A Long
but Important Story, with a Resting-Place Built Into it
Note: It is one of our most empirically solid beliefs
that one's attention wavers a little, even when the material is
of top quality. Why just now I was reading Franny and Zooey,
and I must confess I don't remember much from the second half of
Franny's description of the Jesus Prayer. With this in mind, we
have included a row of asterisks (****...) at the point where your
mind can wander a little without missing much of the very sincere,
very important message. When you see a second row of asterisks,
you should probably refocus your attention. This piece is by a new
writer named Kale Goodwin.
"Developmental"
I was hired at 11:15 AM on the basis of a phone call
only. It seems that Eastgate Community College had started up a
semester of Developmental Writing without acquiring the necessary
instructors. All that was needed was a BA in English. Two younger
girls, who were also students there, would be my subordinates.
An office would be granted to me, and this was at
least as unusual as the fact of my being hired so readily. To be
fair, the office was really a desk and terminal set apart from two
other associates by a tall wooden partition. But it was an office
to me, and for a very recent graduate there was a sense of prestige.
The real office was occupied by Gary Olson, the director of Developmental
Programs and my immediate supervisor.
Olson was an amateur linguist and, judging by the
content of his master's thesis, as religious as a conservative educator
usually is. He stood nearly a foot above me and sported a permanent
half-grin and a tidy head of ashen hair.
My second day at work made me aware of the office's
chief drawback: it was located on the fourth floor at a time before
full implementation of the Americans with Disabilities Act, which
would have required an elevator. My only pertinent disability, I
should say, is my pack-a-day smoking habit. The third trip I had
to take down those stairs and then up again persuaded me to leave
this pernicious behavior behind, and I can proudly say I haven't
struck the flint of a lighter since.
My third day brought me face-to-face with the possibility
that I could not do this job. What happened was that a 40-ish woman
came in and asked for the usual: help with English homework. A cursory
interrogation revealed that this woman, far from being "understandably
hesitant about writing at the college level" (as I usually
characterize developmental students), had never been taught to read.
Here was I, prepared to discuss the Parts of Speech and their Synergistic
Relations, and hoping to move within a week to the Principles of
Sentence Fluidity. And here was this woman with a craving to catch
up with her children's children. It was, decidedly, a job best delegated
to Mr. Olson.
***************************
Olson separated the woman from the other students
waiting for help. I assigned them the usual drills on computer programs,
which I found woefully inadequate and which I was amazed that a
top-notch community college still employed.
Passing by the private classroom awhile later, I noticed
that Mr. Olson had written the alphabet on a chalkboard and was
drilling Mary, the illiterate woman, on the sounds made by each
of the symbols represented. It gave me a strange and humble pleasure
to realize that there was little more "to it" than that.
***************************
On my fourth day, I nearly hung up my proverbial hat
in despair of having presumed that I could even address, much less
handle, the complex needs of this community. What happened was that
a young man named Dylan made an ordinary request; namely, that I
look over a paper he had written so that he could improve it before
turning it in. Thus far, I was on familiar turf.
The paper was a narrative in which Dylan's brother
is shot in the neck by gang members who then stole his cellular
phone.
Dylan's grammar was tolerably good; with work, he
would be one of my best students. I made what comments I diplomatically
could and suggested what seemed to me a fair process for revising
the piece, but mostly offered camaraderie. It turns out there is
much more to writing than words, and much more to insight than cleverness.
I do not know what happened to Dylan's brother or
to Mary, only what happened to me and what is still happening.
.
