Summer
2014
Dear Class,
Sam
Watson, a colleague of mine in the English department and a great teacher, once
wrote, “A class is not something I teach.
It is something we make together.”
I think Sam is right about that.
If we don’t show up for class, then there’s no class. But showing up is also more than being
physically in our seats. In order to really make a class together we must bring
who we are as well, our histories, our current incarnation, and our visions of
who we want to become. Before I can
teach this class then, I need to know something about who you are as a person,
a thinker, and a teacher; and you need to know something about me. So I’m writing this letter to let you know
something about me. And after you read
the letter I want you to write a letter back—just as full and thoughtful as you
can make it—that tells me about you.
So
who am I bringing to this class?
Well,
that’s not such an easy question to answer.
I grew up in the piedmont of South
Carolina, in what was then a small town, Aiken. Aiken is known for its “winter residents”—the
rich folk who live in big mansions during the Christmas season, play polo on
Sundays, and ride beautiful horses through Hitchcock Woods, a massive wooded
park that sits in the middle of town.
The horses are the reason that even today Aiken has many dirt
roads. My family was part of the
locals. But because my Dad was the only obstetrician
in the entire county, we were “known.”
Still today, I am introduced in Aiken as Doctor Borop’s daughter. I can’t leave the grocery store without being
shown pictures of everyone’s children and hearing the story of their births
(some of which should not be repeated).
I didn’t experience my growing up as being privileged, though now I
realize it was. A few years ago, I went
back to Aiken for my (don’t tell anybody) 30th high school
reunion. Out of 376 people, about 100
actually came. One was my good friend
Dawn, who knew or remembered almost everyone, while I could only remember a
handful. About half way through the
evening, I asked Dawn how she knew so many classmates. She answered, “Lil, don’t you remember? I was in the low sections with most all of
the students. You were in the smart,
college bound class.” While I didn’t see
myself then as “smart,” I realize now that my experience of school was very
different than Dawn’s. I knew I was
going to college and I had my pick of all the schools I applied to. Dawn barely could get into a community
college program to become a licensed professional nurse. Her parents were
reluctant to spend money on a girl going to college (after all, they would say,
she is going to get married). I saw the world as open to me; Dawn married the
guy she dated in high school who managed the local McDonald’s.
I
went to Converse College to major in music. I thought I wanted to be a concert pianist or
bassoonist until I discovered what that meant.
I knew my sophomore year that I had developed a bad attitude about
music. It came to me during one of those
2 a.m. fire drills. I noticed several of the women walking out
with their cellos or clarinets. I was
hoping that my bassoon would burn up in the flames so I wouldn’t have to
practice. The next day I changed my
major to English, not because I loved it, but because I had taken more English
than anything else so I could finish the major and still graduate on time. I had taken those English courses because I
had this secret desire to become a poet.
I
went to graduate school to escape boredom.
I had married this rich guy who had decided to go to graduate school to
escape work. After spending a few months sitting around our one-bedroom
apartment—you could vacuum the entire place without unplugging the machine—I
realized the life of the socialite was not all it was cracked up to be, so I
enrolled in school to have something to do.
I didn’t like it much, until I met Joe Murphy—the writer and poet. He was the first professor who became my
friend. He was the first professor who
gave me the confidence that I could write.
When
my loser husband decided he needed to continue escaping work by seeking a Ph.D.
in (of all things) marriage and family counseling, I decided to teach
school. I taught 8th, 11th,
and 12th grade English and coached junior high and high school
girls’ basketball in a small town, Class B, high school in Celeste, Texas
(population 719). The school was all
that was left of the town, since the bank was robbed and pulled out. There was one Mobil station and the Chat ‘N
Chew—the local restaurant and gathering place.
The town lived basketball—Girls’ Basketball. I was lucky—my year, we had the state
championship basketball team—won the state by one point. I never worked harder
in my entire life. I also knew that I
should quit while I was on top. So I had
to find a place to hide out from all those superintendents who were calling
saying, “Ain’t you that coach up at CeeLess?
Well, we don’t need no English teacher at this school, but we sure do
need a basketball coach.”
I
had some real questions I knew needed answering. How and why should children learn to write
when their lives would remain on a small dirt farm near the Oklahoma border? In other words, why does writing our stories
matter? I decided to go back to school
to work on my doctorate in order to answer this question. I went to Texas A&M, Commerce. This time I had direction. I wasn’t going to play school and just do
time. I was going to show up—be there—I
was really going to learn something. No
more bull. No more being a nice girl. No
more being someone’s wife or daughter.
It was here that I discovered the subjects that I wanted to write about
and the people who wanted to hear what I had to say. It was here that I published my first poem
and my first academic article. It was
here that I claimed my mind, my words, and my life.
I
got my degree, left the creepy husband and went to UNC-Wilmington as an
assistant professor to direct their writing program. I would have stayed there forever except that
one day it snowed. It snowed 17inches in
Wilmington and
I was stuck for an entire day by myself.
I thought, “Lil, when you are old and gray and looking back on your
life, do you want to say—‘I lived my entire life in Wilmington.’?” Think about it a minute: What writer do you know who spent her entire
life living in Wilmington? I wanted to be able to say that I lived in Paris and New York—so I set out to
do just that: to have an adventure.
I
lived in New York City
in Greenwich Village for six years. I taught at New York University
directing their Writing Program. I
published two books. I wrote furiously,
mainly academic things. New York does that to
you. You have to learn to live
differently there. No one has a
car. Space is small. You buy what you
want to eat for supper at the local shop on your way home from work. There is no Harris Teeter or Food Lion, no
grocery cart or trunk to fill. You buy what you could carry in your hands
walking home. New York is a place where you have to think
to live. I guess that is why so many
writers go there.
I married again—a wonderful man—an English
professor. He got me out of “The City”
to Albany,
where I taught at SUNY-Albany for 12 years.
We created a lovely daughter and wrote two books together. We came to Charlotte four years ago. We wanted to leave the cold winters. We wanted to come home.
I
approach every semester full of excitement and of possibility. I feel my year is beginning: a new year of new people and new ideas. I have to admit that I also feel a little
apprehensive. I wonder about how or if
our class will become a community of learners.
I want my classes to be places that we all want to come to—where no one
is doing time. And my true hope is that
this class may be the place where everyone claims their minds, their words, and
their lives.
Sincerely,
Lil
Brannon
http://mbaxley1uncc1.blogspot.com/
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