you cringe when I say you are beautiful.
yeah sure, you mumble, eyes downturned,
rolling, like it pains you to look at me
looking at you.

even in the afterglow of lovemaking,
in the dark no less!
you swiftly pull the sheet to your chin
to step back inside yourself, like a thick, down coat.

but each morning, with the merciful whisper of dawn,
I am finally free to look at you unchallenged,
your familiar, naked body unfolded, like a map,
and what I see are

not the scars of your childhood and childbearing,
not the birthmarks and blemishes of your skin,
not the graying of your hair,
not even the weight of all my burdens upon you,

but the ornate topography of our lives,
stamps on our passport that say marriage, mortgage, minivan,
postcards filling the naked scrapbook of our adolescence,
souvenirs that will connect us when nothing else can

like the drowsy ringlets on your forehead,
your lips blowing a dandelion,
your arms in sleepy self-embrace,
or prayer.

as I creep toward the shower, leaving you
to your dreams of a leaner, younger, more fashionable you,
I pray you will one day see the beauty in your patina,
one day appreciate, as I do,

that great renaissance mapmakers cannot compete
with the simple shadows of the window blinds
tattooed in my memory
by the orange ink of dawn.

…To fear and love,
To love as prime and chief, for there fear ends,
Be this ascribed; 
  –William Wordsworth, “The Prelude,” Book 14, 162-165.

First, you get up in the morning, and although they tell you not to drink coffee, you do it anyway, because you know it will be the best moment of the day. Try to do few things around the house before they come to pick you up and bring you to the doctor’s office. Later on you will just want to nap and watch TV until morning, probably horse racing, because it’s the only thing on late that you don’t already know the outcome of.

Don’t forget some fruit, the poetry book, and the headphones, because you’ll want to tune out the other people in the room, the cancer clutch. The center is nothing fancy, not a suite of private treatment rooms like at some centers, just a large room with some office dividers acting as a lame attempt to screen you off from each other. The reclining medical chairs are dated, vinyl and not particularly ergonomic. Considering what it costs for this stuff, $7500 each visit, you’ll wonder why they can’t splurge on nicer lounges and maybe some privacy curtains.

For the next five hours you will be hooked up to an IV drip containing the medicines that are supposed to save your life, if they don’t kill you first. Don’t worry, you’ll fall asleep through part of it, and by judiciously using your headphones and your book, you will be able to ignore the cancer clutch. There are two kinds of patients in the room, those who talk and those who don’t.  You make it very clear early-on that you are a non-talker, aside from the occasional pleasantries, of course. It’s not that you’re antisocial; it’s just that most of the clutch, seeing their own life fade before them, feel compelled to talk about their disease at great length. They are old and ready to die; you are young and not ready. Don’t fall victim to that complacency. Fight the disease quietly, alone.

The nurses are compassionate and will ask many questions: How are you feeling? Have you eaten today? First, they do a finger-stick blood test to make sure your cell counts are OK before they start poisoning you, unleashing cell killers that don’t differentiate good cells from the cancer cells; the drugs attack with equanimity. Next, they’ll put a long flexible needle into a vein on the top of your hand. It’s best not to watch this; if the nurse is good, you won’t even feel it. Take the blanket the nurses offer you because the liquids are at room temperature and they will chill you off from the inside, something you’ll think must feel like the onset of death. Your cocktail drip-they call it that-consists of four ingredients, starting with Compazine, to prevent stomach upset, and Benadryl, to ward off allergic reactions to the chemo drugs. If you’re lucky, the Benadryl will put you right to sleep for an hour. Then they’ll follow with the big guns: Taxol, a lung cancer drug made from the Yew Tree of all things, and Carboplatin, a basic do-all cancer drug that will burn slightly on the way in.  If it gets too hot, call the nurse, and they’ll rinse the vein with some saline.

When you wake up, eat some fruit and read Wordsworth for a little while, then close your eyes and try to nap again. Follow your breaths, like in meditation, until you begin to visualize Wordsworth’s landscape–the fells, slate-capped and oddly treeless, dotted with sheep, quilted by stone walls that stretch for miles. When the discomfort starts, promise yourself that if you get better, you will go back there as originally scheduled, visit your mates, get your families together and go walking. Convince yourself that planning this trip while healing will cure your melancholy, much the same way that living there cured Wordsworth’s. At the church in Grasmere, above his grave, Wordsworth planted Yew trees. You find this ironic.

***************

In the churchyard at Grasmere, among the Yew Trees and just off the path that bears thousands of summer tourists through the streets of the small village, lies the tomb of English poet William Wordsworth. Standing there under the trees, trying to make out the writings on the stones faded from 150 years of English precipitation, it occurs to me that it would be OK to die here. There are few, if any, similarities between William and me. I am neither a scholar of romantic poetry nor a poet, but this small piece of the world has held special significance for me for over twenty years. What began as a random stop on a semester abroad has become a place of almost tantric focus, a mental image to tranquilize the fear of my impending death. Now in remission, I have come here to pay homage, as the bard himself once did:

At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,
“What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!” 
  –William Wordsworth, “Home at Grasmere,” 8-14.

Young William first saw the beauty of this place as a child. Much of the region’s popularity derives from the treatment of this landscape in Wordsworth’s poetry. Twenty years ago, two dear friends, my roommates at England’s University of Worcester, borrowed a car and took me here for a long weekend of camping and walking, which is what most people come here to do. My roommates had heard that all Americans want to visit the Lake District, like Buckingham Palace, but the truth is, I had never heard of it. Wordsworth was a walking poet, and he composed most of his work while walking the fells and vales of this most beautiful of landscapes. As a student, I was just barely acquainted with his poetry, but my amazement at the place made me explore his verse and come to enjoy it even more. In this landscape, and in the language William uses to evoke it, there exists an indescribable power to sooth and reassure, as if to say, within nature lies the capacity to survive.

Throughout the months of cancer treatment, I used Wordsworth and Grasmere as my crutch. At my times of deepest anxiety, when most would focus on their families for comfort, I could not bear to conjure them, the possibility of losing them as real as the possibility of survival. But I could recall the incredible sense of peace I felt in these hills, the completeness. Trying to avert long nights of anxious dreaming, I often pictured myself walking here, healed, restored. That college trip to Europe changed my life, and the brief time I spent walking these hills and pastures were more transformative for me than I ever could have known. For twenty years I dreamt of coming back here, bringing my family and gathering my roommates and their families for a week together in these hills. We had begun to make plans before the tumor was discovered. The reunion was postponed so I could receive treatment. Fate intervened, and on the other side of the battle for my life, this trip shined like a trophy. All I could do was follow.

Such pleasure now is mine, albeit forced,
Herein less happy than the Traveller,
To cast from time to time a painful look
Upon unwelcome things which unawares
Reveal themselves, not therefore is my heart
Depressed, nor does it fear what is to come;
But confident, enriched at every glance,
The more I see the more delight my mind
Receives, or by reflection can create:
Truth justifies herself, and as she dwells
With Hope, who would not follow where she leads?
  –William Wordsworth, “Home at Grasmere,” 491-501.

Now in the churchyard the sky threatens showers and we start the day late, delayed by trying to get six adults and nine children under fourteen dressed and fed, so that the day’s excursions could begin. My roommates and their families headed off in another direction, leaving us to take this one journey alone. Though we planned the walk for months, arriving at the parking lot and preparing to begin stirs my anxiety. What if it rains? What if we get halfway and I can’t make it any more? Surely the kids are not as interested in this as me. They are enjoying the trip, but I think they look upon this walk with their parents as a bit of an annoyance, like having to go to church. Still, they know this walk is important to me and are supportive even though they cannot understand the deeper significance of it all. I’m not sure I understand it myself. They were so strong and grown-up through my illness that I feel almost ungrateful for making them take this trek.

In another bit of irony, this walk is called the Coffin Path. The brochure tells us to begin at Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth moved at the age of 30 to live in relative obscurity with his sister Dorothy and to compose his life’s work, “The Prelude,” a long poem discussing the growth of a poet’s mind. The walking path is circular, beginning at Dove Cottage where it climbs to a level of 1800 feet at a moderate incline, running parallel to Grasmere Lake and Rydal Water until it reaches Wordsworth’s later home at Rydal Mount, some three miles away. We are then to descend to the water’s edge and begin a slow climb along the other side of the lakes, returning to Grasmere. Total distance: 5.4 miles. The tourist information center lists the difficulty as easy; suitable for children and the elderly, it says. Allow three hours.

When William moved into Dove Cottage in December 1799, his first book of poems had just been released to a mix of controversy and acclaim. For the next 50 years, he walked these hills and immortalized this landscape and its inhabitants. The Cottage was once a small inn for passing traders, and William and Dorothy lived here simply, if not comfortably. The home has all the charm of an old cottage: whitewashed walls, plated glass windows, small sparsely furnished rooms, and an unpretentious English garden planted with common domestic plants like London Pride, Orchisis, Celadine, Laurels, and Thyme. While living here, the Wordsworths entertained other poets of the period, most notably Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with whom Wordsworth would have a deep personal friendship spanning many years. The cottage, and the small group of buildings that surround it, have all been purchased by the Wordsworth Trust and are well maintained. There is a new museum as well, which holds many artifacts from the Wordsworths, as well as illustrations of Lakeland life in the early 19^th century. The food in the nearby café is remarkably good; we eat heartily and watch the skies threaten more showers. My wife and kids seem to be waiting for me to decide when to leave. I’m having second thoughts again. My wife takes my hand. “You came this far,” she says. She’s right, of course, and strong.

The road begins its ascent from the valley just beyond Dove Cottage, and at first, though it is paved and slightly steep, I feel encouraged. Part way up I feel the strain in my legs and chest. I hoped the incline was more gradual, but then again, perhaps it is better to put my lungs to the test now. I lost half my left lung to the cancer, removed surgically in a four- hour operation in New York City just over a year before this trip. I was not in the greatest shape before the surgery, and certainly had not prepared in any way for this walk, so I’m not sure how my breathing will be and if I will be able to complete the walk before the dark of night or chill of rain. As I climb, stepping smaller and smaller, I sometimes turn around and walk backward to shift the pain to other muscles in my legs. I later learned that Wordsworth sometimes did this as well. I breathe steady and rhythmically, like a determined marathon runner, thinking at each step that if my kids can do this, then so can I. At first the paved road is easy on the ankles, but as we reach a leveling out point, the pavement veers left and the trail, pointed right by a wooden signpost that says “Path to Rydal,” becomes damp soil littered with stones. The first ascent complete, I am out of breath but still breathing.

***************

You’ll observe in the hospital that no one wants to be the one to deliver the diagnosis. The attending doctors actually flip coins to decide. They’ll kind of skirt the issue and avert their eyes when speaking to you, because they can’t hide their sympathy for what you are about to go through, for the degree to which your life is about to change. What they will eventually say is “There is a large mass, seven centimeters, at the top of your lung. We have to do more tests. It could just be pneumonia.” You’re smart, though-you know it’s lung cancer-but you’ll stay strong for the wife who is sobbing next to you. You’ll say something pathetically brave, like “It’s OK. We can beat this.” Bravo.

From this point on, under no circumstances are you to read information on the five-year survival rates, which hover around ten percent. Lung cancer victims are mostly old people; you are young and can handle everything the medical community can throw at you. You will get sick, lose your hair, grow more exhausted and disheartened than you ever thought possible. Radiation treatments will burn your esophagus, and chemotherapy will make you vomit. You won’t shit for days. After that, if you’re lucky, you will only lose half your lung, rather than the whole one. You have two, but every piece counts. You will survive this though. Even when you don’t believe this, you must believe this.

***************

Walking now, I am starting to heat up. My teenage son has taken to glancing at me, looking to catch me if I faint. He coaches me the way I coached him in Little League. “Move your arms more,” he says. “Lift your knees.” I remove my coat and stuff it in my backpack. It’s a black Swiss Army bag, not one of the shiny high-tech looking ones, but a more basic daypack that actually zips on to the outside of the larger, more high-tech bag that carried my belongings here. I haven’t overpacked: there’s my lined windbreaker and a compact Totes umbrella; some sunglasses, a small LED penlight and a set of binoculars; basic first aid items, of course, Barbie band-aids, Advil, and cortisone cream. Hidden deep-down, a few Vicodin. Water.

On the straps, I’ve attached pins that promote my alma mater, favorite sports teams, and other quirks about me–an American flag, a drum. The one that says “Cancer Sucks” I left at home. I’ve also brought Wordsworth’s selected poems (the Dove Cottage edition), a topographic map of the Lakes, and the brochure containing the directions for the hike.

On my back, I carry the joy of having survived, of being in a place with such enormous spiritual power, of connecting the past to the present with the ones I love most in the world. Before me lie the hills and valleys on which I relied for support when my soul was at its most afraid. From such fear, such joy! For all cancer survivors, my continued existence, like my ability to complete this trek, is tenuous, and so I also carry the heaviest item of all…the fear of failure. But I keep walking anyway.

In my head I can still hear the lines of poetry, the iambic pentameter that now seems so quaint to our ears. Wordsworth’s language became my lexicon of hope, and even though I often read it halfheartedly, only skimming the text without taking from it any real meaning, it gave me great comfort just to have it there, like a Bible, as if reading it could bring my mind and spirit back to this place in which I am now walking, as if I could calm myself enough to do some good.

The trail winds gently up and through a forest between stone walls that must have taken years to build. In some areas sheep graze in between the trees and ferns. In other areas, small rivulets of clear mountain water flow down to the lakes, which have now disappeared from view. I stop at some of these rivulets to baptize myself in its coolness. My daughter laughs when I shake my head at her, like a wet dog. Eventually we come to a small clearing where the lakes can be seen once again. According to my watch I assume we must be almost there, but according to the view, we are not yet one-fourth of the way to our stopping point at Rydal. I have to stop more often to catch my breath, pretending that I need water when what I really need is air.

The Coffin Path gets its name from its important role in connecting the once-churchless village of Rydal to the church at Grasmere. When a Rydal resident died, mourners and pallbearers would have to carry the deceased in his leaden box over this three-mile route. Scattered along it are stone seats, where they could place the coffin and rest their shoulders. The one before me is a simple slab of limestone, nothing noted on or near it, but well worn from years of service. Wordsworth walked this path often, composing poetry aloud as he wandered. Nab Scar, a foreboding piece of rock where falcons and buzzards nest, looms high above us. Darker clouds roll in, the same way they did when Wordsworth wrote his poem about this eerie spot in 1808:

A humble walk
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path,
A little hoary line and faintly traced,
Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd’s foot
Or of his flock?–joint vestige of them both.
  –William Wordsworth, “To a Cloud,” 54-58.

The rain begins to fall at last, but we are protected by the overhanging forests through which we climb. The sounds of running water grow as the rains increase and then subside, and moments later the sun breaks out, raising the humidity and making it even harder to breathe. We pass a small ruined cabin, gated off, in which Wordsworth composed poetry in his later years, and from which passers-by often heard him talking to himself. Just beyond we can see the main house, Rydal Mount, where William moved in 1813 having outgrown the more meager spaces of Dove Cottage. He had a wife now, and children. This home and the lush landscaped gardens that surround it are quite different and reflect Wordsworth’s new status in his career. I am eager to see inside, but I am more thrilled because I know there is another tea shop where we can revive ourselves and take in the surroundings. After two grueling hours, we are halfway home.

Rydal vastly differs from Dove Cottage, featuring acres of formally landscaped gardens designed by Wordsworth himself. In contrast to the other gardens simplicity, these include plants quite exotic for the time, large plantings like Japanese Maple, Rhododendron, and Italian Cypress. Though partially still in use by his descendants, most of the home is open as a museum, featuring copies of letters and artworks that belonged to William. We are the only visitors, and the woman who walks us through the house is excited to see us. “Sit a spell,” she tells me. “You look half dead.”

Though William composed most of his best poetry in Grasmere, this new home bespeaks of reinvention and revision. At Rydal, while continuing to write new poems, he also spent vast amounts of time revising “The Prelude,” the final revision of which would not appear until after his death in 1850, 45 years after he completed his earlier draft. His life’s work was truly that-life-long.

While browsing the gift shop, the clerk asks if we’ve taken the trail here. I joke about being exhausted and yet only half finished. He says, “If you’re really knackered, there is a bus that runs from the bottom of this hill right back to Grasmere every 30 minutes.” My wife looks at me, relieved that, with both houses now visited, we can enjoy a more sedentary afternoon. But I’m not so sure.

Over tea we discuss the options. The day has warmed but I feel restored, invincible, and I want to keep going. None of the brochures mentioned a bus return, so I always assumed the only way to get back would be to complete the walk. Taking the bus back now would be anticlimactic, though my legs, lungs and children would thank me. I pretend that I am debating the issue as we descended from Rydal Mount, past the waterfalls on which Wordsworth based one poem, and past the Rydal Church, where in his late 70s, he and his wife bent on hands and knees and planted thousands of daffodils to honor the memory of their daughter Catherine, who died at the age of 42, nearly my age now. It being August, the daffodils are not in bloom, but we decide to walk through the cemetery gate and see the inside of the church.

Alone in the cool sanctuary I listen to the slow scrape of a branch against a stained glass window. My daughter signs the visitors’ book as I sit in the first pew, right where Wordsworth himself sat (and allegedly slept) through many services in his later years. Here I feel the connection to William more strongly than ever. On this very bench, might he have prayed for strength? For health? Frail and 70, his planting daffodils seems more effort than my finishing the last three miles of this pilgrimage. This church was not completed until eleven years after Wordsworth moved to Rydal, so until then, he continued to attend regular services in Grasmere by walking the exact path we had just completed, back and forth on a Sunday morning. One of the things you learn when facing cancer is to do nothing half-way. The kids, bless them, say nothing, as we walk right past the bus stop at the bottom of the hill and begin the second half of our journey.

***************

You’ll feel surprisingly good when you come out of surgery. You won’t remember anything, just saying to yourself, “Done.” Gradually you will begin to assess your situation, location, sensations. Before you get too far along, the nurse sees you are awake and comes to your side. “Are you comfortable?” she’ll say. Yes. “Do you know your birthday?” Yes, April 22. She’ll tell you everything went fine and will leave to get your wife. Your wife will look more beautiful than ever before.

Try to enjoy this moment of self-congratulation. You survived major surgery, feel pretty good, and with any luck, are now completely free from the tumor and any cancer cells waiting in the minefields of your chest. The way you feel at that moment will be the best you feel for days, anesthesia still in force, relieved, grateful. The months ahead will hold rehabilitation, discomfort, drug addiction, depression, anxiety, hate, pain, guilt. This will be tempered by the support of friends you have never met, the prayers and offerings of dear ones, and the joy of seeing your children waiting on the porch as you pull up the drive, their tears finally flowing. You realize that when you last left them, they were not sure they would see you alive again. It amazes you that, somehow, you never saw them cry.

***************

The walk on the west side of the valley is every bit as beautiful as the east, but instead of being shaded and cooled by the canopy, it is wide open, the forest having long ago been cleared to make room for pasture land. With no shade and the clouds fleeing, beautiful sunshine warms the earth but continues to increase the humidity. This path’s long, slow climb goes on for ages, and the sign posts and the directions in the brochure do not always agree. Time grows late. We stop for a drink and realize that we have left our last full bottle of water in the tea shop at Rydal. We have just a few ounces left in the bottle in my backpack. Growing weary, there remains much more walking to be done. Tempers, while still good, are fragile. Five hours have passed, and we expected to be finished by now.

After the surgery, days of laying about in the hospital, the return home, and subsequent follow up visits, we had time to celebrate the surgeon’s declaration that all the cancer had been removed. Happy to be finished, and comfortably numb from the Vicodin, the news that I would have another four doses of full-strength chemotherapy, just to kill any rogue cells that might be circulating in my body, did not sit well. Like this walk, I just wanted my illness to be completely over. In hindsight, it seems as if this entire episode of my life-this battle temporarily won, this disease tenuously in remission-is a sign of some kind, sent by something greater than life, with a message equal to the severity of the continuing challenge before me. It is never completely over. We keep walking.

Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ;
Whether her fearless visitings, or those
That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light
Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use
Severer interventions, ministry
More palpable, as best might suit her aim.
  –William Wordsworth, “The Prelude,” Book 1, 351-356.

I suddenly realize we took a wrong turn at the last signpost, and have started to ascend the mountain again. Clearly it will end at the same road, but rather than hugging the shorelines of the lake, our path meanders across slightly wooded pasture. We learned later that the trail had been altered to improve drainage and that new brochures had not yet been printed. I start to get tense. My whole body aches. I long ago stopped hearing William’s encouraging words in my ear. I just want to get to the pub at the end, and from there, return to our rented cottage where there is, of all things, a large Jacuzzi tub.

The brochure said the walk would take about three hours, and now, approaching the seven-hour mark we finally see the village in the distance, almost touchable. I am not thinking about William or about poetry anymore, as up ahead of me I watch my 10-year old daughter set the pace. She has complained a little, but is now excited about the nearing of the village and getting to rejoin her new friends at the cottage. It occurs to me that for each of my steps, she takes two. That’s 30,000 steps over the course of this walk to my 15,000. She has not reached for the Barbie band-aids, nor I for the Vicodin. Discomfort is temporary, and relative. It occurs to me that this is yet another transformational moment in Grasmere, a reminder that there is more to life even than death, if you simply slow down and take the time to see it.

***************

For awhile you will dislike being called a survivor. It seems so trite and almost gloats in the faces of those who were not as fortunate as you. Though it may sound strange, you are not grateful for your second chance at life, delighting only superficially in your past, and dwelling not on your fragile future. You are grateful solely for this very moment, to just exist, right now, because like discomfort, pleasure, too, is temporary and relative.

You will no longer waste a single minute. You will do only what you care most deeply about. You’ll focus your interests and take on less responsibility, not as a sign of surrender, but as a commitment to live life to its fullest, which entails giving it everything you have. You will never do anything halfway.

***************

Leaving the path at last we follow the paved roadway into the village of Grasmere. The narrow road, bordered on both sides by ragged stone walk barely fits two cars passing side by side, so we walk single file, as close to one wall as possible. I lead, my senses on heightened alert for speeding vehicles, the kids follow close behind me, and my wife brings up the rear, keeping us in line. We have come full circle in more ways than one– completing the circuitous path, returning after 20 years to this land of special significance, and coming once again to this plot of Yew Trees, which saved my life literally and figuratively. But at the end of every circle lies its beginning, and I remember that the battle is never really over, but a new one begins. But my soldiers and I, with our poet lieutenant, are ready.

let me tell you somethin

Runnin as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me, and over my shoulder I see Amahl comin up behind me. Ain’t runnin, but walkin real fast so he don’t attract no attention. The street crowded from all the people walkin to Rockefeller Center to see the tree light up, all lookin at me like I some kind of thief or somethin.

Quick turn up Fifth Avenue to Forty-Eighth Street where I cross into the plaza. Jammed with people, but I turn the corner and throw myself into the doorway of some office buildin. The door locked so I just sit there, real quiet, breathin fast, out of sight. Some of the Yuppies stare at me.

glare back at them

Feet screamin, I take my heels off, leave them in the doorway and start windin through the crowd. Think I lost him, but no harm in workin a little deeper into hidin. After a few blocks an alley where no one is hangin, and I squat behind a dumpster to catch my breath.

Amahl used to be my boyfriend, but he been pimpin me for a couple years now. Last week I told him we was through. He went crazy and started chasin after me with this pipe. Savin my ass I lie to him, tell him I just wanna reduce my work load. Believes me for awhile, till he hear I was doin some of the regular johns on the side. Not givin him his cut.

This afternoon, just as I gettin down to business on old Mr. Happy, Amahl jump out from under the bed. Throwin me outta the way, he beat on the john for awhile and start swingin at me with that piece of pipe. Started runnin. Good thing he all strung-out and crack-blind or I’d be a bloody mess by now.

Peek out from behind the dumpster and look down the corner. Don’t see him nowhere, so I rest a few more minutes before sneakin towards Penn Station.

Plan to run to New Jersey like Margerie did. Course, the stupid bitch run out of money and come back to the city soon after. Amahl take her back and let her work for a few weeks or so till he figure she ain’t got it no more. Then he crack her head with that pipe and dump her in the alley near Park-Fast. Dead as a body gonna get.

footsteps

A hand on my shoulder and a piece of metal pipe come hissin at my face. Amahl yellin at me as I lie on the ground, tastin the blood runnin out my nose and into my mouth. He lean over me and crack me in the ribs. Gettin tough to breathe. Can’t scream.

Yo bitch, he yell. Don’t wanna work no more, huh? Thass cool. I fix it.

Grabbin my legs and spreadin them wide, he roll me over the way he like it. Tell myself to breathe. Know I should kick him or roll back, but my brain ain’t movin, legs can’t think. Dress all up over my head and now he standin on my thighs, pinnin skin to the ground, spreadin me apart even wider. A cool draft between my legs. Nostrils flarin, he pull the pipe back like a sledgehammer, aim it at my crotch and

he’s gone

Look up, seein this huge brother poundin Amahl on the head with the pipe. Amahl tryin to get up, screamin innocence, but the brother keep on poundin him. Bam Bam, Amahl bleedin. Falls to the ground like he dead, only I still hear him moanin.

Brother come over to me and roll me on my back. Big man, deep brown eyes, rolls of fat. Huge torn-up hands movin towards my neck.

Legs spread apart, and I can’t fight back, can’t even move. Know what’s comin.

No, I say. Please no. Not now. Later. Please.

Brother lift up my head and cradle it in his arms, wipin the blood off my face.

He say, Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You gonna be fine baby, just fine. You mind if I call you that, he say. Baby?

The little concrete bumps on the sidewalk before I pass out.

______________________________

Thirty-Third Street, just off Seventh Avenue. A sheltered spot between a bakery and a clothes store, and just inside, the stairs lead to the subway. Brother call this place the Cave, and I been here since I got beat up two weeks ago. Some warmth rises up from the subway below, no wind, tan painted concrete walls.

No sign here for the subway, so we’re pretty much left alone-just The Commuters passin by and they don’t care bout you one way or the other. Some-times pick up a little cash from the tourists as they come out of Macy’s, but not from The Commuters though. They don’t give you shit.

The man who save me named Butterball, president of what he call the Thirty-Third Street Club. To sleep here you gotta be a member, and considerin there’s only four of us, Butterball don’t take just anybody. A big man, built all heavy on top with short, barrel-lookin legs. Must weigh near on 300 pounds, but I can’t figure out why. Don’t seem to eat no more than the rest of us.

Butterball’s Basic Rules: do what you can to earn your keep, don’t shoot up or drink too much, don’t do your whorin in the Cave, and keep yourself clean. Butterball say as long as you clean you still got your dignity.

Two other people live in the Cave with us. Plato been around the longest, way back when there was another Butterball to keep everything cool. A skinny white boy with long straggly hair and wire-rimmed glasses like that Beatle guy used to wear. A head case with an education. Story goes, Plato was a Yale philosophy professor in the sixties. Said he got fired for smokin dope with some of his students and then couldn’t get a teachin job anywhere else. I guess it could happen.

Then there’s Mother Theresa. Plato call her that because for every dollar she get, she end up givin away fifty cent to any old fool who ask her for it. Looks about seventy years old, face all crooked and witch-nosed, walkin humped over to one side. Ain’t got a whole lotta teeth left either. Give the bitch a broom.

Ten years ago she and her man come to the city from Puerto Rico for a better life. Bad idea. One year later, he go out to buy beans and never come back. No money, no job and no beans, so out to the street she come. Maybe that’s why she so damn suspicious bout everythin. When I first meet her, she accuse me of bein Buterball’s whore. Told me I just like the one who took her husband away while he was out shoppin for beans.

Worst thing is I gotta stay with her while Butterball out lookin for food and money and such. He say I ain’t strong enough to leave the Cave yet, so I gotta sit here all damn day, listenin to the bitch whine and hack-up snots and lung cookies.

First thing every morning, I make sure I ain’t dead. What I do, is reach out from under the blanket and rub my hands on the concrete bumps of the sidewalk, eyes still shut. When I know I’m alive and breathin, look over and make sure Butterball still there. He never leave till he see I’m awake. Scared that Amahl might come and get me again.

Under the blanket changin my underwear. Last night I wash them in the bathroom of Penn Station just usin hand soap and warm water. Underwear still cold and damp, so I wrap my hands around them to make them warm. Wrap the old ones in a bag so I can wash them tomorrow. Been in the city three years, but never had to sleep on the streets before.

takes some gettin used to

Butterball wakin up now, reaches for the stash which he keep in a bag tied to his waist and strapped to his leg. Stash is all the club’s money and valuables. All he got of mine is a gold bracelet my gramma give me when she die. When he wanted to take it from me, I told him I’d rather starve than sell that bracelet. Says he ain’t gonna sell it, just hold it so no one would mug me for it. Pretty smart, which is why he the Butterball.

______________________________

One morning Butterball wake me up real early, long before the sun even up. Takin me for a walk to show me my new neighborhood.

You well enough to get around now, he say, and I don’t think Amahl comin back for awhile.

Steps of Madison Square Garden, sittin there watchin traffic, no words. Butterball next to me, lookin like he waitin for somethin.

So, he say, what you doin in the city?

I say, Is that your business?

It is if you wanna stay in the club, sorta like checkin your references. You been here for two weeks and I still don’t know your real name.

I truly don’t remember, I say.

Fine, he say, tell me what you want, but tell me somethin.

tell him

I’m from Hogback Mountain, South Carolina. Fifteen years old, drop out of school cause I get pregnant and can’t afford no abortion. Daddy kick me out of the house, but it didn’t bug me because I wanted to be with the baby’s father and live happy ever after, you know? So I move in with Old Man and have the baby, and it ain’t long till he start drinkin all day and beatin on me till I can’t stand it no more.

One day I come home from the store. Open the door, bed squeakin and yes yes yes, Old Man doin his thing on the woman from downstairs. The baby cryin and screamin in the other room, and Old Man just tell me to get out, like I had no business even bein there. I leave, try to talk to my mama, to tell her what goin on, but she say Daddy don’t want me around no more. Mama say she come check on the baby tomorrow.

Next day Old Man go out to buy his bottle in the morning, so I sneak back in his house and gather up everythin worth stealin. Take the bus to Columbia, sell the Old Man’s stuff and use the money to get to New York.

Soon I run out of money, but Amahl take me in and give me all the booze and dope I want. Next thing I know, I’m suckin down salesmen so we can pay the rent.

Butterball say, Wait. What about your baby? You just left him there?

Yup, I say. Didn’t know what else to do. Thought maybe without me, Daddy would take the baby in, give him a better life. I know Mama took him straight away from Old Man, brought him home. Strange, but sometimes I can feel him and I know he alright. Someday I see him again. If mama still alive, I’ll find him.

______________________________

Snowin out, sittin in the Cave talkin to this street shrink named Dave. He and Butterball know each other from way back. Can’t see how they’d get along. Dave’s a musician, ain’t got no real job. Velvet beard and beautiful long, blonde hair. Volunteers for some Help the Homeless crusade.

When Butterball introduce us, Dave hand me a card with his address and phone number on it, says to call him if there’s trouble or if I need help.

And Baby, he say, give my number to anyone who needs to reach you. I’ll pass messages along without tellin where you are or what you’re doin.

Later on I ask Butterball why he like Dave so much.

He say, Dave ain’t the normal street shrink. He ain’t never tried to force us to no shelter, never pushed religion or rehab. He knows we all got our reasons for being here, knows there’s more to everybody’s story than what we let on. Mostly, you can trust him, and Baby, there ain’t much out here you can trust.

______________________________

Sunny mornin. Butterball takin me to the Battery to teach me the right way to work. Tell him I survive for three years, but he say whorin don’t count. Says I need clean work, too much shit goin around for whorin.

The park. Sittin on a bench, watch him take off his shirt and shoes and toss the woolen hat. Six-inch scar on his forehead, calls it his street life merit badge.

In his hand a piece of cardboard say: I’m homeless and I don’t drink. He take it over to the sidewalk and sit there with the sign in front of him, singin to himself and rockin back and forth like Buddah or Stevie Wonder. Folks pass by and everyone look at him, read his little sign. But nobody give him nothin. After awhile he come back to where I’m sittin.

You see, he say, this ain’t workin. Trick is, you gotta be current.

Reaches into his bag. Pulls out an old red suit and the black rubber boots the sewer guys wear. Jacket got cotton balls glued to the buttons and all around the hem. Pulls out a white beard, hat, silver bell and a little black pail.

I say, Where you find all this shit?

He say, When you been on the street as long as I have you know where to find anythin. Now shut up and watch.

Back to his spot, ringin his bell and singin Christmas songs loud as he can. Singin and singin about bells and snow and Jesus, and pretty soon people start to notice. Tourists eatin him up cause he’s probably the only black Santa they ever seen. They all want pictures with him and bring their kids over to shake his hand. Meanwhile, they throwin all this damn money in the box.

After awhile he come back, take the suit off and stuff it in the bag. Countin the money, and there maybe thirty dollar there.

That’s pretty good, I say, but you oughta work near Macy’s or somethin where there’s more people.

He say, Now see, that’s why you ain’t the Butterball. Think about it. Them midtown Salvation people got good costumes. Folks walk by, and who you think they gonna give the money to? The white fella with the real costume, or the old black bum who made his outfit from stuff he find in the garbage. Better to work down here where there ain’t so much competition.

Girl, he say, you gotta get some business sense if you gonna survive on the street.

______________________________

Cold day. Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and reach over to wake Butterball, but he ain’t there. Never wake up before and not see him there. He don’t like to leave me alone.

Everyone else still sleepin. Realize the sun just comin up, so I bundle my stuff, walk out of the Cave to Seventh Avenue and look downtown. Silent city, and I remember that it’s Christmas and all the regulars are inside with their families. Remember home, eatin till we couldn’t walk, gifts under the tree spillin out into the middle of the room. Thinkin about my son, hopin he enjoyin his day, wherever he is. Wonder what he’s doin.

don’t think about it, hurts

Down Seventh Avenue to pick up some coffee, and gettin to Twenty-Eighth Street, make a left and walk over to Fifth Avenue. Big stone church there where I like to sit, and when the church comes into my sight, think I see Butterball standin on the steps. In a suit and tie.

He don’t see me, so I walk a little closer to make sure my eyes ain’t pullin any funny shit. Believe it’s Butterball alright. Still ain’t shaved, but his hair all neat and slicked back. Decide to just sit and watch him.

Half an hour he just standin there, playin with the knot in his tie and lookin around all suspicious. Expensive cars pullin up, and one by one he open the car doors and escort the ladies up the steps. Beamin from ear to ear, wavin his arms like a traffic cop, directin drivers where to park. Everyone make it a point to shake his hand and talk to him. When the bells ring, Butterball look around one last time, go inside and shut the door.

I guess he got some scam goin on, but I never seen a suit in his bag of tricks. Nice fuckin suit too. The kind The Commuters wear when they got a deal goin on.

A little pissed off because I thought maybe we could go out scroungin for cash to buy ourselves a little Christmas feast, hit up the churches as the people leave. Hell with him so I go back to the cave. In about an hour he come around the corner whistlin “Hark the Herald Angles Sing” and walkin with a bounce in his step. No suit on. Hair all mussed up again.

I say, So where your suit?

What suit? he say.

The suit that you wore to that rich white man’s church. You know, I probably did the lollipop with half the men in there.

He say, What you doin leavin the Cave without me?

I was lookin for you while you in there lookin for God.

I was busy.

Shit, you oughta be busy findin food instead of findin the baby Jesus.

Listen, he say, why I gotta explain myself to you? I been goin there for twelve years now, and I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody. Why you?

waits for a minute, thinkin it over

He say, My first Christmas on the street I decide to sleep on the church steps, to keep outta the wind. Early next morning, this old man pats me on the back, askin me if I wanna clean up and eat a little somethin. I’m hungry, cold and broke, so I goes along. I don’t care what I have to do.

He unlock the door and take me inside the church. We go upstairs to this little bathroom where he leave me alone to wash up. When I finish, the old man come back with coffee and breakfast and that nice blue suit. He say all I gotta do is open car doors for people and escort them up the steps.

So every year since, every Christmas and Easter for twelve years I been goin there. Folks expect to see me, and every year I get cleaned up and my blue suit is hangin on the rack waitin. And I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody.

I say, So now your belly’s full, you done your good deed and it’s too late for the rest of us. All the churches empty, and we gonna eat the same old shit today. I just wanted today to be special, you know, Christmas and all.

He say, Don’t you worry, we gonna eat alright. The preacher give me fifty dollars from the collection plate, five dollars more than last year. We eat alright every other year, and I never had to explain it to nobody.

Later, Butterball come back to the Cave with a box full of food. Hot turkey sandwiches and french fries and some little apple pies, all fresh from the Korean deli. Plato and Mother Theresa ask him where he get the money for this every year, and he says it none of their business, says they should thank God for it directly. Butterball truly believe God gave it to him.

______________________________

Times Square this mornin, ball hangin up on the wire waitin to drop. Theresa say it do more good if it come crashin to the ground, knocking out a whole bunch of Commuters and such.

Butterball makin plans for us to work the streets tonight. He pick up a hundred bucks last year, so this year we all gonna do it. Good night to work because people come into the city just to wander around, the city bulgin up like it gonna explode. Everybody get real happy with all the drinkin goin on, and when folks get happy they start givin out money.

Every now and then somebody give you a bottle too. Butterball say we can drink one bottle we get, but not till after we done workin. Supposed to bring the others back to the Cave. Butterball know a store that will buy them all back.

Walkin back from Times Square, and when Theresa and Plato walk off in the other direction, Butterball pull me into this phone booth. Standin there, lookin at me with this stupid grin on his fat little face.

What we doin? I ask.

Gonna give you a little treat, he say.

What kinda treat?

Call your mama, he say.

I can’t, I say. Too expensive.

He give me a quarter and say, I’m the Butterball, and I say it ain’t too expensive. Dial the number.

Pick up the receiver and put the quarter in the slot, thinkin real hard about the number I have in my head, hopin that it right. Forgot alot of stuff since I been in the city.

Stupid recordin tells me to please deposit three dollar and fifty-five cent for the first three minutes. Hangin it up when Butterball grab the receiver and ask me how much.

I say, It three fifty-five! Shit, we can eat for two days on three fifty-five.

True, he say, but I’ll feel better if you make the call, so here the money.

I put the money in. Long silence till another recordin tell me that the number is disconnected. Butterball hear it and tell me to try again. I try it, get the same message. Butterball look away from me and I take the money and try it again.

and I try it again after that

I call the information in South Carolina and give my mama’s name. Operator say that number’s unlisted.

Screamin into the phone, But operator, this is an emergency!

Sorry, she say.

Try the old number again, tears wellin up in my eyes and hands shakin so as I can’t push the right buttons. Butterball stop me and hang up the phone.

You bastard, I say. Why you make me do this? Why the hell didn’t you just leave it alone?

He say, I’m sorry, Baby. Truly, truly sorry.

It too late for that now. It too late for everything, I say.

start to cry

Butterball take me in his arms and hold me there. It feel good when he hold me. Butterball say, It ain’t too late for everything. You got me now, Baby. I belongs to you now.

______________________________

Afternoon. People start pourin out of Penn Station. A parade of tuxedos and gowns, jeans and sweatshirts, heavy coats-all rushin uptown, eyes big and expecting. Butterball send Plato and Mother Theresa to their spots where they supposed to stay till three in the mornin. He tell Theresa she better not give no money away.

When they gone, Butterball say, Come with me, Baby. Got somethin to show ya.

Bringin me way downtown, keep askin him where we goin but he don’t say nothin, not even shut-up

An old squatters buildin. Butterball lookin both ways before liftin me through a busted window, crawlin through this mess of glass and shit. Inside, he take out some matches and light a candle. Far corner of the room, a little broken table and two chairs ready. Old mattress under newspapers and rat turds. Walkin closer, champagne on the table. Nothin too fancy I reckon, but champagne all the same.

Butterball say, Hope you don’t mind. I thought it might be nice to celebrate before we get to workin.

Think maybe he tryin to get in my pants or somethin. We never touch each other, though there been sometimes I want to. Don’t imagine he want anythin that been where I been. I owes him though, so I figure to shut my mouth and take what he decide to give me.

Chair pulled out, I sit down. Bottle ain’t even got a cork in it, so he twist off the top and pour into paper cups from Dunkin Donuts. Lookin at me pretty weird though, so I ask him, What’s wrong?

Nothin, he say. Just thinkin about home is all.

Now I been thinkin about it too, ever since this mornin’s phone call. Afraid to tell anybody, don’t want them to think they ain’t appreciated.

Butterball say, You know, it always this time of year that you start thinkin about home, wonderin bout what coulda been and tryin to forget what is. I wonder bout my mama all the time. Shit, she may not even be alive.

I say, Well, why don’t you call her? You seem to have enough money for this bottle of wine, you seem to have enough money to throw away on my life. Seems like you oughta have enough money to call your own mama.

He say, Course I do.

I say, So what’s the problem? You scared? Scared of your own mama?

He say, What if I am? Why shouldn’t I be? She’ll just hang up on me and make all the hurt come back. She don’t like me much now, don’t even care. Besides, she got Dave’s number. She know how to get hold of me if she want me. Course, she can’t call me if she dead.

Decide to let it rest for now. I get him to call her though. Soon.

Drinkin champagne, he talkin away bout growin up and playin around his mama’s general store. Like a little kid when he gets goin, talkin and grinnin and laughin at each little memory, face all lit up.

Sometimes I miss it, he say and he look right through my eyes and into my head. Starin at each other, not sayin nothin, not doin nothin. Just lookin into each other’s eyes for what seem like minutes, hours. Finally he move his head just a little bit to the right, and I take it to mean that he want me.

Move towards him, shut my eyes and give him what he want.

______________________________

Sky gettin lighter, crowds thinnin. Leave my spot at Penn Station eighty dollars richer and walk past the Cave where Plato and Mother Theresa are sleepin like children who been up too late. Sprawled everywhere, feet stickin out from blankets, arms overhead. Butterball ain’t back yet so I walk up Thirty-Third Street to see if the New Year has changed anythin.

All the way to the East River. Helicopters takin off, carryin the rich old men back home, mistresses arm-in-arm. Sun comin up as I watch the waves ripple against the pier. Wonder to myself if yesterday’s thing with Butterball was a one-timer or if there’s something more comin. Decide not to think about it too much, just let life lead me on. For now I got a nice place to sleep and people who care about me. Seems like enough. Layin down on a bench, fall asleep to helicopters whirlin, people laughin, waves splashin Happy New Year.

Later on when I walk in the Cave, Mother Theresa jump up at me with those wild eyes of hers, lookin like she ready to blame me for all the world’s problems.

Theresa say, Where Butterball at?

I say, I don’t know. He was workin near Times Square last thing I know.

Well, then we got a problem cause it almost sundown and he ain’t back yet.

Maybe he fell asleep someplace, I say.

Baby, it ain’t like that. That bastard took off with all the money he made, I can feel it. He did have the best spot, know what I’m sayin.

Hush up, girl. He ain’t never done nothin like that has he?

No, she say, lookin at the ground like a child that been yelled at. I guess I just worried, she say. He oughta be back by now.

Triggers a memory: stories bout gangs of kids waitin for street people to pass out and then bustin them up for a couple of dollars. Wonderin if Amahl find him.

hear that pipe hissin like a snake

Well, I say, What you wanna do? Wanna start lookin for him?

No, guess not. If he don’t come home, we go lookin tomorrow. He probably just with some woman, she say.

He ain’t with no woman, I whisper when she start walkin down into the subway. Stomach start turnin, go out to look for him.

______________________________

Ten days now and still no sign of Butterball. Every day we split up and walk around, checkin with Butterball’s friends and lookin in all the usual spots.

Temperature droppin quick since sun went down. Walkin home cross Thirty-Third Street, wind whippin off the river almost blows me off my feet. Pretend that if I just let myself go, the wind will blow me right to Butterball, all bundled up in someone’s doorway, waitin for me, singin Auld Lang Syne.

Now Theresa insist he gone for good, but I don’t believe it yet. Can’t believe it yet. Don’t wanna believe that I been tricked, that he’d run off with the stash, rippin off three people’s lives. Theresa never believe her man would do it either, but he did. Got no beans.

Back in the Cave, Theresa and Plato huddled under a stained blanket we stole from the laundry of the Penta Hotel. Theresa sleepin, and Plato sittin there singin to himself. He done askin me if I found Butterball. Knows just by lookin at me.

Plato stop singin. Sorry ass look on his face.

I say, Just shut up. I ain’t quittin yet.

He say, Come under the blanket, Baby. Gotta warm Theresa up. She ain’t so good tonight.

What wrong with her?

Mostly she’s old and tired, but right now she’s delirious and runnin a fever and talkin about dyin.

I climb in on the other side of Theresa. Sure look ugly, drool drippin down her mouth, freezin to the blanket under her chin. Soon they both snorin.

Lookin out at the snow, cause for me, it too damn cold to sleep.

______________________________

Feelin the concrete bumps this mornin, my hand touch someone’s head. Thinkin it might be Butterball, eyes pop open, disappointed. A new person sleepin next to me I never seen before. Wrong kind to have around, needle tracks up and down his arms and neck. Butterball would wake this dude up and beat the hell out of him. Ain’t worried about him stealin nothin though. Nothin left to steal.

Walk over and wake up Plato. Sees the dude sleepin there, and points me outside. Mother Theresa sittin on the curb drinkin someone’s left over Coke she found lyin in the gutter.

Theresa point towards the Cave and say, What you think about that? Butterball only been gone three weeks and we got roaches already.

Plato say, Maybe it’s time I found us a new Butterball. The old one’s gone for sure. Maybe Amahl caught up with him and left him dead on the street somewhere.

I say, He ain’t dead. He comin back soon. I know it.

Theresa say, Look Baby, you better face it now girl. He been gone far too long. We looked everywhere. He ain’t comin back.

Theresa, I say, you don’t know that. You don’t know nothin.

______________________________

Dave came round tonight because Plato tell him I’m losin my mind over Butterball bein gone. Plato say Dave a good man to talk to, so I listen.

Standin outside the Cave and Dave say, I hear you’re feelin pretty bad, huh? Butterball really liked you.

I say, I know. I had men leave me before, but they always say goodbye. I just wish he said goodbye. I ain’t used to street life. Don’t know if I can make it without Butterball showin me how.

Let’s take a walk, he say.

Down Thirty-Third Street to Fifth Avenue and over to the church steps. For awhile just sittin. Watchin traffic and listenin to the conversations people have as they walk by.

Dave look at me kind of funny and say, Baby, I know where Butterball is.

What? I yell, jumpin up, screamin. Where the hell he at?

Shhh, now hold on, Dave say, you gotta keep quiet about this.

Where the hell he at? I yell again. Tell me fore I bust you up.

Just listen, he say. Early in the mornin on New Year’s Eve, I got a call tellin me that Butterball’s mother is dyin of cancer. Evidently she didn’t have long to live and wanted to clear things up with Butterball before she died. I gave Butterball the message and he left a couple hours before the ball dropped.

Dave still talkin, but I’m thinkin that Butterball knowd all this when I let him have me in that old buildin. Screw me and leave me was the plan, I reckon.

I shout, So why didn’t he say somethin to me?

Dave say, This was somethin he had to do himself. He said you’d understand, said it was you who told him there was nothin to be afraid of.

starin across the street, our reflection in the store windows

I say, So why tell me at all?

Dave say, They buried his mother yesterday. Good news is, she owned a small general store up in New Hampshire and now it all belongs to Butterball. He called me this morning, he wants to come and get you, to bring you up there and help him run it. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. He said he’d understand.

Standin up, walkin around a bit, tryin to take it all in. Feels great that Butterball thinkin bout me, but I feel bad for the others.

Baby, says Dave, I know it’s a big decision, Think about it, OK? But don’t tell the others. I’ll do it when the time is right.

Dave, I say, Why is this happenin to me?

______________________________

Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and hop out of my blanket pretty quick, surprised how warm it is for a January mornin. Just excitement.

Theresa still sleepin, but Plato standin outside smokin some weed he found. Asks me what I’m doin, and I tell him I’m goin for a walk.

He say, I’m bringin a new Butterball around to meet you this afternoon. Just make sure you stop by.

I’ll try to remember, I say.

He say, Baby, I’m sorry. I know you liked Butterball, but we gotta get on with our lives. We have to accept that he’s gone.

I say, A person’s gotta do what he gotta do.

Crossin the street, walk inside Penn Station to the subway platform where Dave is waitin. Take the A-train to Canal Street where we get off and walk up West Broadway. At the Good Food Deli, Dave lead me up a stairway and into his apartment. Inside, all these instruments and microphones and stuff. Posters of Elvis.

Dave hand me a towel and say, Ready for a shower?

Hot water pours over me, black city tar rollin off my body and down the drain. Hear Dave playin this sad soundin song on the guitar and hummin to himself. Step out of the bathroom in my towel and ask where my clothes are.

Handin me this Macy’s bag. Dave say, Here, Butterball sent me some money to buy this stuff for you. He wants you to look nice when he sees you.

Open the bag. Sunshine. Bright yellow dress, new underwear, stockins and a pair of lemon yellow shoes. Go over and give Dave a hug. Good taste, I say. These are beautiful. Thank you.

After I get dressed Dave give me some of his girlfriend’s make-up to put on. Lookin in the mirror, scared of the woman I see starin back at me, the one who look like my Mama. Ain’t seen myself in awhile. Surprised. Still a woman after all.

Arm-in-arm we walk out to catch the subway.

______________________________

The bus terminal. Walk up one flight of stairs to the main level and into a little coffee shop. Dave say, Butterball is gonna stay out of sight because Plato likes to work the buses. Here’s your ticket, he’ll be waitin at the gate.

Dave come to me and wrap his arms around me. Looks uncomfortable.

He say, You keep in touch, OK? I wanna know how the two of you are doin.

scared

Inside my sunshine dress I’m burstin, explodin with guilt and sadness. Finally I say what’s on my mind.

I say, Dave, what about Theresa and Plato? Who gonna take care of them?

Dave laugh. Don’t worry about that, he say. They were here before you, and they’ll be here long after you’re gone. They love that life, it’s total freedom.

Pissed off at him. No, I say, that ain’t how it is.

No, say Dave, that ain’t how it is with you, and so you’re moving on. They’ve had their chances and decided to stay where they are. So let them live their lives and go live yours, OK? Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them. That’s what I’m here for.

He reach over, wipe a tear from my cheek.

Take care, Baby. Smile, he say, and he walk off into the crowd, hands in pockets, not lookin back.

______________________________

time to go

Start to move, just like I practiced it. Walk quick, almost runnin, but still touchin heel and toe to the ground. Eyes don’t shift, starin at the floor and lookin up only to get a sense of direction.

The ticket booths. Two little girls come at me and ask me for money. Just look past them with that hard Commuter stare and keep goin. Seen it so many times I got real good at it, chin up, eyes locked straight ahead. Glance at the TV to see what gate the bus is on. Walk quickly to the escalators, tryin to blend in with all The Commuters who rush there with me. Lookin at my watch. Forgot I don’t have one.

Upstairs. Turn the corner that lead down the hall to the gates, and there sits Plato, cross-legged on the floor with his little cardboard sign, coffee cup for collectin change.

Rush to the other side and blend into a small crowd of people. Plato look over, feel his eyes on my legs. Wanna look at him, to let him know I’m sorry, but I know I can’t meet his eyes. If he know it’s me, he don’t say nothin and I keep goin.

Gate 14. The bus with the Boston sign on it, and as I’m about to get on, see Butterball smokin a cigarette waitin for me. Dressed all nice in a new black suit and a bright white shirt. Holdin his arms open as I run towards him, as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me.

Baby, he say, you lookin fine. Where you get all the fancy threads? Shit, and make-up too!

I say, Dave bought them with the money you sent.

I didn’t send him no money. I just called him to give you a message.

Butterball stops for a second. Cracks a little smile and says, Oh my, that boy better be careful. The city eat up the nice ones and spit them out.

On the bus. Butterball tellin me bout all the things he done since he been gone, talkin like a child that had too much sugar before bedtime. Says he been fixin up the house for me and buyin new things for the store.

He say, We gonna have a great time, I know it. And Baby, he say, grabbin my hands and lookin into my head, I’m glad you come along.

I smile. A few more hours of listenin to him ramble on, talks me right to sleep, cradlin me in his arms.

______________________________

Reach for the bumps on the sidewalk and feel the plastic armrest instead. Somewhere in Massachusetts, thinkin bout the others as the bus floats across the snowy hills and valleys, drivin me through postcards I’d never thought I’d see. Plato and Theresa. Never even said goodbye to them, know that right now they’re combin through every rotten street and subway station in the city, freezin their asses off lookin for me. Feel awful about this, so I ask Butterball what he think.

Dave will take care of them, he say. They survived before me, and they’ll survive after me. They’ll live forever, don’t you worry bout that.

Feel a little better, but I can’t help but wonder. It’ll be ten years from now and I’ll still wonder.

______________________________

New Hampshire, three weeks. Looks like business is just enough to keep us warm and fed. Whatever money Butterball’s mama left him is dwindlin, but the house and business are paid for and that’s enough. We’re still better off.

Butterball gave me grandma’s bracelet back, and I wear it all the time. Two weeks ago we sent Dave a letter and included the stash for Mother Theresa, Plato and the new Butterball. Stuffed an extra hundred dollars into it. Lord knows we could use it, but they’ll do more with it than we will.

Sent a few letters to South Carolina but never hear nothin back. Tryin to save enough money to go there, to find my mama and my little boy. Mama may not want much to do with me, and it’s fine if she don’t, but one day I hope I can take my boy back. Every night I dream of bringin him up here to live with us, but that’s just a dream. For now, I just need to know he’s alright. Need to know he’s growin up OK.

Local folks are pretty good people. They know us as Mr. and Mrs. Dexter Robinson. Can you believe that’s his real name? Dexter?

We’ve made some friends here too, but haven’t said anythin about our past. They all laugh when he calls me Baby or I call him Butterball. They think it’s cute, but we know it’s much more than that.

          And hairnet says, Boy
I been workin here since 62, seen em all too,
the Duke and the stoned smiles of Miles
and Coltrane, Rollins and Mingus ah um,
even that phallus Marsalis,
takin jazz on his back like Atlas and shit.
Been fixin their drinks and lightin their smokes,
rollin em too, when that was the fashion, and taking the cash in
but boy I aint never seen someone so young and
so white late at night
riskin his dick for this two-bit quartet shit
Splain it to me Gilligan…

       And I say, Mam,
maybe the lights too bright, your hairnet too tight, right?
but white aint no color and jazz
is a state of mind.
See I come for the drums hon, to hear how they steer it,
to savor the swish of the cymbals, the crack of the snare there
as it sets up the sax growl and the horn’s howl, grrrrrrrrrr bop!
and shit,
if that don’t make me forgit
the color of the skin I’m in,
or yours for that matter,
and focus instead on the sounds in my head,
red, like your lipstick, lover,
or yellow, like the hat on that cat over there,
but never black or white,
not even grey, because hey,
for jazz to survive until 2005,
we got to love all hues,
and the only color jazz knows
          is the blues.

The great divide: creative writing pedagogy now

The numbers certainly are impressive. Hundreds of graduate programs in creative writing in the United States are graduating thousands of students each year, credentialing each as a certified producer of literature for an audience that, depending on who you ask, is either blossoming or moribund.  To receive this certification, students are investing one to three years of their lives and forking over anywhere from $15,000 to $50,000 for an experience that promises nothing in the way of employment, fame, or financial remuneration. Other terminal, professional degrees like the MBA, MSW or MAT, promise a quick and nearly certain return on investment, while the MFA is, for most writers, an experience one pays for, rather than an investment one makes. Despite the slim odds of obtaining a teaching position, and the even slimmer odds of publication, for the thousands of graduate students who enter such programs each year, it doesn’t seem to matter.

Such rapid and consistent growth has posed interesting challenges to creative writing programs, which must now come to terms with their storied histories, challenges to their identity, and the skepticism that comes from the publishing industry, university English departments, and even from one’s parents and friends. Nearly one hundred years after the birth of the workshop, the old question of, “Can you really teach creative writing?” is apparently still unanswered to the satisfaction of many.

And if criticism from outside isn’t enough, there are skirmishes brewing within the creative writing empire as well. Differences in pedagogy, focus, and structure abound, and while change is generally a good thing, it must appear to recent alumni of MFA programs that their elite degree is close to becoming as worthless as the paper it is printed on. Witness the current bar-raising by university English departments, who, after having accepted thousands of dollars from MFA students for a “terminal” degree, are now offering PhD programs in the field that will render the MFA useful for writers but useless for teaching. This wouldn’t be too bad were it not that teaching, which has for so long become a means of economic support to supplement the meager income most writers receive from their creative pursuits, is what enables many writers to keep writing in the first place.

There is a great divide in creative writing. Creative writing programs were born in a time when writers were looking for a fast track to publication, the workshop model serving as a proving ground where only the strong survived. The continued existence of this model, despite the cultural and pedagogical changes of the last fifty years, still echoes the harsh realities of publishing, where far more submissions are received than can be printed, and only the “strong” make it to print. But this model that was once based firmly in “tough love” has softened as the interest in creative writing programs has broadened and its participants come to it with vastly different goals and expectations. Some might say that the increase in programs has created a shallow talent pool, where students receive only feel-good feedback about their work that does nothing to improve its quality. Others would counter that quality is completely relative and thus should not be measured as a goal.

This great divide, rooted in history and widened by growth, is creating an identity crisis in the profession that leaves prospective teachers to wonder who they are teaching and why. Are these programs designed to turn out highly polished writers capable of producing literature that will stand, if not the test of time, then at least rise above the slush pile; or, are they designed to help individuals connect with their inner self, to foster a nurturing environment where each writer can find his own voice regardless of whether or not it will be of interest to an audience? Are these programs designed to produce writers who are capable of writing and also of teaching others how to write; or, are graduates being thrown into the classroom solely to meet burgeoning undergraduate demand, with no understanding of pedagogy or training in how to best teach the trade they have learned? Are these programs rooted in a mentor/apprentice relationship where students will learn from and model themselves on successful writers; or, are the teachers mainly shepherds who gather their flocks lovingly and move them along to the next pasture? One thing I have learned is that there are no real answers, only very provoking questions that we each need to confront in order to build an effective pedagogical practice. And if you’re wondering if all this negativity has snuffed out my desire to spend fifteen months and $13,770 to pursue this same worthless piece of paper, the answer is no. It has stoked it.

In addressing these issues, it is vital that we consider who is asking the questions; before a highly individual educational philosophy can be reached, it is important to determine the audiences for whom we are reaching it and the expectations embedded in their desire to practice creative writing. At the risk of oversimplifying, I think audiences for creative writing instruction can be divided into three groups: the public at-large (not seeking academic credit), undergraduate students (including those majoring in English or creative writing), and professional and graduate students. Each brings to the discussion a unique set of needs and expectations, and while there is much overlap, I think the desires and expectations within each group are sufficiently similar. Furthermore, I believe that within each audience are individuals who have no higher goals for their writing than to produce work solely for themselves. While their desires are certainly legitimate, and while they can certainly learn from whatever instruction and feedback they receive, I’m not sure it is the place of a writing pedagogy to address these intrapersonal pursuits. Writing is certainly good therapy, I use it myself, but if therapy is the only aim, then a pedagogy addressing that is best left to art therapists and others who can contribute a psychological point of view. For my purposes, I am designing a pedagogy that is tailored to those who wish to improve their writing with the aim of sharing it with others, whether via national publication, blog, or family scrapbook.

These days, writers who seek instruction or feedback with no ties to academe have plenty of opportunities. From non-credit, online workshops with facilitation to virtual writing communities, the avenues for writers to pursue have expanded hand-in-hand with the explosion in computer technology and the Internet. While some of these writers might be seeking basic instruction, I feel more of them are seeking audiences for their work in the form of peer feedback, which they are as willing to provide as they are to receive. Thus, their expectations tend to be for “down and dirty” criticism, using the workshop more as a test audience than a learning classroom.

The needs and expectation of undergraduates run across boundaries, from the engineering student who enjoys writing poetry to the creative writing major who has known they wanted to be a writer since elementary school. In this context it is important to have a program that clearly identifies the goals for each course along the way, perhaps even going so far as to create different sections of the same course for students with different expectations. The generalist should have a welcoming environment where they can learn and develop their work in a safe haven, free from the kind of hyper aggressive feedback that might develop, say, in a class of creative writing majors. This segregation would largely be determined by the school and the scope of the program. Creative writing majors, many of whom will likely be headed for an MFA program, need a pedagogy that addresses their needs with more complexity and exposes them to the very difficult and competitive environments that might exist in MFA programs, along with helping them to determine which kind of MFA program might be right for them.

Professionals and graduate students I have lumped together, despite what I feel to be slightly different expectations. I define professional students as those who are already writers (perhaps journalists, copywriters, or technical editors) who want to begin or develop a creative writing practice as a way to balance their other writing obligations. Also included in this group are writers who have no desire to teach at all, but who want the rigor of an studio-based, academic program to help build their portfolio of work and lead them further along the path to publication. This group is likely seeking a more skilled and demanding audience than they would find outside the classroom, and will certainly be looking for the benefits of having a big name program exposing them to big name teachers, visiting writers, and agents and editors.

I tend to define graduate students as seeking a teaching credential first and publication second. Some may have entered the MFA program because, while they love to write, they know first and foremost that teaching writing is a slightly more attainable goal, although with record numbers of students receiving the MFA each year, that is certainly changing. As a side note for the teaching part of this audience, a well-developed course in pedagogy is urgently needed, and currently lacking, in many programs, especially given that many of them will teach undergraduates as part of their MFA financial package. As Kelly Ritter notes in her study of teacher training, even in creative writing PhD programs, where the emphasis on teaching should be even more pronounced, only 4 of 25 institutions require a course in pedagogy or teaching of creative writing specifically, while 23 of 25 require courses in the teaching of composition (218). This clearly demonstrates that the department administration believes that learning how to teach composition is similar to teaching creative writing, which, in my view, is completely misguided.

Even within these three audiences, we have not accounted for variations in talent, the level of education in reading and writing that students bring to the program, and a host of other concerns that teachers need to consider as they develop appropriate pedagogies. In a field with audiences as diverse as these-and I struggle to find any academic field that competes with this level of diversity-developing a single, fixed pedagogy is impossible and irresponsible. Instead, I believe we should develop a core set of beliefs that are flexible enough to balance these competing and complimentary audiences and expectations.

Balancing the great divide: the Ten Commandments of teaching creative writing

So how are we to develop a pedagogy that satisfies our own sense of what is needed, as well as the expectations placed on us by so many different factors, such as the challenges of history and theory, and the diversity of audiences and expectations? I believe the answers lie in balance and flexibility. In my life, a strong sense of balance has been central to my personal development and professional growth. I have come to find that both intellectually and spiritually, taking the middle path and practicing moderation whenever possible are central to my success and survival. So it stands to reason that the most important concept in the development of my personal creative writing pedagogy is this notion of balance. Between theory and practice, between writing for self and writing for others, between vision and revision, between planning and improvisation, between freedom and restraint, between absolutes and relatives, between craft and criticism, between art and life, between leading and guiding, between pragmatism and dream, all must be taught and explored in a manner jointly determined by the goals of the group and the goals of the program. But with changing paradigms in the field, and such a diversity of audiences and expectations, flexibility in one’s beliefs is just as important. So while the original Ten Commandments were cast in stone, I prefer to etch these in sand, a nod towards impermanence and constant change.

I.            Thou shall teach both theory and practice

I find it impossible to fathom that writer and longtime teacher Madison Smartt Bell once said, “…for writers to get more involved with theoretical criticism [is] wrong” (Neubauer 11). The workshop, and creative writing programs in general, function as a sort of testing ground for new works, which by definition, means evaluating and critically examining those works along the line of the author’s intent. And while I realize that today’s contemporary critical theory as practiced by the rest of the English department is concerned with just the opposite-divorcing reading from writing altogether-there are certainly ways to meld it into our workshops, and we have a responsibility to do so.

At first glance, it may seem that teaching contemporary literary theory is completely incongruous with teaching creative writing, but as Jay Parini suggests, there are plenty of opportunities to use theory to open up new avenues and develop new voices, especially through the study of rhetoric, where “literary theory and creative writing should and can meet [to gain] knowledge of the most productive ways of ‘making’ language, of creating meaning and eliciting responses within the bounds of predictability” (130). In addition to the study of rhetoric, where writers and critics may have the most to gain from each other, I have personally found studies in poetics, prosody, linguistics, structuralism, post-structuralist narratology, and reader-response theory to be extremely interesting and useful in my work as a writer.

But beyond the usefulness of theory as applied to generating or evaluating work, we should teach our students theory simply on the grounds that if they ever expect to work in higher education, they will come face-to-face with it. In some cases, they will have to defend themselves from it, in others they may actually find themselves teaching it. Theory is an important component in discussing literature today, and it would be negligent of us to send prospective teachers into the classroom without an understanding of both sides of the theory debate. In fact, for English majors headed towards advanced study in literature, as opposed to creative writing, creative writing instructors may provide the only exposure to theory from a writer’s perspective that they ever encounter.

II.            Thou shall teach students to neither mistake, nor suppress, themselves for their audience

George Garrett, writer and esteemed teacher both at Hollins College and at the University of Virginia, believes “it’s not necessarily the chief purpose and function of a writing course to produce writers. [The goal] is to satisfy a need felt by these people” (Neubauer 114). While the marketing professional in me would agree, the writer in me would counter that at some point, the writer needs to sail on or jump ship, especially within the confines of a workshop or program in an academic setting.

In order not to silence the creative space in the classroom, we must give our students the complete freedom and flexibility to experiment and write about whatever interests them. Still, they must also come to understand that not everyone, perhaps not anyone, will share their interest in a particular topic or their presentation of a particular work. How then to balance the need for self-expression, with the idea that most writing, certainly the kind being produced in a advanced undergraduate or graduate courses, is designed to be read by somebody other than the writer himself. Inherent in this idea is the notion that as we evaluate writing in the workshop, we must continually ask, who are you writing for?

This pursuit of the writing life is a very solitary and personal journey, and most of the writing we do will be seen by our eyes only. But if we aspire to publication of any kind, we must keep in mind the idea of audience, not just the individual readers, but also the individual editors and publisher who are the gatekeepers to the reading public. It is thus important to maintain a balance between writing for ourselves and writing for others, and we must help the writer develop the instinct to know which writing to present at what time.

Most would agree that we need to create a space where students feel comfortable baring their naked aesthetic for all to see, but as Jane Smiley writes, students must also discover how to “become teachable, that is, to become receptive” (244). Within this paradox, we need to give students the freedom to create, but also enable them also to learn from the feedback than helps them to grow as writers.

Writing guru Natalie Goldberg says, “I don’t think everyone wants to create the great American novel, but we all have a dream of telling our stories-of realizing what we think, feel, and see before we die” (xii). The challenge for us, as teachers, is to coax those stories out and to help the writer decide for herself where those stories might be best heard.

III.            Thou shall articulate the difference between vision and revision

The exercises and encouragement we provide for visioning (i.e. creating the initial draft or first thoughts) must be different from what we offer to those in the process of revision, (i.e. seeing again). Rules, guidelines and qualitative expectations will hinder the process that is needed to create new material and to get those wild thoughts down on paper for the first time. If, as Teresa Amabile’s studies suggest “increased productivity may be our most accessible means of engendering creativity,” then I believe we must provide encouragement that is measured in quantity not quality, and is concerned more with process than product (Sarbo 141).

I am a strong advocate for Goldberg’s notion of writing practice, where “the aim is to burn through to first thoughts, to the place where energy is unobstructed by social politeness or the internal censor, to the place where you are writing what your mind actually sees and feels, not what it thinks it should see or feel” (9).

As Goldberg suggests, too many times we write with the end in mind, with a particular audience or publication goal in sight. When we do, we do not allow enough time for the work to develop naturally; we do not maximize the good raw material available from which to choose. Editing and marketing are important, but as Haake suggests, “these (professional and institutional) concerns are most properly addressed after, not before the writing” (72). By measuring student productivity in raw material rather than finished product, we encourage them to write without internal censors. By teaching different tactics for vision and revision we help set reasonable and more targeted expectations for student work.

Particularly in introductory level workshops, I would implement Goldberg’s timed-exercise practice, which entails writing within a basic set of rules for a set time-limit. The rules are simple and include: keep your hand moving; don’t cross out; don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar, staying within the margins or the lines on the page; lose control; don’t think; don’t get logical; go for the jugular; explore “scary” or naked” thoughts (Goldberg 8).

While I strongly believe in the usefulness of guided writing and free journaling as means of generating raw material, the process of revision, rather, is something that each writer must discover for himself. There is something to be said for listening to the workshop and another for determining their voice and what it is that they want to say, receiving feedback openly and without prejudice, but being brave enough to stay true to themselves. T. Coraghessan (Tom) Boyle, award-winning writer and teacher in the writing program at the University of Southern California, still believes in the bubble approach as the best means for beginning the revision process. “What’s relevant is for the author to discover what intelligent people think he or she meant, then they can go from there” (Neubauer 25).

I agree that it is beneficial for the writer to be exposed to this kind of feedback between the vision and re-vision stages. And while sensitivity in the workshop is important, it is also important, particularly at the advanced undergraduate and graduate level, to balance this sensitivity with tough, constructive criticism. As Boyle also says, “I’ve been in workshops [where] everyone [is] so supportive, loving each other. Great. But what’s accomplished? Nothing. I’m very tough line-to-line. This is professional” (Neubauer 25). This kind of professional feedback will help develop the writer’s ability to determine what feedback to accept and what to throw away, which may be the single most important component of a writer’s learning process.

IV.            Thou shall create a plan and be prepared to improvise

As amorphous as the nature of writing instruction continues to be, we must not develop pedagogies that are fixed. We must be prepared to adapt our methods, and maybe even our core beliefs to match the goals of the program, the class, and the individual student. This does not mean that we should sacrifice our own beliefs for some other that we may not agree with, but we have to understand that students and programs change in response to market conditions, and that we, as facilitators and service providers, need to adapt as well. Some programs will clearly require teachers who have a strong classroom presence. Imagine how one might teach in a hyper competitive program like Iowa, where students expect and deserve strong leadership and hard work. Such an approach might not work in a junior college environment or in a classroom of undergraduates, yet we might find ourselves being asked to teach in one environment one semester and another environment the next. We must adapt if we are to be successful, and such adaptation requires us to have a plan within which we have the freedom to improvise.

I think it is important to see our workshops as part of the whole. One cannot create the framework for a class without understanding the personality of that class and the needs of the course. Likewise, one cannot develop a course without examining how the course serves the larger program and how the program serves the university and the students. We as teachers must remember that our role is to lead, but also to serve. One way to stay nimble is to remain connected to the larger field of pedagogical studies, both in creative writing and also in composition, so that we can benefit from what others have experienced in different educational contexts. Moreover, unless I’ve missed it, our profession desperately needs a journal dedicated both to pedagogical questions and to practical concerns in teaching creative writing.

V.            Thou shall encourage and practice freedom with restraint

We as writers have the freedom of speech guaranteed to us by the constitution, but with this freedom comes the responsibility to be accurate, truthful and respectful, both in our writings, and particularly in the criticism of the writings of others. This freedom is one of the blessings of western democracy, there are many writers in this world who do not have it, and it is for their sake and in their honor that we must understand the value of ours and fight to keep it.

This notion of freedom and restraint must also apply to how we treat others in the workshop, how we prejudge and respond to literature created outside our own culture, how we understand and conceive of approaches to literary study, and how we alter our pedagogies to reflect cultural and theoretical shifts. In the past twenty years, great changes have been made to the “canon” through the hard work of young faculty who insist that the works and voices of women and underrepresented groups be heard in literature and writing classrooms. I applaud this effort and am glad to see young students exposed to such a wide and diverse group of voices, a diversity which, deservedly so, matches that of the students themselves and one from which I never benefitted as a young student. But this redefining of the canon has created an environment where works of literary quality and pedagogical value are being forsaken simply on the basis of their connection to the “old” canon. In this way we are not broadening the canon to reflect our diversity, but rather narrowing it by a process of swapping out one culture’s works for another, as if the size must remain constant. So while we must be grateful to finally have the freedom to teach more representative works, we must also continue to have respect for works which, rightly or wrongly, have an intertextual connection that is central to the development of western literature.

VI.            Thou shall boldly state absolutes in the realm of the relative

Permit me this one digression. This is a pet peeve of mine and perhaps a knee-jerk reaction to postmodernism, but relativism doesn’t work for everyone. In some ways, the notion that everything is relative, while philosophically true, is intellectually false. It conveys that, for some, even feces can taste like fudge. If one strongly identifies with a certain belief, provided they recognize that it may not be so for everyone (acknowledge its relativity) we must acknowledge that for them (in their mind, their reality) it is an absolute truth.

Particularly in upper level programs, writers need to hear when something they’ve tried doesn’t work, and if it doesn’t work for anyone in the room, despite the fact that this reaction is relative, it might be considered to be absolutely a bad idea to leave it as-is. If, as teachers, we are to speak in absolutes, however, it is important to remember our role and responsibility. As David Huddle at the University of Vermont and Middlebury College writes, “It is not my duty to tailor my teaching to each individual student; it is not my duty to attempt to make writers of my students. It is my duty to be a certain kind of a teacher, to try to be consistent in the values that I try to convey to my students, and to let them use me as they will [...]” (75). This consistency helps reinforce that there are absolutes in the world of the relative, and relatives in the world of the absolute.

VII.            Thou shall teach reading and writing, and the importance of both

Eve Shelnutt, poet, writer and former teacher at Ohio University, maintains “Many writers choose to write without having done the necessary preparation, and that is: to become readers. There is a kind of arrogance we have given young writers that lets them assume that ignorance is not something to be critical of” (Neubauer 206).

In this current age of teaching for the test in high schools, most new undergraduates are far too under-read to approach creative writing with any of the necessary prerequisites. While once considered the domain of literature classrooms, teaching reading through the eyes of craft is central to the writer’s understanding of how language works and how meaning manifests. However, in the critical revolution of the last 30 years, the focus on craft analysis in literature classrooms has all but disappeared, leaving it to creative writing instructors to pick apart the text with an eye towards how it was assembled.

If I were to be hired to design a creative writing program, graduate or undergraduate, I think I would ascribe to the model currently in use at the Bennington Writer’s workshops, which is summed up in their new advertising slogan: “Read 100 books, Write 1″. I would like to implement a system where the program selects 50 books and the student chooses the other 50, half of which are subject to approval from the chair. As these books are read, writers would be challenged to respond to them in writing, to examine their own views of how the texts worked on them, and to determine what lessons they might take away to be used in their own work.

VIII.            Thou shall coach students to strive for art but be prepared for life

Creative writers, like most artists, need to be in it for the long run. As Natalie Goldberg writes, “Art lives in the Big World. One poem or story doesn’t matter one way or the other. It is the process of writing and life that matters” (12).

Oscar Wilde’s claim that “all art is quite useless” never rang more true than in today’s market of reality television, shortened attention spans, and the general decline of reading for pleasure, as noted in reports like Reading at Risk from the National Endowment for the Arts. So then why do we write, and furthermore, why do we strive to write something that has as its goal, something higher than commonality?

One reason is our own judgment system (an absolute in the realm of the relative), which tells us that some things are simply better than others, so we strive to write at that level. Still, writing is more than product; it is process. As Eve Shelnutt writes, “…creative writing is not just another course. It is a profound question that’s being asked. I feel that I have to have students understand the questions that art poses to them, in terms of a way to live, a focus of their minds in study and the rewards that it can contain” (Neubauer 197).

So as we work hard to produce “art” we should be prepared to enjoy what else writing brings to us: the ability to get our innermost thoughts and dreams down on paper; the encouragement to express ourselves in a way that differs markedly from what we speak and how we act; and the pure desire to leave our imprint on the world. But the skills we learn in creative writing are just as applicable to “real life” as to art. Students gain an understanding of literature and enjoyment of language, and those skills increase our appreciation of everything we read and improve our ability to compose writing of all kinds. Within the writing life we also build a sense of community of likeminded people, a group that shares our appreciation for what is, inherently, a lonely, almost futile, pursuit. It’s good to have someone else along for the journey.

I agree with Chris Green, who writes, “Life as a writer in the social world means more than just writing poems…it means negotiating the vast, complex, nebulous, tyrannical, ever present, varied structures and institutions of publication, education, readings, employment, community, politics and family. For teachers of creative writing, the trick is to make these lessons apparent to the student” (155).

IX.            Thou shall lead as an equal

Famed creative writing teacher Wallace Stegner says it best: “How can anyone ‘teach’ writing, when he himself, as a writer, is never sure what he is doing?” (9). I see our job as facilitating learning, and if we are to create a forum for the improvement of writing that also encourages the freedom to take risks, then the feedback we provide, especially as the facilitator, needs to provoke the student writer’s own sense of discovery. Rather than prescribe solutions or recite gospel, we can ask the writer questions that she may not be able to ask herself. We can help guide the students to their own conclusions by presenting the workshop as a hired test audience for our work, a group of individuals whose varied backgrounds and abilities mirror those of the other readers in the marketplace. It’s a focus group, not a jury,

Katherine Haake writes that every student “is capable of surprising both me and her- or himself, and … my job as a teacher is to create the structure within which surprise can occur” (64). I believe surprises occur where suggestions overtake demands and guidance supplants prescription. Monk Shunryu Suzuki expresses a Zen proverb that I often fail to heed: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few” (21). By keeping our own mind in this state, we can provide our students with endless opportunities and avenues to pursue. By diminishing the role and expectations of us as the “experts,” we encourage them to write without fear.

Not all our students will publish, or even want to, so we need to demonstrate , as Haake writes, the principle that “Writing is an act of faith, yes, but it is just as much a way of life that provides an organizing structure for the way we are in this world” (76). For many of us, to learn to write is to learn how to live.

We also need to lead by example, that is, to write along with our students and to share our works with them in a spirit of open dialogue. David Huddle, who submits his own creative work for his students to review, feels “I’m a better writer for having submitted my writing to the workshop for scrutiny, and I hope my workshops are more nourishing communities as a result of my having brought my work into them” (79). So while, it is certainly risky to show the leader’s weaknesses in draft form, the long term benefits to the students will most certainly outweigh the short term pain to the teacher!

X.            Thou shall temper the dream with pragmatism

Eve Shelnut remarks, “I suppose a lot of my work…is in helping [students] answer the question, ‘Why would anyone spend an entire lifetime producing art?’” (Neubauer (207).

Many of those who enroll in graduate creative writing courses do so for the goal of publication. They write because they love to write, and they hope to one day achieve some sort of recognition for their efforts. Many of them know the odds they are facing, and some would argue that it is not the business of teachers to squash their dream of making a living with their creative writing. But I would argue that anyone getting into this profession should be aware of the business side of writing and the risks it entails. Not only should we be taught how to submit for publication, understand what the specific markets and opportunities are, and be exposed to publishers and editors who can share insights about the publishing process, but also we should be exposed to other ways that we might pay off the significant educational loans we have incurred as a result.

The skills taught in creative writing are useful in professional writing of various kinds. Journalism, advertising, fundraising are just a few of the fields where I have been able to get paid for my writing talents, and while the works weren’t always poetic or fictional, they were always creative. In some ways, one might argue for a course that focuses specifically on creative nonfiction, which has the largest degree of applicability to other forms of professional writing. I believe we owe it to the students to allow them the space to pursue their dream, but to also expose them to the pragmatic acts of the writer’s existence that may be what enables them to pursue that dream in the first place.

The idea of tempering the dream must also be broached through the necessary evils of grading and evaluating student work. In what is seen as purely subjective, in what is touted as a world of relativism, in an environment where we are supposed to encourage safety and freedom, how can we fairly, and in good conscience, rank anything? Here I tend to embrace three ideas that make me feel at least comfortable doing so.

First, on evaluation, I believe a term’s worth of student work should be evaluated based on the portfolio method, which looks at improvement over time and takes into account, responsiveness, participation, timeliness, and engagement with the subject matter and assignments. Simply put, this is a writing class, so please write and get better as you go.

Second, on grading, I believe in the British model of Excellent, Satisfactory, and Failing, or in an American context, A, B, F. Everyone who meets the requirements gets a B; some small percentage, perhaps never more than ten or twenty, get an A; and the F is reserved for those who for one reason or another, simply fail to meet the basic requirements of the course.

Third, I would encourage one-on-one meetings throughout the course where students can receive frank and open feedback about how I feel their work is going. This private meeting enables me to judge just how serious the student is about writing and ask them what level of feedback they would like. So on a one-to-one level, if they want me to be tough, so be it. If on the other hand they show no real affinity for writing as a career or cannot placate their emotions enough to receive tough feedback, then perhaps I could offer more gentle encouragement. In this way I can measure their desires and expectations and meet them outside of the rubrics and confines of university grading or workshop evaluation environments.

Bridging the great divide: flexibility and understanding

So, despite my offering these perspectives as the voice of God, I’ll reiterate again that I see these commandments as set in sand, not stone. The decision of how to balance these individual guidelines, both within each juxtaposition I have presented, and in relation to each other within the course or program as a whole, must lie with the department, the teacher, and the individual students. It is, therefore, important to strive for balance within balance, like the ancient Zen monks who occasionally got roaring drunk as a way of demonstrating moderation in moderation. Every now and again, it must be OK to weigh more heavily on one side or the other.

Nicholas Delbanco, writer and faculty member in the University of Michigan writing program, states his own commandments thus:

The only way to learn one’s art is through back-breaking labor that must not seem like work. After the seeming-impossible has become difficult, the difficult habitual, and the habitual easy, true mastery begins. We must listen to the verdict of the judge-whether it be praise, dispraise, or the most likely, a suspended sentence-then appeal. We must work through derivation toward the original voice-remembering that “originality” is likely to be a compound of influence so multiform and various it cannot be assessed. We need to know an oxymoron from chiasmus to know freedom within limits as the root and force of syntax. Our certainties will turn to doubt, our rote learning grow improvisational (40).

It is my hope that through developing, practicing, and altering my commandments, that I might develop a means to balance the acrimony between factions both within the English departments and within creative writing programs. I find it painfully ironic that, in the academic world where relativism reigns, individuals are so set in their own views and ways that they fail to see the benefits of what we can learn from each other. We should all be free to evolve, to discover, and perhaps with greater compassion, to practice what we teach.

Works Cited

Delbanco Nicholas. “Judgment: An Essay.” Writers on Writing. Eds. Pack, Robert and Jay Parini. Hanover, NH: Middlebury College Press, 1991. 29-40.

Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston: Shambhala, 1986.

Green, Chris. “Materializing the Sublime Reader: Cultural Studies, Reader Response, and Community Service in the Creative Writing Workshop.” College English 64 (2001): 153-174.

Haake, Katharine. What Our Speech Disrupts: Feminism and Creative Writing Studies. Urbana, IL: National Council of Teachers of English, 2000.

Huddle, David. “Taking What You Need, Giving What You Can: The Writer as Student and Teacher.” Writers on Writing. Eds. Pack, Robert and Jay Parini. Hanover, NH: Middlebury College Press, 1991. 74-85.

Neubauer, Alexander. Conversations on Writing Fiction: Interviews with 13 Distinguished Teachers of Fiction Writing in America. New York: HarperPerennial, 1994.

Parini, Jay. “Literary Theory and the Writer.” Colors of a Different Horse. Ed. Wendy Bishop and Hans Ostrom. Urbana, IL: National Council of Teachers of English, 1994. 127-130.

Ritter, Kelly. “Professional Writers/Writing Professionals: Revamping Teacher Training in Creative Writing Ph. D. Programs” College English 64 (2001): 205-227.

Sarbo, Linda and Joseph M. Moxley. “Creativity Research and Classroom Practice.” Colors of a Different Horse. Ed. Wendy Bishop and Hans Ostrom. Urbana, IL: National Council of Teachers of English, 1994. 133-144.

Smiley, Jane. “What Stories Teach Their Writers: The Purpose and Practice of Revision.” Creating Fiction. Ed. Julie Checkoway. Cincinnati: Story Press, 1999. 244-255.

Stegner, Wallace. On the Teaching of Creative Writing. Hanover, NH: Dartmouth College, 1988.

Suzuki, Shunryu. Zen Mind, Beginners Mind. New York: Weatherhill, 1970.