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Gray Matter
Teacher Bard
I fall in love with every class. And, why shouldn’t I? These students of life listen well; they laugh a lot. They probe and struggle, consistently asking good questions. Moreover, they show respect for this white-haired teacher.
One more detail: they write, and then write some more! During the eight weeks we’re together, they must turn in assignments. (Aside: how else can you teach senior adults to write clearly and effectively?)
Now, I’ve been leading non-fiction writing classes 10-plus years. These events occur at Emory University’s Center for Lifelong Learning outside Atlanta. Privately, I refer to “Geezer College,” for my students are life’s veterans, many well read and most well traveled, retired from careers yet still curious.
Beside me as I write are 15 short essays, the week’s homework. In an effort to stir the emotions, and stimulate the life review process, the assignment was: “Write about your mother, whether you loved her or not.” A number returned searing, unflattering portraits.
“Perhaps, she was unready for motherhood. I mean, where did women go then to learn mothering?” begins this paper from a former professor at an upstate New York university. “How does one acquire warmth and understanding? Mother was never willfully cruel, but faced with a need to discipline she tended to be creative rather than orthodox…”
Next, this well-crafted piece tells how as a three-year old the author accidentally broke a figurine. As punishment, he was “tied with clothesline to my wooden highchair and left in a remote, dark room…I remember best,” he continues, “that when the chair fell over, with me tied inside and crying for help,” in vain.
Another time, this future classroom leader in English and American literature (Thomas Hardy is a specialty) was deliberately dressed as a girl. He then was sent outside, wearing a sign: “I’m a Bad Boy.” Yet, he now writes: “Whatever forgiveness is necessary was taken care of a long time ago.”
The flawed, often harsh woman who bore him: “…died of a stroke on the same November 1963 day that President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was shot dead. Perhaps this was good timing for a teetotaling Irish girl, ill-chosen life-partner to her roistering husband, owner of a saloon.”
At the opposite end of the emotional spectrum comes a nostalgic piece by a medical doctor. She begins, “My mother was intelligent, extremely creative and…remains the one person I wish could come back to share today in discussions we never had…”
Both mother and father, with degrees in psychology, taught for a time at Smith College, Wellesley, MA. “Low salaries were balanced against three months in a log cabin on a Maine lake. These were some of the best memories…no running water, no electricity, no telephone and, of course, no television. It was wonderful!” writes this medical doctor.
“We spent hours in the lake, caught frogs, played endless games of cards and hide-and-seek, pursuits which future generations would declare ‘boring.’ With the advent of the Depression however, all this joy came to an end; our Camelot days were never to be repeated.”
From a physical as well as an emotional standpoint, writing proves healthful. Medical research supports the premise. Meanwhile, author Anna Quindlen explains: “writing can make pain tolerable, confusion clearer and the self stronger.” In a Newsweek column she states: “Words on paper confer immortality.”
So they come, year after year, women and men of maturity beginning a journey which hopefully will help them to make sense of their long lives. “What do you expect of this class?” I always ask.
One woman’s reasoned response goes: “1) To find peers who will give me honest feedback; 2) Plus a connection with a mentoring person who has been there, done that; 3) And, companionship with others doing the ‘crazy thing’ of being open and vulnerable…”
Excuse me, please: waiting are 15 beckoning essays that I must critique in writing. I’ll begin with this light-hearted effort, titled: “A Case for Blackmail.” The piece is about one misspent night when Mom got sloppy on martinis and, dizzy and quite ill, completely missed dinner with daughter’s husband-to-be.
Indeed, tipsy mother spent her night, alone, in the suitor’s bed. Later, when the shame had subsided, everyone shared a good laugh over a mother’s misfortune.
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Outrageous Associations
