My Worst Semester Ever

It had to happen sometime. The perfect storm of early morning class, high levels of student apathy, family issues, health issues, writing anxiety, party-hearty ethos of modern university culture, and just plain dull curriculum have all added up to almost 30% of my students flunking. Never, and I repeat, never, have I had such a high rate of failure in a writing class. The students are failing because they have not turned in their work. A big, fat zero has filled many of the slots on the online grading spreadsheet. Now, you might find yourself asking Why did this happen? And I would be glad to speculate but have to confess that I have no easy answers. I am very willing to acknowledge that I likely am part of the big equation that will explain the dearth of performance and elan in this class. It might be bad luck. It might be the stress of money that high tuition creates. It might be the toxic political climate that undervalues reasoned communication. It could also be a symptom of digital brain wiring meeting the need to sustain a focus. It might be a combination of variables that I have to identify or consider. And, like I said, the curriculum, as corporate textbook, is dull as door knobs. I add some spice to that, of course, but that text is enough to make my eyes roll back in my head, and I LIKE this stuff. Also the emphasis on teaching rhetoric seems to bog down discussions. I don't think that an over-emphasis on teaching about writing -- purpose, audience, subject, situation -- necessarily improves writing. Writing and getting feedback about things writers care about improves writing. We don't work on writing as much as we talk about what motivates and shapes expression in general and writing in particular. Abstraction has squeezed out practice. But none of this explains why so many of my young, healthy, smart, impressionable men and women, who, in their first college semester, are going to crash and burn.

Burly Man Meets Cyber Monday

He was a man's man: built like a fire plug, thick in bicep and calf, chiseled jaw, razor sharp gaze. But he carried himself lightly, like a welter-weight boxer. The morning was crisp on this last Monday before December, Cyber Monday, and it was time to think about shopping, -- online -- powered by caffeine. He had worked hard serving the public and had money to burn. His belt was heavy with the tools of his trade: Tazer, pistol, flashlight, radio, hand cuffs, I-Phone 8. His face was young and smooth and easy with a smile; he was the new man, a man who oozed security, calm, digital prowess: he was a consumer. The barista stood on tip-toe, poised, waiting to take his order, her face turned up to the shining brilliance of him standing there in the morning sun. She had to shield her eyes or move into the shadow he cast. What was it going to be? A bullet-proof?  A triple shot black-eye? A dark-roast Americano? Surely something powerful to carry him through this long day of spending. The cafe got very quiet in the pause before he spoke. He let the moment gain weight, the gravity crushing every sound other than the soft music pumping through the speakers, an indie song of longing, for something new, in a box, with an Amazon swoosh. He drew in a breath as the rest of the cafe breathed with him in a collective gasp. He extended his phone to zap the register and make his purchase, the first of many, the one that would fuel the day. The words came slow and deep: "Pumpkin-spice skinny latte, please."

Dems Da Facts, Or, Thinking About the Book

If it's going to work, it's got to cast a spell. You know that. But you forget. You think that pounding them with unpleasant reality will somehow pull them in, make them want to go on, work some kind of alchemy through logic. Well, maybe the left-brainers or masochists will fall for that. But you know that most humans want you to tell them a story, the kind of story that suspends the here and now in a way that makes the here and now even more lovely, more heart-breaking, more heightened. A deeper blue. That's a hard road to go though. It asks of you a kind of love and listening and craft, a kind of work that changes the storyteller as much as those who listen. You must offer up the best of yourself and give it away to find the living between that is waiting there in the space separating you from the beloved Thou. It is what you most love and what you most fear you cannot do.

Blessed

My ear has gotten better just as my hearing begins to go bad. Words that ring true come through more clearly, and sentimentality clangs off key. I can tell resonance in the first few syllables, voice in a phrase, vision in a sentence. Now, this might seem like a good thing, but such quality of speech and text is in very short supply these days, so I cringe at most of what counts for communication. It's not about "grammar," which is what people usually think when I try to explain my affliction. I have worked so hard to get here, just as the quality of language falls over the cliff of what people strive for. Blessed or cursed, I am not so sure.

The Day Everything Went Right

I rose early, in the dark, hung out with Simone the cat, and then went to my little cafe. The barista gave me a free shot of espresso and told me good jokes. I sat down to check my phone and to brood over my life when I saw a text that offered me a deal on a new/used guitar for Sean, whose guitar had been stolen while he was in the Peace Corps. I replied and met the guy and got the gitty-box sweet deal -- all before sunrise. I then returned to the cafe and wrote a good poem about love and loss. I decided not to go to work. That sore spot in my life needed a break on this day before Thanksgiving. So I had time for a bike ride with some wonderful friends who plied me with kindness and more coffee. We rode fifty sun-soaked, breezy, heart-felt miles. When I got home I took Sean to get a new driver's license. The lines were short and quick and painless, though he did flunk his motorcycle test. No matter. We went to the guitar shop and picked up new strings, capo, and oil for the finger board. I got a shot of espresso to keep the parade moving. We then went to get provisions for Thanksgiving cooking. The gas pumps at Costco were crowded, with lines extending back three cars deep, but an employee motioned me over to an empty pull-through just as he removed a pylon and pointed to an open pump. We breezed through before finding the best parking spot in the place. Then we filled our cart with squash and pies and beer with the help of son Kyle who was working the busy shift. Hot dogs, brisket barbecue, and Coke followed as we watched Kyle work the front end. He has filled out into a statuesque physique not unlike that of a Greek god. We drove home, put on new guitar strings, drank some cold, dark beer, and made a tasty dinner. I floated off to sleep just after Megan slipped into bed and had her way with me. Tough to be such a boy toy. As I sit here with a hot coffee and purring cat the morning after, I give thanks. I give thanks for sons who are growing into men, for women with dirty minds, for creatures that keep us company, for the music being made as life slides by. 

Neighbors (Brainstorm For a Fictional Character)

He is a pot-bellied parasite who preys on gullible patrons and benefactors. He plays to their emotions, and presents himself as their friend and savior. He does nice things once in a while to look good, talks the talk of recovery, of AA meetings, but carries a sharp knife hidden in his sock, ready to stick them in the back if they complain or see him for what he really is. They do him favors: buy him vehicles, pay his debts, cut him slack, make connections for him to exploit. His mask is the sweet victim, an "artiste," the one on a path to purity and truth. He is a sham, a false prophet, and he lives next door.

Homecoming

He was lean, work-hardened, weathered, tired from the long journey, and wearing a shirt woven by a woman in the tribe he was working with along the cordillera in Panama. His toenails were rough and broken and his feet wide, like those of the men of the tribe, the ones who wore only sandals if they wore shoes of any kind (when not wearing the rubber snake boots for cutting monte). A bright blue Peace Corps cap gave him the look of someone part of something, the logo conveying a friendly authority. The new cat carrier held one of his treasures from two years of service: a likeable, gregarious, stray cat with a heart shape on his flank. The cat, Wilson, named after the famous volleyball in Castaway, seemed glad to meet the reception crew gathered at the base of the stairs at the airport. Sean and Wilson had caught us off guard, having arrived twenty minutes early. We improvised our rowdy performance of homecoming. I ran the applause clackers; Kemper displayed his hairy cleavage; Emily rocked her Mormon mission sign; Kyle offered up the hundred-ounce Big Gulp and Twinkie; Megan put on her cat mask, while the rest of us did our little performance. It flopped, but that didn't matter. Explanations of the silly signs could come later. It was time to embrace, to celebrate, to gaze into the eyes of a freshly minted man, an open, human, work-in-progress; It was time to witness the alchemical change radiating from this person I used to know as a child, to honor his undertaking the journey of compassion and action -- all while catching a wild, rogue wave of joy.