“Mz. Raine, see—I got to pass this course. If . . .”
Larissa is earnest now, anxious. As we’ve been conferring together for the past several minutes, her bravado seems to have subsided.
“Larissa, writing isn’t about ‘passing a course.’ Writing is about communicating. I’m sure that, if we go through this paper line by line . . .”
“I done that.”
“All right, well now we can do it together. Each sentence, line by line . . .”
“Yes ma’am! You say so ma’am!”
Larissa laughs vehemently. Is she genuinely amused by my optimism, or is this adolescent sarcasm; is she disgusted with me, or is she actually hopeful? I invite Larissa to move her chair closer to the desk, and I edge my chair nearer as well. Together we look at her creased tablet papers, that glower dully in the fluorescent light; outside the high-ceilinged, not-clean window the November sky has turned to granite, dark and textureless. There has come a sudden light snowfall. Carefully I read Larissa’s faltering sentences aloud, and help her re-phrase them; working in this way, orally, Larissa isn’t so confused, nor so defensive. She seems to understand the nature of what a sentence and a paragraph are, at least while we’re working together.
This is going surprisingly well. The conference is really not so difficult or so arduous as I’d anticipated. I make suggestions, Larissa repeats the sentences, decides if this is what she means, and takes notes. Like an overgrown child she frowns and grunts with effort. It is not natural for her to focus so intently, I think. To use her eyes, to read. She grips her pen oddly, at an awkward angle in her right hand, the colorful fingernails impeding her ability to write, to a degree; but she perseveres. If she were another student I might joke about the glamorous fingernails that must get in the way of her using her fingers easily. I feel like a mother teaching a young child to walk, grasping her child’s wrists firmly; not daring to let go.
How old is Larissa Wikawaaya? Her mature-woman’s body with heavy hips and breasts make her appear older than her age, I think. She has probably been attractive to men since early adolescence. I’d thought she might be nearly my age but now I can see that she’s much younger, no more than twenty.
They seem less destructive, now—the hate-notes. If Larissa Wikawaaya is so young.
I seem to have decided not to bring up the subject. Not to accuse her. Not even to hint at what I suspect, or know.
It has begun to occur to me that Larissa Wikawaaya’s writing problems might be essentially reading problems, for she seems to have difficulty deciphering her own handwriting. I open our essay anthology, and ask her to read a few paragraphs from an essay we’d studied in class recently—from James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time.
In Detroit, in the aftermath of July 1967 when the black inner city erupted in flame, this classic essay has particular resonance.
“Nah.” Larissa’s skin flushes darker, her eyes dampen with resentment.
In a coaxing voice I say, “Please, Larissa. Just a few paragraphs. Just try.”
Larissa sighs loudly. She is looking very put-upon.
It seems clear that she hasn’t read the Baldwin essay. It is all utterly unfamiliar to her. Reading words aloud as if blindly—as if she has no idea what she is reading, what the words mean—she seems about to burst into tears. So haltingly does she manage to get through a paragraph, so frequently does she stammer and come to a full stop, I realize that she must be dyslexic.
Perhaps this is the root of the problem, the animosity Larissa Wikawaaya feels for her (white, woman) instructor is the animosity she feels for reading, for school and its frustrations and humiliations.
Miserably Larissa says, “Ma’am you lookin at me so close, that make me—nervous, like . . .”
I ask if she has had help with reading, any special classes in school, and Larissa replies with a shrug, maybe yes, maybe no, as if she doesn’t recall. She’s defensive now—she has graduated from high school, isn’t that sufficient?
“You may have a reading problem, Larissa, that’s essentially a neurological problem. You could get help, I could make arrangements . . .”
Larissa is looking embarrassed. Her brightly decorated fingernails are touchingly silly now, as she grasps the heavy paperback anthology in both hands, like a child who isn’t sure if she is loved. Her smooth forehead is crinkled in concern.
“‘Ner-o-’—what is that? Like, in the head?”
“‘Neurological.’ ‘Dyslexia.’ It’s very common, Larissa—a condition that scrambles letters and numerals and makes it difficult for you to read.”
“Jesus! That like—brain tumor?”
“No. Not at all. When you speak, you don’t seem to have much trouble organizing your thoughts . . .”
Larissa laughs, harshly. “They gon let me ‘speak’ my tests at the school here?—hell they ain’t.”
Larissa has been strangely restless during our conference. I think it isn’t just the intense concentration but another distraction—she has been glancing over her shoulder, at the door, increasingly as the minutes have passed.
As if she half expects someone to be there, in the doorway, or outside in the corridor.
The office door is closed over as I’d requested, but not shut. Figures have passed in shadowy silhouettes against the frosted upper pane of the window set in the door, but no one has approached the door, that I’ve noticed. By degrees, as students from late-afternoon classes have departed, sounds in the corridor have abated.
“Got to leave now, I guess. You be goin home now . . .”
It is true that my office hours have ended, a few minutes ago. But I have not suggested to Larissa that I am impatient to leave, or want her to leave.
This is puzzling: Larissa both wants to leave my office, but seems hesitant to leave.
I wonder if someone is indeed waiting for her. Out in the corridor, or downstairs. Outside Starret Hall. Somewhere.
Beyond the sprawling university campus with its tall arc lights is a war-zone urban neighborhood intersected by highways. Acres of land abandoned after the “riot” of July 1967. Broken pavement, boarded-up burnt-out buildings, vacant lots reverting to jungles of overgrown trees and vines. There is a particular sort of tree that grows in such detritus—ginkgo. A kind of tough garbage tree, dropping smelly, slimy seeds, plant-equivalent of catfish and other bottom-feeders. Yet the ginkgo is a survivor-tree—a living fossil. And its leaves can be beautiful in spring.
Abruptly at an embankment above the John Lodge Expressway the campus ends. There, a twelve-foot wire-mesh fence against which years of litter have been caught, and calcified.
Yet the human spirit is not extinguished even in such a place. Through a haze of gathering migraine pain, exacerbated by the subtly flickering fluorescent tubing overhead, in the presence of this person who, so unfairly, hates me, I believe this.
EARLY THAT AFTERNOON on a TV in the faculty lounge was news footage of Muslims rioting in a Middle Eastern city. I hadn’t time to look, hadn’t wished to see. Twenty or more people gathered around the TV, staring and appalled. What was this? Where was this? A man burned alive? We had all seen such footage at the time of the Vietnam War. We had seen too much, our souls have been sickened. On TV now, anything might be shown. There is no protection from it.
A tire had been thrown over a screaming man pursued by a crowd. The man was believed to be a native of the region, a Christian Iraqi. The tire had been doused with gasoline and set on fire by the shrieking mob, the man had died a hideous death: why?
Always, there are reasons. Reasons will be provided.
I had not looked. I rarely watch TV. My husband and I don’t own a TV at this (idealistic, naïve) time in our lives.
There was talk in the faculty lounge of a public stoning by Muslim fundamentalists, that had been broadcast recently as well. An “adulterous” couple, young man and young woman, very young, buried in the sand to their heads, killed by their fellow villagers by being struck with stones, rocks. Ho
w long would such a death take, you wonder. You hope it would be quick, a quick concussion, skull fracture and the oblivion of death.
You hope. You don’t want to know.
The horror of such violence washes over me, though I have not seen. I don’t want to know, still less do I want to see. Horror of such hatred, blind wish to punish, to kill, to annihilate—terrifying to me, and leaves me weak.
Hag lady. Think we gon hurt you.
Always there are reasons—“provocations.”
The TV commentators will explain. Professors at the university will explain. Ancient feuds, tribal hatreds, religious disputes, political disruption, refugees. This why is the account behind the immolation, and the stoning. Hatred of the Christian, and of the “adulterers.”
Stories that end where you think they should end are false stories. The only true story is the story that seems to have gone wrong, and resists its ending.
It is past 7:00 P.M. Arc lights penetrate the smoggy dark outside my single office window, amid a flurry of snow. Preparing to leave my office, Larissa moves slowly as if dazed. She is distracted and anxious. She mutters to herself, rubs at her eyes. She has put on her quilted purple coat with iridescent threads, but has not zipped it up, and now removes the coat, muttering it’s too hot. The paper we’d examined closely together she folded neatly, and put inside her shoulder bag. She has wanted me to see, to take note. But again I wonder—is Larissa mentally unbalanced? Is she drugged? Her young, heavy flesh doesn’t seem altogether healthy, possibly she has diabetes. Maybe she doesn’t know she has diabetes. She has been glancing anxiously at the door as if convinced that someone is out in the corridor.
Starret Hall at this hour is all but deserted. There is just one security guard on the first floor, I think.
When I say “Good night” to Larissa, she takes a faltering step toward the door, hunches her shoulders, and begins to cry.
In a sudden stricken convulsion, her body shuddering, and her face contracted like a baby’s—Larissa Wikawaaya begins to cry.
I am surprised—shocked. I ask Larissa what is wrong, but Larissa is trembling too badly to answer me.
“Oh, Larissa—what is it? Are you afraid of—someone?”
Vigorously Larissa shakes her head, no. She wipes her eyes, her runny nose. She is shivering, and sobbing.
I offer her a tissue—tissues. She is deeply embarrassed, and deeply agitated.
By now I am on my feet, alerted. I am taller than Larissa, and I feel older. I am obliged to be older.
Larissa insists no, no—it’s nothing. Larissa doesn’t intend to confide in me.
Says she’s damn sorry. Got to go, now.
“Please—would you like to tell me about it? Larissa? What is—making you unhappy?”
Larissa shakes her head more vehemently—no.
Somewhere she has to be, she says. Somewhere she’s late getting to.
Or—somebody who’s waiting for her. She’s got to get there right away . . .
I am thinking that Larissa might not have anywhere to go? Or, wherever she has to go is not a place she has chosen?
I ask her to tell me what is wrong. I ask her if I can help her. I don’t offer to call authorities—I know that would be a mistake. Inner-city blacks are not comfortable with the Detroit PD.
In my months teaching at Wayne State, nothing like this has happened to me before. In my entire teaching career of five years. A sudden emotional outburst in my presence, for no clear reason.
Though I have fantasized a confrontation with Larissa Wikawaaya, rehearsing appropriately dignified and irrefutable words, now that an emotional storm has broken, I am at a loss for words. I’m uncertain even what to do—whether to remain behind the desk that is a kind of protective shield, or to step out from behind it, and approach the stricken girl.
My instinct is to touch Larissa Wikawaaya, to clasp her hand or arm even as there comes a warning voice—Don’t touch! She doesn’t want your sympathy or pity. It will be a very bad mistake for you to touch Larissa Wikawaaya.
As if she hears this coolly admonitory voice Larissa mutters something apologetic. She is disgusted with—herself? She is deeply embarrassed. She has decided to bundle herself into the bulky quilted coat after all, that makes her look like a colorful upright dirigible. She fumbles with a glove, that falls to the floor.
Larissa is too bulky in the coat, to stoop for the glove. I pick up the glove and hand it to her. I tell Larissa that her coat is very becoming, and must be very warm.
Larissa stares at me as if she hasn’t heard me. Her eyes are widened with a kind of animal fright.
“I’ll walk with you, Larissa. It will be all right. I’ll walk with you downstairs . . . We won’t take the elevator.”
My teeth are chattering too. The fright is contagious!
The two of us in Starret Hall, fourth floor—not a good idea. Two women, and all of the offices and classrooms shut up for the night. More than once the thought has come to me in this dreary desolate place—How vulnerable I am, in this old building. At this hour of night. Who could get to me in time, if I needed help? Who would even hear me? But now, with Larissa Wikawaaya, I’m determined to walk her safely down three flights of stairs.
We won’t take the elevator. It’s slow-moving, its interior covered in graffiti, always breaking down and used mostly by handicapped students in wheelchairs. And ill-smelling.
And someone might get into the elevator with us on the next floor down.
In the corridor Larissa heads blindly for the EXIT sign—the stairs.
No one is here. At least, no one is visible.
A corridor of darkened offices, fluorescent lights wanly burning. At the far end of the corridor, a shadowy dead-end. Fourth floor of Starret Hall is a kind of no-man’s-land: no classrooms but only the (shared) offices of adjuncts.
I am wondering: Should I touch Larissa? ( Just her shoulder, a wrist?) Is this a mistake? Or—not a mistake?
My hand reaches out to her—I am touching Larissa’s shoulder. Not firmly, only tentatively. Not sure that she has even noticed, in the bulky coat. (But of course she has noticed. The touch is startling, unexpected.) Larissa is still sobbing, muttering to herself. She is insisting that there is nothing wrong, and that I don’t have to come with her any farther. She is sounding a little angry, now. Indignant. Embarrassed. Apologizing for “bawlin like a damn baby”—and I am telling her there is nothing to apologize for.
Still, she’s afraid of something—someone. Staring down the stairwell. I’m wondering if I should lead her. If I should take her hand.
And this is what I do: I take Larissa Wikawaaya’s not-compliant hand, which is a warm, pudgy hand. We descend the stairs together, two more flights down. The stairs are littered, gritty. The fluorescent lights flicker. Someone shouts below, and we both flinch—but it is nothing. I am telling Larissa about the next essay assignment in our class, which I think will be of interest to her—Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
As we descend to the first floor, where there are more night school students, Larissa begins to seem embarrassed that she’s being noticed. Her tear-glittering face, her halting manner on the stairs. She pulls her hand from mine. Her eyes are downcast. She hopes not to see anyone who knows her. Walking with me, her (white, woman) instructor! At the outer door, she hesitates. The cold air strikes our faces. Larissa’s breath steams faintly. She is eager to slip away from me, and yet hesitant; her narrowed dark eyes dart about, as if she’s looking for someone out there . . . When I ask if I should walk with her to a parking lot, or a bus stop, she shakes her head no. When I ask if I should call a taxi, for which I will pay the fare, she shakes her head emphatically no.
Then she’s outside, walking hurriedly away. Purple quilted coat, knee-high boots, cornrowed hair bristling around her head.
“Good-bye! Good night. . . .”
Larissa doesn’t glance back at me but lifts her gloved hand in a gesture of acknowledgment and farewell t
hat seems to me friendly, almost sisterly.
But I will be so very disappointed: Larissa Wikawaaya never returns to our class.
2. MARCH 1985. EDSEL PARK, MICHIGAN
At Quest Laboratories on Woodward Avenue, just above Eight Mile Road in the Detroit suburb of Edsel Park, I am told to take a number and wait.
How busy the place is! The waiting room is alarmingly crowded.
There’s a smell of disinfectant, panic. Children fretting, and several crying. From where I am seated I can see a child of three or four screaming in terror as a nurse tries to draw blood from his tiny arm.
It’s a painful sight. The mother and the nurse try to hold the child down. The mother pleads with him, scolds. This won’t hurt, don’t be a baby, the nurse is using a baby-needle, see?—but the child, knowing better, continues to scream. As I wait for my number to be called, another child begins to cry. I am being made to feel shaky, anxious. I am thinking Children should be protected from such fear. We should all be protected.
Why am I here! It is a mistake, I think.
Yet, I won’t leave. I dare not leave. I have a prescription for blood work that is already dated twenty-two days ago.
“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”
One of the medical staff approaches me, warily. In an unwitting gesture of dismay I’ve hidden my face in my hands.
Quickly and courteously I say no, nothing is wrong.
I smile to indicate that I don’t mind waiting. Or—I might mind waiting, but I am determined to be stoical.
I’ve brought work with me, I don’t intend to waste time. Hoping to blot out the cries of terrified children. The air of barely constrained chaos in this crowded place.
I no longer live in Detroit, but I have returned to Detroit for the spring term 1985 as a visiting “distinguished” professor at Marymount College. There, I’ve been teaching a graduate seminar in “Linguistics and Gender.” I am no longer a young woman but I am no longer a desperate young adjunct instructor uncertain of a future.
Beautiful Days: Stories Page 12