Dear Friends,

Is it okay to write here when the Writing Center doesn't exist anymore?  It has to be, because I'm ready to write. Besides, the WC wasn't ever just a place, was it? It's all of us--even you, who I never met but know because Sis. Morgan loved you.  I've been thinking about something for a few weeks now.  I just have to come out and say what I've come up with, no qualifying allowed, because it's not bad or good, it just is, right?  I think I can't make friends anymore because I either idol them or feel better than them in some respect. No one is my equal. I'm either above or below. The definition of Pride.  The result?  Acquaintances.  Short, superficial conversations.  Small talk.  Loneliness in the middle of a group of girls at our ward BBQ two weeks ago.  I tried to start a conversation with my visiting teaching partner.  We quickly ran out of things to say, and she turned to someone she knew better.  I stood on the outside of a circle of friends, not knowing how to break through.

It's nothing new.  Other than my husband, the last best friend I had was Shannon. Then I got married, and we drifted apart. Without roommates, making real friends--the kind you can talk to for hours and share anything with--became a lot more challenging.  I try so hard not to make it about me, but obviously I'm failing. If it weren't about me, I wouldn't have a problem talking to people and making friends. It's all about me and my own faults.  If I weren't as self-conscious about my imperfections and what other people think of me, life would be simpler.  But I am happy.  Friend or no friend, I have a beautiful son who is the center of my world and a husband who is an incredible father.  I am happier than I've been in years.  Motherhood is everything I'd ever hoped for, and that's saying a lot.  But I could sure use a girl friend sometimes.  Someone who would share with me her heartache and joys.  Someone to have inside jokes with.  When is the last time I laughed freely?  I laugh at work, but it's not cathartic like best-friend laughter....I watch the connection instead of make it.  It's okay to not have a best girl friend, but it would be better to have someone and someone to have me.

I have Kari, sort of.  It's funny...Not having a baby made me feel the outsider in Rigby.  With Kari, having Ben makes me feel guilty because she has no child.  Failed in vitro a few weeks ago.  It made me sick to my stomach hearing the news.  I cried for her.  I had no business crying, since it was her heartbreak, but I know a tiny bit of it.  She's a tough one though.  She doesn't open up very easily, and she and her husband aren't home often.  I guess making friends might take time though. Maybe I do have a bud of a friendship. Maybe I was just looking and hoping for it in the wrong people.

I'm glad I still have all of you, even if we're far apart and haven't talked in ages.  We should stay in better touch, and then none of us will really ever be alone.  I'm making peanut butter cookies. Stop by and have a few.

Love,
Meghan

Excuses

My dear Uncle Stan passed away a few months ago, and I loved him. I really did. I know it wouldn’t seem like I did since I lived only 30 minutes away from him for almost three years, yet I probably only saw him three times in those three years. A lot of times I would make an excuse not to go visit when they would have family functions. Lance doesn’t always like coming with me to such events, so I would just not go. Then my uncle passed away completely unexpectedly. In many people’s opinion, he was taken too young, not yet even 65. Although I know the Lord must think differently. I just wish I had come up with more excuses to go see him. Or actually I wish I had said to heck with excuses and just gone anyway. That’s what I should have done.


Now I’m sitting here looking at tickets to fly to Tennessee even though we don’t have the money, and I really don’t have any intention on going. I keep thinking there’s no real reason to go since the only family of ours still there is Lance’s sister, and if we want to see her, we'll just have her fly out with her frequent flyer miles from work. But then I think of my old friends still there that I knew in high school, and I feel like I’ve turned my back on them because I don’t know if we’ll ever really go back. I just know how life works. Money always seems to have other important things to do than pay for a trip to only visit a few people. I feel like we’ve turned our backs on our “roots” and forgotten the little people. Not that I or my husband are famous by any means, but I feel like by not going back to visit, I’m telling all of those dear teachers, leaders, and friends from my youth that they mean nothing to me and that they didn’t do anything to help me become who I am today. But, of course, they did. They did a great deal for me, and I don’t even have the decency to come back for a visit.

Why do I always need an excuse? Haven’t I learned my lesson with my uncle?

Cephalopods FTW

I know I’m nerdy, but a perfect evening for me would be to have the entire Monterey Bay Aquarium to myself for a night. I would wander from tank to tank to examine and read about every sea creature without a soul to disrupt me.

However, even obnoxious crowds with their smart phones pressed up against the glasses and obstructing the view couldn’t stop me from enjoying the giant octopus tank this past Christmas. Normally, Ms. Octopus is hiding, and you spend your time straining for a glimpse of even a tentacle. She spent my entire visit this past time suctioned right up against the glass, moving back and forth. On a previous visit, the staff told my parents at a dinner about some crazy octopus escapades:

At one point, several fish were going missing from a display. Since there were no predatorial fish in the tank, museum staff decided to set up cameras to find out what was happening. The video footage revealed that the giant octopus was using her suctioned tentacle to sneak out of her tank, scurry across the floor, and jump into the fish display. She would eat her fill, and then return to her own tank.

Octopuses (yes that is the right plural form according to the OED) are a lot smarter than we give them credit. They actually use tools for protection and to eat, which is a sign of intelligence in the animal world. To solve their octopus problem, the Monterey Bay Aquarium installed AstroTurf around her tank to prevent their giant octopus from using her suctions to crawl out. Also, to engage her mind, staff started placing her food around her tank in hamster balls. This acts like a puzzle for the octopus and keeps her mind occupied from plotting other escape plans.

Today, I found this on Science Friday:

Bucket List: Touch a live octopus

If I would like to read more posts I should probably right more posts...

At least one.

Being stagnant after university has pros and cons. A pro would be: not having to analyze literature, or read books I do not want to read, or not being able to wear flip flops. Cons would be: analyzing everything around me and not having a classroom of people to bounce theories between, not knowing what to read next so I end up not reading, or not wearing cute shoes because I finally have the opportunity to wear flip flops -- why not take advantage of that?

The last monthish I started to have Writing Center backlash and began to focus on tensions in my life. I've analyzed what makes me react to other people around me, is it their behavior? is it something about their behavior that reminds me of something wholly unrelated but that has left a lasting impression on my mind/heart/soul that I now cannot shake?

I don't know. But I feel as though I'm learning a lot about myself and feeling good about what I find and if a year of stagnation has caused it then that year has not been wasted.

Okay, so I wrote. Now it's your turn please.

We Need More Posts

Recently I attended a writing retreat with eighteen students and five members of the English faculty. While we were there, we wrote after given a prompt. This particular one was parallel structure in a segmented essay. The first place to come to my mind was the Writing Center.

Here goes:

I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I knew from Jacob, the smart kid in my physics class, that it was somewhere on the second floor of the library. I made a couple passes of the bathrooms, walked through the skywalk twice, and weaved between the rows of the books. Finally, I arrived.

Two people were sitting behind the desk under the sign that hung with two chains from the ceiling that said, “The Writing Center.” Tentatively, I walked up to the desk and asked to see Sister Morgan. The tall girl with the dark brown hair and matching eyes told me she wasn’t available. The shorter girl with matching hair informed me that most likely they weren’t hiring. I left, but Jacob told me to keep going back until I got a job, so I did.

* * *

It became a natural path. Seven semesters of walking through the doors facing the Spori, passing through the useless book stealing detectors, up the right stair case with the painting of an old street in colonized Utah, a quick stop at the drinking fountain next to the small tree, and then to the back room to find my black vest and name tag on the blue, not red, lanyard.

I stuck a blue, newly sharpened pencil behind my ear and flopped onto a stiff chair with a book I pretended to read to look busy. I did a quick glance to the back row of offices to check if Sister Morgan’s door was open or closed. Most often she was still unavailable. Now I knew the names of the two girls: Miriam and Kaitlin, my friends.

* * *

I don’t work there anymore, but out of habit I still follow the rutted path to the Writing Center. I only know a few of the battalion of assistants now, but I still stop by for a quick hello and chat with a new different person sitting at the desk each time.

Generally, I check Sister Morgan’s office first. If it is closed, I may just keep walking. If it is open, I slide through the door and sit down in a chair. Sometimes she vents; sometimes I do. Most often we just talk. It is refreshing to listen, to be listened to, to communicate.

ramble ramble

I did something I haven’t done in quite a while. I looked through lots and lots of old posts on the blog. It used to be one of my favorite activities, and I would do it every couple months. Every time I would find another sentence that had particular meaning to me.

This time around, I copied and pasted some of those sentences into a word document labeled “quotations” that resides in a folder labeled “journal” on my desktop. The document is over 30 pages now. It started with words of famous people. I added your words because they are meaningful to me, and I don’t want to forget them. Some of them lack significance without context, but I know what they mean, and that is enough.

This all started (looking through the blog, that is), with me trying to write a post. I have three unfinished essays also residing in the “journal” folder on my desktop.

I was trying to capture what I have been feeling lately, but I haven’t gotten it completely.

I moved last week. I packed up all of my things, drove them across town, and put them somewhere new. Somewhere I eat, sleep, shower, live.

I know we’ve had numerous discussions about “home,” and that’s what was on my mind this time, too. Or at least one thing on my mind. Especially since this move wasn't emotionally stressful like some of my past moves have been, and I wonder about it.

I also thought about how I moved everything myself. Not a single soul helped me. I’m sure there are people that would have if I had asked, but I wanted to do it alone, so I did. And even now, I’m ridiculously pleased about it. I love activities in which I don’t have to rely on others, and I wonder if that’s healthy.

While I was packing I thought about memories. Some seem to fade with time, so I keep as many reminders as possible. Or I used to, at least. This time I threw away a considerable amount. Some things I threw away because I don’t want to remember them anymore. Like a red Hot Wheels car from a former boyfriend. I used to place it somewhere prominent, where I would see it often. Some of my roommates asked about it once: where it came from, why I kept it. The only explanation I gave was “it reminds me of a time when I felt loved.” Now it just seems cheesy, so when I found it I threw it away. Other things I threw away because I don't need them as reminders anymore. Like the sparkly gift bag from my cousin Toni. I'll never forget her, so I don't need the gift bag anymore.

Reading through the blog was a similar experience. Not with wanting to throw things away, mind. But reliving and remembering.  I laughed out loud at some posts/comments to posts (see here and here). My eyes welled up with tears when I thought about some of you I haven’t seen in ages. People like Nathan, Kirsten, Anona, Julie, EmPo, and others. My heart almost burst out of my chest when I thought about how I came to all of you for support when I thought I might have breast cancer. "Thanks" seems insufficient for the solace I found in you on that occasion.

Over and over again, I was reminded that we never say goodbye. Even so, I saved symbols we call "letters" that form "words" and "sentences" in a Microsoft word document that I won’t have to throw away the next time I pack or move. Then I feel like I have the semblance of something to hold onto when I can't see all of you.

Again, it seems insufficient, but thanks for all of it. Thanks for the good times and the bad. Thanks for the times that were neither good nor bad. But most of all, thanks for being my friends.

Crystal Fair made this, and I'm posting it because so many Writing Assistants are in it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFI30ZbLhR8

The last time.

Graduation happens again and again. Good thing we never say goodbye, or I'd be depressed about so many changes.

Half the Center will be new people in spring semester. New people. So many new people. Some not knowing. Not interested. Not ready and awake. Not wanting to write. Not here nor there nor anywhere.

Ma, I think, finally, they're singing my song some place else.

BYU Provo Police Beat

Suspicious Behavior
Feb. 18: A writing center employee reported a male student often comes to the center to receive help with sexually explicit stories he has written. The male also pushes to spend an hour with tutors even though most students are only allowed 30 minutes. The writing center is taking action while police are monitoring the situation.

It's hard to tell which situation the police are monitering--the student's writing of explicit stories or his practice of taking up more than his alloted time at the WC. "Hey you! Yes, you! Thirty minutes are up--let's go!"

Tanka

Yes, Karli. Let's do Tanka. (Tanka, the 5-line lyric poem of Japan is quickly becoming popular in the English-language poetry community. Like haiku, its shorter cousin, tanka usually is well-grounded in concrete images but also is infused with a lyric intensity and intimacy that comes from the direct expression of emotions, as well as from implication, suggestion, and nuance.)

One a day would be great.

See Below.

Let's play haiku. Do you dare?

A haiku is an un-rhymed verse genre. Haiku has five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five again in the third. In Japanese, the word "haiku" means "playful verse."  Haiku should use objective sensory detail. Use imagery to write the Haiku, in order for the reader to visualize what you are writing. It's great exercise for the brain.

Snow pelts the windows

winds howl around the dark trees

I crawl back to bed.

 

Six word short storeis

"I don't like these. They're stupid." Sister Morgan

"There she goes. She started it." Skyler

"Soooo, you're an expert on Bieber."   SM

"I don't think I said anything."    Kirsten

"You don't need time to think."  Kirsten

"Say something else--Eric? Kirsten? Skyler?   SM

"This doesn't make any sense. Blaaaaah."  Eric

"I've graduated from going to Devotional."   Kirsten  (OOOOooo. This one is edgy.)

"Chan taught us a funny cardgame."   Skyler

"Noooooo, we'll fall in forever boredom."   SM

"Nope. You did it wrong. What?"   Skyler

"Like baby, baby, baby, baby, noo." Kiersten


"Nobody puts Baby in the corner."  Kirsten
 
"Sister Morgan, you're the coolest boss."  Skyler

Ambiguity in Writing

I was having this discussion with my friend the other day about ambiguity and vagueness in writing. It started out wondering about universal truths in philosophical terms. I asked if there was such a thing as a universal truth that could be considered objective. We wondered if maybe a sentence describing a situation in time that could be considered a universal truth such as “There is a cup on the table and 9:40 PM.” I pointed out though that one person may view that flat surface with supporting legs as a table and someone else may view it as a desk. So if they can’t agree, is the sentence still a universal truth?

So for the next few days we’ve both been pondering about vagueness and ambiguity in writing. Is it possible to clearly convey your intent without making your writing too tedious? Or is there a point where the author should accept that it is impossible to make everyone see and read what he/she intended? Is it possible to predict all interpretations and write in a way to avoid all misconceptions?

I think I am leaning toward no, that it is not possible and as an author there is no way that you can possible achieve that. And that is why the books that we read and reread are so good. It’s because there are so many possible interpretations and we will never know what the author’s intent is (or that it should even matter . . . very formalist, no?). I mean, I will never be able to figure out whether Shakespeare was for England invading France or whether he thought it was kind of a bad idea from reading Henry V. But that is why I like it. I may be able to go and dissect the text and formulate my own hypothesis, but I will never know Shakespeare’s real intent.

So, I am curious what everyone else thinks. Do you feel that it is important and possible to have your intent clearly understood by all your audience or do you think there is a point that you have to let go of your text and be okay with someone seeing an analogy for baseball where there never ever was one (or something like that)?

Also, by vagueness, I mean the philosophical term in the Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy:

vagueness Many sentences are relatively vague; others relatively precise. A term that is perfectly precise would generate no borderline cases, and although this is often presented as a theoretical ideal it is extremely unclear that any learnable, speakable language could begin to meet it. For even basic observations (‘this is red’) admit of borderline cases (in the oranges and purples), and even when care is taken to make terms as precise as possible, unforeseen contingencies, new kinds of discovery, and things with new combinations of properties, may always provide hard cases whose classification is left unclear.

Let me know what you writers think?

A Feminist's Thoughts on Mormon Bloggers

I thought this article was interesting, especially after reading the "Mormon women are so oppressed" article from a few days ago. Apparently some people are fascinated with classic Mormon mommy-ness, whether they believe it or not.
I've been thinking of writing more on my personal blog, mainly to get myself writing and to feel that I'm doing something that extends beyond the walls of my home. I was therefore rather amused when reading this line from the post: "For young Mormon women, who face immense cultural pressure to stay home with children rather than pursue a career, blogging about their adventures in homemaking becomes a sort of creative outlet, a way of contributing to the larger world beyond the home."
Guess I'm normal, then? :-)

Thoughts on this article

I would really like to know everyone's thoughts on the article. It was submitted to NYtimes in the relationship stories, and it has had me thinking a bunch today.

As a single (only 26) female Mormon, I think I could relate to this woman because I'm not living the cookie-cutter life with my soon to graduate from law school husband and our second adorable, bouncy baby on the way; instead, I'm living the dissenter's life in a city with my own job, food, car, and whatever else was listed. I too get annoyed that the only thing my relatives care about my life is whether or not there is a man in it. Over Christmas when I answered my aunt's questions about the man I was dating, she responded, "See, that is the reason you needed to go to San Francisco." "Yes," I thought, "if I wasn't dating anyone, than my job/location choices would be completely fruitless regardless of how living here has changed me as a person and the other experiences I am gaining." I hate it. I too, from time to time, feel as if I am not seen as a person but as a social status.

However, although beautifully written, I also felt sorry for her. I felt sorry that for whatever reason she has felt stunted and isolated in her community because she has been denied a sexual relationship (not being married). I thought, how could this woman feel independent and free and yet so tied down to sex and how it defines her?

I feel, sometimes, that in our church we treat the topic of human sexuality as taboo (okay, maybe not sometimes--more like all the time). Like, if we ignore it, than it doesn't exist--at least until you are married. It's an uncomfortable topic. Why can't we open up and admit we are all human? It doesn't mean that we are dirty minded.

I remember as a Mia Maid listening to a chastity lesson, and my advisor, with a nervous twitching lip and eyes that were on anything but us girls, explained, along with the preserving sex until marriage, we should also not pet or neck. At fourteen I thought, "what the heck is necking and petting?" I had visions of a couple vigorously rubbing their necks together. "Weird," I thought, "but, okay, I won't do that." And because the atmosphere was so awkward, I didn't ask the teacher to elaborate. It's taboos like this that I wonder about. If I ever become a young women's leader, I'll make sure to give it to my girls straight instead of using euphemisms and dated language, "You are going to want to touch each other . . . under your underwear! Don't do it."

For me, I think more than just saying, "It's a commandment; I will wait." I've had to honestly come to grips with my own body and my emotional needs. Yes, it would be nice and I could finally find out what it is I am missing, but I also know that there is no way that I would want that level of intimacy with someone who could walk away from me in the morning. In my heart, I know that would leave me psychologically torn and broken. I would need someone who I knew would be there tomorrow morning and the morning after that before I could let him get that close to me.

And then what has made us think that when we get married and finally get to jump in bed, all our sorrows will melt away and life will be bliss and a bed of roses (literally)? What happens if I get married, and we find out that we are not sexually compatible (oh, but if I followed all the rules, the Lord won't let that happen to me!)? Hopefully we've spent enough time together before the wedding night to establish a deep friendship . . . I don't know. I don't think I have an answer for that.

Although I feel sorry for her view that no sex has denied her her rite of passage (if this were true, we'd have a lot of 14 year old adults running around out there), I can't help but think that this is many of our view. But, shh, we are not allowed to talk about it.

I would be interested to hear what others think. And if this is an awkward post, it's only that way because we've made it.

To the person who tried to buy Verizon prepaid minutes with my debit card today

You took two cameras, a GPS and a Zune, my wallet, twenty dollars, and an insurance folder from my car. After calling State Farm, I know that the total value of all this is estimated at $744.00. After talking to the police, I learned that there’s not much that’ll happen now. Although, he did take fingerprints from the car, which felt a little like CSI.

The insurance folder included insurance cards, registration, some napkins, and a 10mm socket wrench. In my wallet, there was my license, my school ID, three different insurance cards, a credit card, a debit card, and a significant stack of punch cards that I collected from various restaurants. The worst part about losing the cameras is losing the memories on them. The GPS was broken anyway.

I don’t know why you did this. I’ve imagined a lot of reasons why, but the one I like best is so your kids could have presents on Christmas. I know that doesn’t explain everything, like the insurance stuff, but I still like to imagine your children unwrapping one of the cameras, or the music player, or whatever on Christmas. In my head, they’re younger—maybe nine or ten, but they might be older too. It doesn’t matter. I imagine they’ll be excited, that they’ll wonder how you got the money together to afford something like this. They will probably hug you. They will be so excited. And, when I imagine this, I wish you would have taken more.

“Only Brazil worms, only Brazil worms, only Brazil worms!”

This is a line from an essay written by Amy Leach. Karli recommends her. I read a recent interview and want to post some of her quotations.

About her--"On October 27th, Chicagoan Amy Leach, Instructor at Northwestern University, author and musician, won the 2010 Whiting Writer's Award.
This prestigious $50,000 award recognizes ten young writers for their extraordinary talent and promise and is one of the most coveted prizes for new writers. Awarded annually since 1985, past recipients include Michael Cunningham, Kim Edwards, Tobias Wolff, Jeffrey Eugenides, and Mary Karr – all have since become acclaimed, bestselling authors."

Good Quotations--
"The best writing is when you're writing about something you love- it's not about sounding smart or anything. It's the language itself."

"When I write, I don't start with any kind of message really, or any meaning at all. I want to learn about and think new things, to feel new things. Every time, I'm learning about a new subject, making an imaginative effort."
"Writer's 'block'? I stop writing and read a lot, walk the dog, replenish." As a teacher of creative writing, a lot of time is spent on other's writing. "I like sharing ideas in the classroom." What does she tell her students about writing?"
No hesitation here; her answer:
 "I tell them to combine personal experience with truth."
"They've become wise in a way only they can be- by not just accepting someone's truth or way of thinking, good writers, in their writing, are thinking for themselves and coming to their own wisdom, coming to their own truth." James Baldwin and  Allen Ginsberg influenced my writing."

Good stuff.  Thanks Karli.

Hello

I like the new look. I haven't checked this blog for ... boy, six months? More?

Firstly, I think your unintentional post is lovely, Meghan. I almost hesitate to follow it, because it's so honest and ... oh, I hate to use the word "profound" -- what does that even mean? -- so I'll just call it truthful. For the record, I think that worrying about writing, my writing, being profound is one of the biggest obstacles that stands between me and putting anything on paper. I always worry about writing something profound.

When I was in sixth grade, I remember hearing my teacher, Mrs. Bass, praising my brother Tanner's writing (Tanner had the same teacher a couple years previous), commenting that he wrote some "deep" essays, or something like that, I can't remember what adjective she used. Anyhow, I thought that I should be writing deep things, if my brother was, so for the next writing assignment, I wrote this paragraph about a old man, except I think it was just his head, floating in dark space, and he had a really long beard, and his beard was tangled and there was a key stuck in the tangles, I think. He may have been sad. It was completely meaningless.

Well, I don't have a whole lot to say. I have really enjoyed reading everyone's posts on here. Reading the writing of friends inspires me to write more than anything else. Outside of my journal and my work, these few paragraphs are possibly the most writing I have done in months and months. There's a good chance that it's the only extra-curricular writing I will do for a few more months. I miss you all, and I hope you are all doing well as you grade finals and create finals, carve out your prospective and nascent motherhoods, and work through the various tangled, key-filled beards of your winters.

Forgive me, Meghan Hoyos Scoresby.

Meghan Hoyos just posted this under a "Comment" section. I'm taking creative license and moving it into a post of its own because it's good writing, interesting, heartbreaking, and honest.

I'm really grateful for what you have all said. Shannon, I read "A Lantern in Her Hand" when I was young (like 6th grade), and I loved it. I don't remember anything about it except that it was about a good mother, and that's all I ever wanted to be. Sounds pretty ridiculous that that's what I wanted in middle school, doesn't it? I know you are going through a tough transition right now, and you are one of those women Jami talked about. You'll find a way to make life brighter and more interesting than ever before. It will take time, I guess. I'm learning that everyone has challenges that all sort of even out eventually.

Sister Morgan, thanks for sharing your thoughts on patience. It seems Heavenly Father knows just what we think we can't live without, and he lets us learn patience by having us live without it anyway. I really had to force myself to say "lets" instead of "makes." Really he's making us though. It's not in my control to be a mom or not to be. It's all in His. I don't understand Him. I trust Him more than ever after all this, but it's partly out of desperation. If I don't trust him, I'm giving up. And I won't ever give up. Sometimes I feel so stupid. Why do I have to care so much about being a mom. Could I have hidden it and pretended to be completely fascinated by painting or something that wouldn't ache so much when it was taken away? Obviously you can't hide that from Heavenly Father. Sometimes I wish I could have. I know He knows what is best and when the time is right. I know he knows what we need to learn and how. This is the first time I've ever asked "why me" in my life. (I used to pride myself on never doing that. Ha.) I guess everyone has to do that sometime, just to learn to accept tough stuff. Some weeks it's easy and I am as trusting as a baby. Some weeks, like this one, it's harder. I had a dream the other night. I haven't told anyone about this but Jason, who I really couldn't help but tell since he wouldn't accept my sobbing "nothing" for an answer--even at 4:30 in the morning. You'd think he'd be glad to go back to sleep. I had my baby girl in my dream; it was wonderful. It wasn't even a great baby dream, but the problem was it was a dream. I woke up. I tried to go back to sleep, but I felt so empty handed. I don't know where my babies are. That's what I sobbed to Jason. It sounds funny, maybe. It's not. Where are these children I'm supposed to watch over? Why am I empty?

That's it. My fingers stopped moving, so I guess I'm done. I just had to type it all out. I read what you said again, Sister Morgan. Thanks.

Jami, if you got this far, I really wanted to tell you how happy I am that you are feeling better about being a mom. You have great insights about not letting yourself disappear, which must be harder than it looks. I'm sitting in my dark apartment (sun went down while I read), and I feel as if it's just us four in a room and I just spilled my guts. Thanks for listening.

Corrected by Students

Today, for my class activity, I had my English 1010 students divide into four groups. I handed a printed copy of a different personal essay to each group and instructed my students that they had 15 minutes to read the essay. Then, after discussing their group’s essay, the students in each group had to identify the strengths, weaknesses, and ways they would apply what they learned from their assigned essay to their own personal essay they’d been assigned. During my first class, I told my students that two of the essays were written by my colleagues and two were written by me. The group that read my bee essay (Bumblebee Homicide from this summer) lauded its humor, and the group that read my disgusting service project essay (Used. $1.00 from about a year ago) praised its detail. Neither group listed any strong weaknesses, but the first group did indicate that the parts of the essay could connect to each other a little more smoothly. The second group said that they didn’t see what the main point of the essay was. I thought that the students were holding back genuine criticism because they were aware that the essays’ author, the teacher, was listening. I wrote a note to myself not tell my later class that I’d written any of the essays.

When my next class came around, I divided the class and distributed essays like earlier, but this time I didn’t tell them that I’d written any of them. The results were quite different. The students who read the first essay boldly proclaimed their confusion in following the bee narrative. “What does this part have to do with anything?” one student loudly asked her group mates. In the group reading the disgusting service essay, a student yelled across the room to me, “Mr. Hall, did you write this?” I told him that I wouldn’t confirm or deny anything because that would bias my students. Then I walked behind my desk and pretended to write something in my notebook.

When it came time to present their essays to the class, the group with the bee essay didn’t hold back their criticism. “This essay was a mess and really confusing,” the girl speaking said. “It was funny at parts, and it had lots of good words, but we just didn’t get what was going on.” I felt deflated. Then the student from the other group asked, “Mr. Hall, did you write that essay?” I blushed, caught myself blushing, and tried to regain composure.

“I wrote some of these essays, but I won’t tell you which until after class,” I said. After my reply, the girl presenting at the front of the class continued her assault on my writing.

“What I’m going to take from this essay is to not make mine so confusing,” she said. “But it does have a lot of personality, so I am going to include that.”

The student who figured out that these were my essays spoke on behalf of his group members when his group presented. The only weakness he listed was that the essay had a negative tone, and that he felt that essays should have a more positive message (this is the kid who has a large tattoo of a cross in front of a sunset on his right upper arm, by the way, but not that that means anything).

I left class feeling small, a little dejected, but acknowledging that my students’ comments were probably right. “This shows that even if you really like a piece of writing, if it doesn’t work, you need to change it,” I’d told the class right before I let them go for the weekend. “How the audience reacts to your writing is more important than if you like a particular wording or not.” And I’d meant it as I said it.

In my melancholy acceptance of my essays’ quality (which I really used to like, by the way), I felt a lot like I did in seminar all those times when Sharon would very forcibly show me the areas I needed to improve my writing. And I felt that same undeniable sense of “I don’t like this, but she’s right” that I did when Sharon pulled up an essay about a chair or something trivial like that and made me stand up in front of everyone in seminar while she dissected it.

I have a degree in English. I worked for almost two and a half years at the Writing Center. I was the EAS president and the top student in several of my classes. I’m Mr. Hall, a bearded college teacher, for crying out loud. But a group of college freshman reminded me of where I really stand in comparison to good or even competent writers.

And that constant reminder of what I’m really capable of (which is not much compared to The Greats) is part of why I love teaching university. In my experience, I haven’t had a student of a bad Sunday School or Priesthood lesson force me to face my spiritual inadequacies. I think it’s because class members at church don’t comment on the quality of a teacher’s spirituality. I’ve never heard a student say, “But Brother Jones, you say that we must love one another, yet I saw you flip off that old woman driving slowly on the road last Wednesday.” But my students, by being honest in sharing what they thought about my writing, slapped me in the face with the reality of my quality as a writer.

Once, while I was persuading some students on the British literary pilgrimage to dislike other students singing on the bus, Kirsten said to me, “You need to find a wife who is a little bit better than you to keep you humble.” These students aren’t quite a substitute for a wife (maybe a girlfriend, though), but they are helping me remember how lowly I really am and how much I have to improve before I can begin to call myself “good” at anything.

For some perverse reason, that feels nice.

(P.S. for the first time ever, I feel too intimidated to make comments in a class. I see the other graduate students as more intelligent and insightful than me, so I just sit and listen while they speak.)

(P.P.S. Also, posting on this blog is intimidating for some reason. Even though I know and love most of you and I know that the ones I know aren't perfect, I see your writing as much more significant than my own.)


(P.P.P.S. Congrats again, Shannon and Cooley.)