We Learn What We Live

The assignment had been innocuous enough. Mr. St. Pierre had issued a prompt such as “A Day in Your Life,” or “Childhood Memories,” or some other generic kick starter. I remember arriving at class the following week with two double spaced pages, an unusually short piece for me. I also remember that writing those two pages had been almost effortless--also unusual for me and a sign, I suppose, of how well I knew the subject matter. More than anything, I remember the fear. As I climbed the stairwell late on that April afternoon, I was struck by the realization that I was about to share something I’d only ever shared with my wife, and even then, I’d held back. But I’d held nothing back from the short story I now carried in my backpack. Could I share it with a group of people I barely knew? Should I? At some point during the evening, Mr. St. Pierre would read my story to the class, and although he presented all work anonymously, deciphering who wrote what always proved easy and would prove especially easy for this piece, for in it I described myself as a little boy and I happened to be the lone male among eleven students.

     I’d been happy with the story until now, but until now I’d been focused on the writing more than the content. Now the time had come for me to own the content and I felt that familiar emptiness in my belly. It had come on suddenly, a weak, hollow feeling like that which hypoglycemia patients experience, only I wasn’t hypoglycemic, I was terrified--more terrified of sharing my story than anything I’d ever done. Neither my first time on-air as a radio DJ or my first time on stage as a comedian had panicked me like the thought of walking into that classroom and having my assignment read aloud. Not even my first kiss had matched this moment for pure anxiety. I suddenly wished that I’d never signed up for this class. Or returned to school, for that matter.

     I’d recently re-enrolled at Granite State College after having dropped out the previous summer when my marriage dissolved. Friends had tried to stop me from quitting. “Stay in school, Trav; it will keep you busy, take your mind off things.” But with two young daughters, legal bills, child support, two jobs, an estranged wife I still loved and an employer who gave me daily panic attacks, academic success didn’t seem likely. I did not return to school in the fall. Didn’t know if I ever would. Wasn’t sure that I cared. My attitude underwent a dramatic change, however, when my first student loan bill arrived a few months later. I read the amount due with tears in my eyes, for I could not pay even a portion of it. Knowing that a return to school would defer my loans, I decided to try once more for my degree. I’d have to go further into debt--much further into debt--but at least I wouldn’t have any monthly payments for a while. And so it happened that my inability to afford college kept me from quitting college—a strange and unfavorable situation, but one that would eventually propel me to a B.A.

     My motivation for continuing my education may have been less than virtuous, but I looked forward to getting back into the classroom, one of the few places where I’d always felt comfortable. As an adult I found that I liked the structure that coursework gave to my life, as it forced me to read, write and learn every day, or close to every day. Too, I enjoyed the challenge of tests and quizzes, and to have my thoughts and intelligence count for something was a type of satisfaction I never found in my work as a waiter, except when I had occasion to perform a bit of improvisational comedy for guests. Of the courses I’d taken at Granite State, I enjoyed writing and literature courses best, and so was very excited to see Creative Writing among the spring semester offerings, even more excited to discover that Jim St. Pierre would teach the class. I’d taken several of Jim’s English classes over the years and liked him very much. In addition to his work as a Granite State faculty member, this bespectacled, congenial thirty-something headed the English Department at nearby Fryeburg Academy. Jim was an exceptional teacher, a discovery I’d made during my very first course with him, one of those garden variety composition courses that’s mandatory for all students. We were a dozen adult learners of diverse ages, backgrounds, skills and interest, yet we all improved under Jim’s tutelage. He knew his subject well and forced us to work hard, and I appreciated his in-depth criticism of my writing, although hearing it often pained me. When Jim spent 20 minutes spewing the verbal equivalent of red ink at my first essay of the semester, I wrote careful notes on what he said while I silently seethed, something I did quite often during those first few classes. But I used my frustration to power my keyboard, and as the weeks passed I grew more and more encouraged as Jim’s reviews grew less and less critical. Finally, on the semester’s final day, Jim was reading my essay to the class when he paused halfway through page two, shook his head and looked across the table at me. “You could publish this,” he said, and I clenched my teeth to hold back tears of joy.

     While chipping away at my degree over the next several years, I took as many of Jim’s classes as I could. I gave him my very best work, always, and his growing enthusiasm for me as a writer gave me the courage to take risks that I otherwise would never have considered. But no risk I’d ever taken compared to the risk implicit in my two double-spaced pages.

     At the top of the stairwell, I stopped and pretended to read a bulletin board, gazing unfocused at old registrar’s notices and handwritten fliers while I contemplated turning around and going home. When I heard a young woman’s voice say, “Hi Travis.” I turned to see Beth, a classmate, cresting the top stair. I gave a small wave and forced a smile, then turned back to the bulletin board and listened to the click of Beth’s heels fade down the hall as a new wave of dread washed over me. Couldn’t sneak out now; I’d been seen. What to do? I decided to tell Jim that I didn’t feel well, then go home, but I talked myself out of this idea when I realized that he’d still ask for my assignment. Next, I contemplated telling him that I had nothing prepared. This seemed like the perfect solution. Oh sure, my grade might take a hit, but I could offer to write two pieces instead of the usual one for next week. Writing two short stories in a week would be easy. But I dismissed this idea too when I realized that I could never bring myself to lie. After a time, I became aware of silence and looked around to discover the stairs and halls had emptied. Classes had begun, and I walked on.

ENGLISH 640 began like always, with Jim saying hello, collecting our assignments and making small talk that soon morphed into a discussion of the book we'd been reading for class, Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. We talked about the latest chapter and concluded, as we always did, that Anne Lamott is a genius. The book is Lamott's attempt at a guide to writing, and it is engaging and thoughtful, filled with personal anecdotes and great suggestions. Bird by Bird flows so smoothly and is so entertaining that it makes writing seem the easiest thing in the world, even as the author herself is doing her damnedest to warn you that the opposite is true.  Our weekly canonization of Anne Lamott complete, Jim grabbed the small stack of stories from the corner of his desk and said, “Let's get started, shall we?”

     For an hour or so I enjoy a stay of execution and remain relatively calm as I listen to Jim read several of the other students' stories. Class discussion follows each piece. As usual, the student comments range from simplistic: “That was really good; I liked it a lot,” to insightful: “I had a hard time following the transition from the summer camp scene to the trip with the grandparents.” Jim facilitates the conversation with thoughtful questions. “What did you think of the author's use of smells and sounds?” “Did the opening paragraph capture your attention?” “Are the verbs strong?” He offers his professional insights on each piece, in addition to providing impromptu, as-needed lessons on grammar. “Adverbs are not our friends,” he reminds us, again.

     My story is the fifth of the night. Jim begins reading and I stare down at my notebook and try to control my breathing as my body surges with fear, shame, embarrassment and despair. Each emotion jerks me with its own gravitational pull and I worry that I might break down. I hear Jim reading aloud but I cannot listen for the confrontation taking place in my head.  What the hell was I thinking when I wrote this drivel? What exactly was I trying to prove? Why does any of this crap matter anymore, if it ever did? I move my hands to my lap and pick at my thumb nail, trying to tear it off, and when that doesn't work I drive one thumb nail deep beneath the other to feel the pain. Then I realize my elbows are tight against my sides and it occurs to me that I'm essentially hugging myself and I get angry because I'm a crybaby. I'm the drama queen my boss tells me I am.  I grab my pen and start doodling in my notebook as I jam my other hand under my thigh, then I hear Jim read “fuck” for the first time and I'm impressed that the word doesn't throw him.  He's got the matter-of-fact tone of a news reporter and his inflections are perfect and I think that he could probably make good money recording audio books. Another “fuck” and a “bastard” and Jim still hasn't flinched, but I hate hearing the words and get angry at myself again for such a gratuitous display in my writing. Or maybe I'm angry because people will think it's gratuitous, even though it's really not. It can't be gratuitous if it's true to life, can it? And it is true to life, every four-letter word of it. Still, I worry that people will think I'm just looking for attention. They're probably staring at me out the corners of their eyes, thinking, “Get over yourself, you're not the only one with problems.” I know this is what they're thinking and I want to run out the door and never come back but I'm frozen with fear. I continue to grip my pen but my hand has stopped moving and I'm completely still but for my chest which moves up and down beneath my blue sweatshirt. I remember again to focus on my breathing. It's a good distraction technique, but you must focus for it to work and look how quickly I forgot. Oh my God, it's so hard to do. Jim reads more expletives and they're horrible. It's sacrilege to have such vulgarities uttered in a classroom and I'm ashamed to have written them, ashamed that my classmates are being forced to hear them and ashamed that Jim is being forced to read them. I think of the irony that my stand-up routine contained no curse words. Then Jim reads the worst part of all. It's only a short paragraph but it seems to last forever, each word pounding me with the weight of its shame, beating me into my chair. I'm a child again, lying in my bed, flinching with every syllable. But there's no blanket for me to hide under, no pillow to muffle the sound. I clutch the soft fabric of my pant leg instead. “You son of a whore, you! You fuckin little bastard! Have a little snack last night, did ya? You're gonna weigh four hundred fuckin pounds before you're done. You'll be wearing a bra, your tits will be so fuckin big.” Jim reads the last line which reveals my identity. I lay down my pen and move both hands beneath the desk to hide their tremble.

     The classroom is silent.

     I feel a tear on my cheek and reach up to adjust my glasses to disguise wiping it away.

     No one speaks and I stare at the open notebook in front of me and I'm scared for what I've done. Please, somebody talk, I think, but the silence is so complete that I can hear my jagged breathing through my nose. I keep my head down and my shame rises inside of me until I think I might puke it onto my desk. The only professions I know much about are radio and comedy, two art forms where silence means death, and this silence feels much worse than death. The awful quiet lasts perhaps five seconds, maybe eight.  Maybe ten. An eternity of silence. Finally, I hear a woman sniffle. I sneak a sideways glance and see my classmates crying.

     This is how I learned that I'd been abused. I was thirty-eight years-old.