Hurdles; how to handle 'em

Sometimes it seems life is just a series of hurdles that must be gotten through. Many people tell me that when they were young they thought everything would get easier when they got older. I don't know that I ever thought that; it's far more likely that I knew already many things would become harder, and worse, I'd have to pay for them.

My father died when I was 7. I scarcely remember him. My memories are mainly two: one, he brought home a French poodle he'd bought off a show girl to be my pet, and two, he showed me a car he'd just bought and I cried because I thought it was stolen.

Lacking two full time adults in my life, teachers became important, although some of them were cruel and some turned out to be a disappointment, while still others paid me scant attention because I was so bad at organized sports or maths. In general, though, teachers were my role models and not just from an academic point of view. Mrs. O as I'll call her was my Home Ec teacher. She was small and shapely and I had her in 7th grade. One day she handed me a bag of clothes she grown tired of wearing. They were good wool suits, some tweed, some boucle and designed to imitate the style of Chanel, the beautifully sewn jackets featuring covered buttons and toggle closures. The skirts were a little dated; one I recall was a dirndl. Still, they were beautiful clothes and I really appreciated Mrs. O for giving them to me, even though I had no place to wear them as we didn't belong to any church or temple and while my mother was out on dates, I spent my evenings home alone watching Roller Derby and spreading melba toast with cream cheese.

Another teacher I liked in high school was Mr. H. who kept a bottle of booze in a metal locker. The locker was at the far back of his classroom and at regular intervals during history, Mr. H. would go to the back of the room to take a swig. He was moderately discreet, hiding the action behind the locker door, but we all knew what he was up to, and depending on where you sat in the classroom, you could even smell it. Out of deference to Mr. H. and his needs, I always sat in the front row and steadfastly kept my eyes trained on the blackboard. Some of the boys in my class brazenly asked if they could have a sip.

A few, three exactly, of my college professors who I adored upset me. Two of them asked me if I would sleep with them, while the third just sort of hinted at it. Maybe I'm being too harsh. It was the 70's and freewheeling times and some of the young and some not so young professors often socially mingled with students. I had some very happy times with other professors who invited me to their homes to meet their families, or to a party they were having where they thought I might enjoy the other guests. Those professors helped to open up the world to me, and for that I am still grateful.

I can't remember a single professor I had in graduate school except for Robby McClintock who ran a seminar at Columbia University. At the time, I felt mentally and socially deficient to the other students in the class. I don't know why I felt this way other than I was matriculating at Teachers College and Robby's seminar didn't have anything to do with my program. I just wanted to take a class with him because I'd heard he was a genius. I can't remember anything at all now about the class, only Robby sitting at one end of a long rectangular wood table in one of Columbia's hallowed halls. He had such a mild manner and he listened so attentively and politely to anything a student said that I immediately decided if I ever were to be a teacher, I'd just mimic him.

By profession I am a writer, but also a teacher, sometimes, at Taconic Correctional Facility, where I teach creative writing to female inmates. Taconic is a medium security prison, and also a transitional facility where felons who have served 20 or more years at the maximum security prison, Bedford Hills, across the street are often sent to see how they will fare with less intense supervision, Some do well, some don't. The women who take my class take it seriously even if it's not for college credit. I offer it because I think creative writing is a way for them to get outside the walls for awhile, if only on paper. I also do it because I think "there but for the grace of God go I," given my personal history and background.

Every time I go in to the prison to teach, I have to overcome some kind of hurdle. I don't just mean the hurdle of the entrance gate, where you must have on proper clothing (nothing low cut or sleeveless or form fitting and certainly not anything that is green), carry only your car keys and I.D., be able to remain quiet and patient when the officer behind the desk makes you wait for half and hour, and do not mind having your pockets searched or your entire body wanded. Once inside, you must still wait for doors to be buzzed open and gates to be remote clicked, and then, after you're passed those barricades and hurdles, be able to contain any residual rising panic about that you're walking alone in a prison in the dark and you don't know exactly where you're going or what will happen when you get there. Then your class begins and there are all these strange new faces and sometimes exotic names to learn and the need to not be boring. Nobody will let you know faster if you're a lousy teacher than an inmate. They smell fear and fake-ness faster than you can say one, two, three. They require you to be completely genuine, which is another hurdle for me.

Today I taught 4th and 5th graders in a workshop at a local elementary school. It's all part of a special day the school puts on alternate years called, "Do the Write Thing." I've been a participant for a long time now, ever since my now 23 year old son attended school there. My workshop is called "My Life, My Story," and I tell every kid in my class they've got a story simply because they're alive. Using prompts I've created, the kids write about their pets, their vacations, their brothers and their sisters, and their parents. Today one child wrote an entertaining James Thurber type of tale about her mom who snores in front of the tv, while another wrote about her heroic pregnant mother who pulled her and her little brother out of an icy pit they'd tumbled into this past winter on their sleds. The mother passed them down a rubber garden hose and while they clung on to it for dear life, hauled them up. Take that, Jack London.

Before "Do the Write Thing" started, I was dreading the day. It's late March now but still snowing and merely leaving the house is both a hurdle and a chore. But then the young children gathered around their desks and pulled out their pencils and their composition books and I conjured up my teacher self and we started talking. Within minutes, the kids were busy writing. They wrote for the better part of an hour and then shared. Well, not everybody shared, but everyone wrote and they wrote pages and pages. The words just poured out. Not unlike the prison ladies, the kids showed me that you really can write through your hurdles, despite the reality they keep coming on.