In giving them some guidance, I encourage them to be honest. We read a few interesting essays and articles by college administrators about the dos and don’ts on admission essay writing. Even so, I know some of them will still go home and write something like “Being captain of the soccer team taught me a lot about myself.”
Many of the essay topics are the same from university to university. They ask the applicant to talk about a moment of personal discovery or a “setback.” As a teacher of literature, I see it as the university asking about one moment or event where the applicants lost their innocence, or at least part of it. For these essays, so many of my students talk about a time when, for whatever reason, they realized the world was not the easy, fun-loving place they thought it was.
Rebecca Adler wrote about her eating disorder, which I had always worried about with her. She said for years she thought that there were two factors in her life that meant everything: the number on the scale and how other people saw her. Now after diligently working with a therapist, a dietitian, and a physician, she is back on track. She said now she focuses her “control” on school and other healthy forms of competition. At one point in her essay she wrote, “If my mind has the power to make my organs fail, then all factors of my life can be manifested in a constructive way.” After I read this sentence I just had to stare at it for a while. People spend a lifetime using their brains to make decisions that hurt their bodies. As a junior in high school she’s realized that her brain is a powerful force—so powerful it can seriously hurt her, but now she’s turned a corner. She’s not even eighteen yet. Over this sentence I write, “You are so smart.”
Emma Dorset wrote about losing her mom to cancer, which I never knew. The question asked about a setback and how you “resolved” it. Emma wrote, “It seems odd to try to describe how I have resolved the death of my mother.” I write, “Yes, amazing point.” Resolution is a stupid word to use when talking about death, whether it is of a mother or a spouse, or at least that’s how I’ve always felt about it. But instead of saying, Yes, I have resolved the death of my mother by appreciating each day more and not taking things for granted, she says, No, it can’t be resolved. It is irresolvable. And she’s right. It can’t be fixed. But she doesn’t wallow in this. She goes on to describe her life now. She admires her dad and helps her sister, because her mom would be terribly disappointed if she didn’t.
I half-expected Leah Simon’s essay to be some sort of protest against the idea of evaluating a person based on one story. With her reputation for being blunt, cunning, and horribly inappropriate, I thought it might start with something like “This writing prompt can lick it.” But she didn’t. Instead she wrote about a tradition that was important to her. When she was little, at Christmas all of her cousins and she would try to find the “glass pickle ornament” hidden on the Christmas tree at her grandma’s house. All of the kids loved the glass-pickle hunt, and all of the aunts and uncles would take pictures and then the grandma would tell the story of the glass-pickle ornament to a floor full of squirming children. It is a beautiful opening paragraph; she uses vivid imagery and creates an overall feeling of her childlike contentment for the tradition. The second paragraph reads, “As their adorable young toddlers turned into rebellious teenagers, the tradition began to die. Half of the family would be missing due to a divorce in the family. There would be too much arguing for there to be laughing and sharing stories. The holiday times became a hassle, and rather than looking forward to it for weeks, I hoped I got the flu so I could stay home.” I didn’t write anything on her paper initially because it was fucking perfect. I wish I could have said that to Leah on Monday; no student would appreciate my use of a swear word in a compliment more than Leah. She is willing to admit that there was something in her life that brought her an innocent joy and with time, it died. I want to underline the part about the flu and write, “I can completely relate.”
There are others that are just as good as these. Some of the best essays don’t talk about death, disease, or divorce at all. Andrea Davenport wrote about her teeth. When she was little, her teeth were so bad she was ostracized from social groups and stripped of all potential friendships in grades three through five. Then she got her teeth fixed and everything changed. She talks about how she realized how superficial people really are, even though we try so hard to convince ourselves we’re not.
For four years I try to get them to see this happening in literature. Everyone, no matter who we are or where we come from, goes through something where we realize … what? Hard truths. People die. Parents fall out of love. Parents were never in love. Holidays suck. Friends are mean people too. Didn’t they get this when Gene jounces the branch and sends his best friend crashing to the ground? When Roger kills Piggy? When Romeo and Juliet commit suicide? In The Color Purple, Celie gets raped on page one, for crying out loud. Almost every protagonist or main character that we have read about since the ninth grade dies. So what am I teaching them? What are the themes in literature that carry over to actual life? Equality is only a dream. Negative behavior always repeats itself. Evil conquers good. People die. We are powerless. Even when we make choices, we are still powerless.
But there’s more to it than the cold realities that we have to deal with as adults. I want my students to see the symbols in their own lives, how there are things that are more than just things, there are things that hold meaning. I want my students to learn that life can change if they want it to. I want them to know that language limits our understanding, and words like family and resolution aren’t as simple as we think. I want them to see that authors and real people make choices that can change the course of where you go and how you feel. I want my students to see that sometimes fiction has answers because our own lives don’t, and sometimes we like seeing things resolved in books because the reality is, it’s the only time where problems end neatly or where problems end at all. I want my students to see books as a way to learn about other people and other worlds, but also as a place to learn about themselves.
How would I write a college essay today? Describe a setback you have had in your life. How did you resolve it? But it seems that the first thing you realize when you lose your innocence or come face-to-face with the reality of life is that some things don’t get resolved. In A Separate Peace, Gene Forrester, the narrator, is best friends with Finny. Through the first few chapters, however, the reader realizes that it’s not the best friendship. Gene has this strange hate for Finny. Finny is perfect at everything and Gene articulates his feelings as “enmity.” In the midst of their summer session at Devon School, Gene, Finny, and a few other friends are climbing a tree and jumping into the Devon River. Finny is out on the end of the branch, preparing himself to jump, when Gene, who is on the same branch but holding on to the trunk, jounces the branch. Finny loses his balance because of the jounce and tumbles awkwardly. He severely breaks his leg and his perfection is lost. Eventually a complicated scene involving another slip and fall results in a tricky surgery and Finny dies. The reader knows, the boys at Devon know, and even Finny knows that it all started because of Gene’s jounce of the branch.
Fifteen years after Finny’s death, Gene goes back to Devon. He walks back to the athletic fields where he and Finny used to walk together every day. On the particular day of Gene’s visit, it’s pouring rain. He is soaking wet. His shoes are covered in mud. Knowles writes, “Anyone could see it was time to come in out of the rain.” For fifteen years Gene has been standing in that rain. For fifteen years he’s been in the same spot. What would Gene write for his college essay fifteen years after his friend’s death? “I killed my best friend. I’m still dealing with it.” And he’d probably go home and dry himself off and he’d still feel like shit. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe after fifteen years of thinking about one summer, he has come to peace with it. But what does that even mean?
So is this it? After we lose our innocence we spend the rest of our lives in some sort of recovery from tragic events onl
y waiting for the next punishing blow. It is a wonder that we don’t die thinking, Ugh, thank God that’s over.
It’s amazing to read these essays because these students have so much ahead of them, but some of them have already seen huge challenges. So what is my lesson to them? Buckle up, it’s only going to get worse from here. What is John Knowles’s lesson? What would any of our authors say about setbacks and resolutions? I don’t know. I think they’d say that these are the moments that are worth thinking about and worth writing about.
I do know that for the first time in my life, I feel like I understand these books and these authors. We see characters losing their minds because they are put in incredibly challenging situations, but this year instead of calling them crazy, I realize that this is what it means to be human—to go back to the emotions and reactions in us that transcend time and space. Grief, love, pain, the ache for power, the need for acceptance, the strength of family. What could I possibly have in common with a black woman from rural Georgia in the early nineteenth century or a wealthy bachelor from New York City during the Jazz Age? What could Celie and Gatsby possibly share when everything about their lives is different? But don’t you get it? We have everything in common. All of the things that make me hurt also make them hurt and all of the things that alleviate my pain are the same things that alleviate their pain.
I don’t know how to show this to my students. But maybe over time, maybe little by little, I will tell them about how these books helped me and I will try to make them see what happens when you open a book and let an author tell you a story.
At the end of the year I make each student write out his or her own six-word memoir. I read my favorites over and over.
Madison Brixton is tall with long blond hair and is drop-dead gorgeous. She did her ninth-grade research project on the modeling profession. Madison is very sassy and is not afraid to question teachers or administrators. She has an equally sassy, equally gorgeous twin sister. Madison’s favorite character from eleventh-grade English is Lady Macbeth. Her six-word memoir: Twin versus twin: Competition’s a bitch.
Steven McCain loves being the dominant force in class discussions. Even when he hasn’t done the reading homework, he loves to argue with people. A few months ago he protested the administrative decision that made all students wear I.D. tags at school. He read his protest speech to our English class. During our poetry unit, he vehemently argued the D+ he earned on his essay. His six-word memoir: Self-confidence is not a crime.
Doug Treen was one of the two students to incorporate Guitar Hero into an Honors English presentation, which was the worst presentation I’d ever seen. They were outraged at their low grade. He openly admits when he doesn’t do the reading and never seems fazed by his own laziness. Although I do not know any of the details, I do know he is very mischievous; he’s been called out of class a number of times to see the assistant principal. Doug’s six-word memoir: Tried humble pie. Tasted like shit.
How can they be so profound and so ridiculous at the same time? The beauty of being a teenager.
• • •
June 15 is Father’s Day. I make the executive decision to have Kai baptized on Father’s Day. My family rallies. Dr. Harnish also rises to the occasion. We have a beautiful, quiet little ceremony. Later that evening my mom comes over so I can go for a jog and enjoy the summer air. I turn down my street and see a rainbow streaking across the sky.
Then it is June 16, the day before the one-year anniversary of Josh’s death. Battersby calls to talk to me about tomorrow. She says, “Just so you know, it ends up being pretty anticlimactic.” On the one-year anniversary of her mom’s death she thought something big would happen, or the day would make her feel a certain way, or she would suddenly see something differently, but it wasn’t like that at all. The day comes and goes like any other.
I go through pictures of Josh. Part of me wants tomorrow to be here and gone. Part of me wants time to stand still. I go through all of the stuff from Josh’s funeral. I look at the program. The picture we chose for the front of the program was taken when he was walking into the church for our wedding rehearsal. I reread all of the cards people sent me. I’ve kept all of them in a box near my bed. I find my speech from Josh’s funeral. I haven’t looked at this since the day I read it last year. I don’t know why, but this feels like an appropriate time to read it again.
As you can imagine, it is difficult for me to find the words to accurately describe my husband at a time like this. How can I possibly find the words to paint his tremendous personality and love of life? Because of this, I will draw from someone else’s words. My older brother, Adam, is getting married this July. A few months ago Adam and his fiancée, Ellie, created a website featuring all of the wedding party with small, concise biographies. Josh’s biography reads as follows:
“QUESTION: If Superman and the Flash raced to the end of the Universe, who would win? ANSWER: Josh Taylor. Yes, the groom’s Brother from Another Mother is a superhero. If Lance Armstrong, Indiana Jones, Jack Bauer, Emeril, and the cast of Jackass had a baby—a blond barrel-chested baby who was addicted to Moomer’s ice cream—it would be Josh or Diz (or “Dizzle” if you’re addressing him formally).”
I couldn’t think of anything better. When Adam and Ellie posted this, Josh was so complimented, he read it three times out loud. Although the short biography makes us smile, it also reminds us of who he was. Josh was the boy who lived. He lived in every moment. He tried everything, risked anything, and never wasted any time. That is why I married him, for his spontaneity and pure love of being alive. That is why so many of us were drawn to him, because when he was around, we smiled and laughed.
In addition to his heroic qualities and super strength, Josh was also defined by the people around him. The most daunting task of being Josh’s wife was trying to understand and be a part of all of his formerly developed relationships. I can remember even last spring, I would come home from work, tired, looking forward to a quiet evening at home. Josh would then insist that he wanted to run “a few” errands, and we would be back in no time. And no matter where we went we always ended up stopping by Margaret’s house, then Deedee’s house, and then we’d see one of the Quarts in their yard, so we’d chat with them. And then on the way out of the neighborhood we would see the Jabborris, the Getzes, then we’d go to the pet store to visit all of his friends there, and then to my parents, and then, maybe we’d go home.
The same thing would happen at Elk Lake. I remember the first time Josh and I went up there, just the two of us, I was looking forward to a romantic weekend with just him and me. But before we even parked the car we had to stop at Aunt Cass’s and Uncle Terry’s, then off to see Andy and Mary, then to the Boyntons’, then Moomer’s, then to the Blues’, stop by soccer camp, and the list goes on and on.
And finally when Josh and I planned our wedding, we had to talk about who was invited. We agreed the first people on the list would be our families. So I wrote my family down. I interpreted the word as literally as possible. My nuclear family, my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Everybody was somehow related, everybody fit on the same tree. And when it was Josh’s turn, he created a list of people, but hardly any of the people on his “family” list were actually related to him. Not to mention I had to stop him after a hundred or so names. “But Josh,” I would say, “Uncle Alex and Aunt Jane aren’t really your aunt and uncle. Uncle Mel isn’t actually your mother’s brother. Your mom doesn’t even have any brothers, but there are still twenty-seven men listed as ‘uncle’ on your list!” But he would look at me as if I was speaking in another language. It didn’t make sense to him. These people were his aunts and uncles, they were his family. But that was who he was, he loved all of you as if you were his family. And you are his family, as I have come to realize over the years.
I know a lot of you look at me and think, what will she do? And of course I ask myself the same questions. But I look at everyone in this room and think, what will they do? W
hat will any of us do? He was loved by so many. He was a huge part of so many lives, not just mine. All of you considered him more than just a friend, but you considered him a brother and a son.
In reflection of those afternoon drives, trips to Elk Lake, and our wedding list, I have concluded that Josh was raised by a village. He has an incredible mother, and that mother was smart enough to rally the support around her. This is a sad day. But the strength of the village does not diminish when one of their own is lost. From looking at all of the people in this room, I can tell you that it is the people in this sanctuary that have carried me through the last several days. And as I think about what an upstanding human my husband was, I am incredibly saddened to think he won’t be here for our son. But it fills me—literally fills me—with joy to know that I am having his son. And while I have all of you here listening to me, I need to add, as Josh would have wanted me to inform you, the work of the village is far from over.
So what do we do now? I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that for four days. But I do know we must remember. We must remember everything about him. And there is nothing more painful than remembering Josh, because we have to admit he is a memory, but we have to. It is the most painful but most necessary thing we can do. When Josh was here, I always thought, like so many of you thought, he was the strongest person on the planet. He really would win a race across the universe. And although he is no longer here, I feel as if his strength has been infused in me. It has to be. And it has been infused into Deedee, Chris, Ashley, and all of the rest of us. We have to be as strong as he was, as he would have been. It is our only way. Thank you for being here.
Signs of Life Page 24