Zadie Smith Reading Programme

I learned the other night, again, that I don’t know anything about literature.

On New Year’s Day, Everyone’s On a Diet

Three years ago, when I met William, he reminded me of Francis Tarwater, the protagonist of the Flannery O’Connor novel The Violent Bear It Away, which I was reading that fall.  Tarwater is raised in the woods by his great-uncle, an unhinged, deeply superstitious Christian who believes Tarwater will grow up to be a prophet.  When the old man dies, Tarwater must re-enter society after being sequestered in the woods for most of his life, and he’s terrified.  He trusts no one.

The first day William showed up to my class, he took a seat near the window and slouched down in his seat.  From here, he could see the Brevoort Houses, where he lived.  He had covered the front of his notebook with the word Brevoort and the name of a well-known crime syndicate associated with it.  His feline face was stony.  In crossing the street to come to school, it seemed he’d entered enemy territory.

We soon learned that William was merry and affable, that when he trusted you, he loved you. 

It’s Everywhere

I had coffee yesterday with a student of mine who just graduated—she’s off to college upstate in a few days.  (Does this make her my student emeritus?)  She’s a lovely, poised, sincere girl named Olivia.  I had planned to give her the “Lady Goes to College” talk: Don’t let anyone hand you a drink, don’t drink to get drunk, always walk home with your girls, if a boy says it’s too cold to walk back to his dorm from yours, don’t buy it, etc.  Olivia turned out to be—as I suspected—quite level-headed and informed about all of it, and she claims she doesn’t even like to drink.  (!)

Then we started talking about sexual harassment.  This, it seemed, wasn’t something she would be able to avoid, like getting falling-down drunk and waking up under a coffee table. 

Hi again!

Sigh.  Apologies for updating this so rarely.  I wonder if, like Meghan Daum, I am just not a blogger.  I’ve been writing (though not as much as I should, or certainly as I’d like), but it’s all short stories.  And long stories.  I’ve got five or six on burners and more stashed in files, hibernating.

And I’ve been busy.

Scenes at a Museum

Scene 1:

I never thought I’d be listening to Karen Finley talk about her “twat” in the context of a museum field trip, with 14-year-olds.

In the “Looking at Music 3.0” exhibit at MoMA this afternoon, Corey says, all jumpy, “Claire!  You gotta come listen to something!”

Short story published in the Santa Fe Writers Project Journal!

A short story of mine, “A Beautiful Evening,” was published November 2, online,  in the Santa Fe Writers Project Journal (click here to read).  Many thanks to the lovely Andrew Gifford for publishing it.

My short story “You Fox” was short-listed as a finalist in the Santa Fe Writers Project fiction contest last month, judged by Robert Olen Butler.  (I’ve entered that story into Narrative Magazine’s “30 Below” contest, too, so cross your fingers!)

Say What

Well, fuck me.  Somebody went and found some rabbits up in here.

This morning, I’m surveying a room of 26 teenagers in the half-light, bent over their paperbacks, sustaining their silent reading.  Some of them have chosen well – a juicy YA romance here, Twilight there – and a few struggle nobly, having erred and plucked the random Kafka or Camus from the pile.  No one talks, no one sleeps.  This is what it’s like the first day: no fast moves.

And Kellye Washington walks in.  Kellye Washington!  The most defiant, flinty student I have ever taught! (See previous entry.)  My blood turns to ice.  I play it cool.

No Rabbits Up in Here

I was in a semi-fancy luggage store the other day in the hopes that something nice had gone on sale.  The nice Korean man who owns the store was chatting with me, and I mentioned that I was a teacher.  What grade? High school, I told him.  Oh, he nodded, eyes wide.  Wow.  I smiled.  Where do you teach? In Brooklyn, I said.  Bed Stuy.  Do you know Bed Stuy?  His eyes widened again.  Wow, he repeated.  Very rough area, no? I never know what to say to this question.  Sure, I said.  But they’re kids, like anywhere else.  They’re tough there, no? he asked, imagining the movies.  No, I said.  Not really.  They’re all soft on the inside.  They just want to succeed, like anyone else.

In my five years of teaching, this has always been true.  Even the scariest, nuttiest, hardest cases – I could always see the bunny rabbit inside, looking for love.  It was just a matter of finding a way in – I was sure everyone could be whispered to.  I was sure everyone had a rabbit inside that responded to ordinary love and safety.

That is, until today.

New Air (part four: the end)

The last day of the semester is always a let-down.  I usually imagine some satisfying coda to the semester, and it always ends up being anticlimactic.  Some kids are absent; some kids STILL don’t turn in the missing essay(s), and you realize you might have to give them an F.  Everyone is antsy, anticipating the brief vacation.

Final speeches were due on the last day. 

I’m Gonna Write a Different Speech (part three)

It wasn’t the first time a conflict had erupted with boys from the projects across the street, but it doesn’t happen often.  Usually, the threat is worse than the event.  Usually, some combination of peace-keeping peers and school staff snuff it out.  But this, three floors below, looked like chaos.  R.D., a willowy, charismatic boy, is notorious for doing things like flashing signs and shouting, “Crips for life!” to the Bloods across the street when they stroll back and forth making threats.  He thinks in terms of armies: us against them.  For years, we’ve been fighting to keep his head in school while the street beckons; it looked like we were about to lose the battle.