even for a second. She's tried everything: booze, dope, eating disorders, serial therapy, fast cars, sports, dares .... She's 19, and she thinks she'll never be happy again. I wish I knew the answer. I hope she's wrong. No JK. No smiley face. Not fiction.

Another girl wrote about her experience getting an abortion. She described the cold white walls, bloody pieces in garbage bags, drills and other tools, and holding a nurse's hand. And she wrote that she went alone and didn't tell her boyfriend she was pregnant, because she didn't want to share him. No JK. No smiley face. I don't know if it's fiction or truth.

One girl said she gets angry with people who stare at her because she's only 19 and she has a 5-year-old son. But she wrote that she was raped and she doesn't believe in abortion, so she's doing the best she can. No JK. No smiley face. Not fiction.

I guess that throw-away assignment foreshadowed the rest of the quarter, because the stories kept coming. I don't want to violate their confidences, but here are a few general snips of the stories I've heard since.

• One girl was in a car accident that left her with a heart condition and other health problems. She wrote that she wishes I could have known her before she was so damaged. She's 19.
• One young man wrote about losing his eye in a car accident and surviving a two-week coma. He wishes people would just ask about it instead of avoiding looking at him or talking to him.
• One girl wrote about her grandmother's recent suicide, and how angry she is.
• One boy said his mother started drinking heavily a few months ago. He goes to school full time and works full time. The rest of the time he keeps a vigil for his mom, waiting for her to come home drunk or making sure she doesn't leave drunk and drive. He falls asleep in class.
• One young man wrote how much he loved his girlfriend of four years and how they had planned their future together. The next week she broke up with him. And the next week his 25-year-old brother had a stroke and underwent an unsuccessful heart surgery. He may spend the rest of his life in a nursing home instead of going home to his wife and two small children. The student will be deployed as soon as he graduates.
• An older student came to my office to tell me she'd been in jail for several days for beating the pedophile who molested her 4-year-old grandson. (Note: I wrote about that here.)

I'm only there to teach them academic writing, but how do we write without revealing ourselves? I can't. They won't ever be real writers unless they can, so many of them start with me.

I could be a different teacher. Some of my colleagues don't assign any personal writing at all. They don't want to know about their students' personal lives, and that's fine. We aren't paid to be mothers or therapists or friends. Sometimes I wish I could do that too. Of course, I could do that ...... but no. I teach them writing, and I hear their stories. I don't know how to do one without the other.

 
But sometimes their stories are so heavy, and even though I don't carry that weight for them, I listen. I care. And I still have to grade their work -- some will pass and some will fail. No matter how rough their lives are, I still have to wield my red pen as if I didn't know anything about them at all.

Halfway through week 8 of 10, and I am a little bit crispy. We all are. College is hard work. Living is hard work. I wish my kids didn't have to learn that so young.