Room 203--the lights are off, the door is locked. Creative Writing in the hallway?
A kind-faced, white-haired woman begins to enter Room 202, and stops to ask if I'm waiting for someone.
"Well, I'm teaching, and my classroom is locked."
"Oh," she says, abruptly backing away from Room 202, "Oh, 202, 203! You must be Amanda, then. I'm Joan. Let's see, I might have a key... might have a key, but I don't know if it works! We'll see."
Joan jingles her keys and jiggles one in the lock. Tadah! We enter.
Two younger girls also, at some distance apart. One sits on chair by the wall, and the other sits near my things I've set down. Chairs line the walls around the room, a broken podium leans against a chair near the door, and I pull a short table over to an L shape of chairs. One of the table legs promptly falls off. I reposition the leg and tell everyone we can sit around the table for some community.
Am I flustered? Probably not: these things happen... especially to me. I take comfort in the red, blue, green, and purple sunshine filtering through the stained-glass window at the far end of the room. I pull my binder with papers sticking out all over from my bag, some books, and a tupperware of red grapes.
"I brought some grapes," I smile, "Anyone can have some if you want," I smile. No one takes any grapes, but Joan smiles as I hand out my syllabus.
"Here's my sort of syllabus-thing," I say, "don't be daunted by it--it's just to keep me organized." I am not organized. I keep things filed in entropy. It'll be amazing if I can hand papers back to the right people when the time comes. For now it's just the four of us; I feel safe.
I try to break the ice with introductions, collecting name and email cards from everyone. I ask them to write a goal for the class--only Tiffany, attacking her note card with her pencil, writes one down. Sam sits quietly, trying not to make eye contact. I hope to get her smiling soon, but it could be a hard task.
I read through the syllabus, for some reason expecting them to converse with me about it. "Class Objectives: To develop and revise original writing... To read like a writer... anyone have any questions? Does that make sense?" I'm an idiot. Do they think I'm an idiot?
I explain personal canons and feel so incomprehensible. "Does that make senes?" They write down their favorite books. Joan and Tiffany have much to share... book titles, story plots, and favorite parts. Sam perks up a little, but speaks quietly, looking at her paper.
Finally, we free write about "A Place We Cannot Return To." We share again, and I know that Joan and Tiffany are eager writers. I know Sam will be, she just needs to find her images.
I want to give them my energy, focus, insight, and direction. My bucket's not very full yet, and that's why I'm grateful for them. and for their tentative reaches into the tupperware to snap off a crisp red grape or two.
but mostly grace. grace because i am new, young, and learning with everybody else. and i like grace best.
