Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and many spell-binding novels like The Signature of All Things promotes the idea of creating a “file of honor” for all the rejection emails and letters writers accrue along the way as they submit pieces for publication and prizes. She asserts that you really haven’t started cooking until you have hundreds of them, and the more we normalize that reality, the more serenity we can find even as we drown in a flood of negative feedback.
I’ve been slowly adding to my file of honor over the last year and a half, and a new one arrived yesterday. A quick glance at my email shot a jolt through my heart as I recognized the contest name among the new mail. Just a few seconds made it clear that it wasn’t the response I was hoping for, but this time, I at least paid the minimal extra charge to get a critique.
It was a difficult morning of a long day ahead, so a warning signal rang out in my spirit to be careful with my tender heart. I decided to review the critique, but to keep in mind that I could stop anytime if if the notes weren’t in the constructive tone I had become used to through my life-changing experience with the Gateless Writing Academy since the fall.
To my great surprise, the comments were 90% highly encouraging, and only two things were specifically called out. After a deep breath and long exhale, the suggestions made a lot of sense, and I felt the curiosity and eagerness to craft that indicates a healthy creative process.
This fall, I took a big leap of faith and submitted some writing samples to Gateless Academy in the hopes of being accepted into their ten month “book building” program. I wasn’t really counting on being accepted, so a jolt of a different voltage stopped my heart when I got the welcome email in October.
I had started writing a memoir about my love-hate relationship with the teaching profession a couple of years prior, but all I had managed to produce was a stream of consciousness kind of catalog of experiences and feelings rather than a clear narrative. Could the academy transform all that into actual scene and meaning?
Over the course of the last nine months, I’ve seen my writing grow roots and wings from the incredible content in the seminars, but even more so from the interchange of submissions and comments from my small pod of incredibly talented writers. Reading their professional pieces and seeing my selection alongside theirs reminds me of when my Americana band, The Bootleg Honeys, opened for Ruthie Foster. My brain could not compute that our music could orbit the same solar system.
I’ll leave you with a segment called “Roller Coaster” from the beginning of the in-progress book about my last year of teaching that invites you to be a fly on the wall on the first day of one of the most challenging but still beloved classes of my career.
Roller Coaster
Students spilled through the door like white water rushing over rocks; giggling, pushing, putting on a good show of nonchalance while scanning the environment for threats as warily as wolves. They squinted at the table tops searching for numbers on blue painter’s tape matching the one on the small square index card I handed to them upon entering.
Two girls in white crop tops struggled playfully like their clashing pajama pants prints to squeeze together on one chair at the end of the double table next to the whiteboard. A third one leaned back to whisper something from the coveted small group in the corner between two windows with a move as sleek as the dark hair glistening down her back. The scuffle immediately shifted to a conspiratorial huddle. Something about their immaculate makeup with dense false eyelashes; their shining and bejeweled nails pointed like claws along with the cutting tones piercing through their banter suggested a 2022 west coast remake of Mean Girls.
“¿Treinta y dos?” A wide-eyed boy practically swallowed by an oversized gray Adidas hoodie held up his index card to my face in a plea for assistance.
“Aquí, junto al estante,” I half yelled, competing with nervous chatter as I motioned toward the bookshelf on the far side of the room. I kept an eye on the boiling pot of girl soup while helping him and the rest of the stragglers get settled.
The bell hadn’t rung, so I stole a moment behind the safety of my desk to survey the scene. Scattered throughout the eight groups, duos and trios of students hunched over their phones staring intently like cavemen trying to start a fire, frantically jabbing at unseen threats. Sprinkled between sat small enclaves of calm faces who patiently ignored their gaming counterparts. Neatly arranged binders waited at attention in front of them flanked by a collection of pens, colored pencils, and highlighters at the ready.
I inhaled deeply, summoning the peace and presence I experienced just a couple of hours ago during my morning meditation and writing session. As the air expanded my chest fully, a tingling sensation flooded my fingers and toes, generating a wave of calm I hoped would ripple out into the choppy sea of defensive expectation in the room.
The last bell interrupted my mindful moment and officially started the new school year. The sense of being secured into a seat as a roller coaster clatters forward on the tracks, slowly rising toward the first big drop needled me as I maneuvered around the tables to the TV in the front corner. A few latecomers hustled past the corner windows, backpacks thumping in time with hurried steps on the way to first period.
“¡Buenos días, clase!” I waited for their response, smiling expectantly, waving my hand in a circular motion wafting imaginary smoke toward me as if invoking a spell to draw out their voices.
Eyes darted left and right looking to see if anyone else would join in before risking exposure.
“¡Buenos DÍAS, clase!” I repeated with jaunty emphasis on the “i” vowel, now waving both hands to conjure an echo.
A few weak greetings popcorned around the room along with a couple of formal buenos días, maestras. So much teaching effort at the beginning of the year was spent modeling and rehearsing communication patterns. Obviously so for beginning classes learning words for the first time, but even with advanced levels like this one. It was a question of setting a standard for basic human interactions with kindness, and dignity.
Some brave students had broken the ice, so I turned the focus toward the screen with the agenda, starting with the phrase of the day.
"Si no sabes de donde vienes, no conseguirás entender jamás a donde quieres llegar". Dario Fo (1926-2016) escritor, dramaturgo, director, actor italiano.
The magic act continued as I broke the phrase into small sections for them to repeat. Nervous glances and tentative participation with raised eyebrows and irritated squints disdainfully telegraphed does she think we don’t speak Spanish?
“Of course I know you all speak Spanish, but we read the phrase of the day out loud together, kind of like church when everyone prays.It gets us on the same page.”
A few heads nodded in agreement, slightly diminishing the defensive vibe. I pantomimed removing ear buds to a boy in the back whose wild mop of brown hair was clearly bouncing along with a personal playlist before I continued.
“Also, there will likely be unfamiliar words in them,” I added. “Have you ever read something in English class and run into words you don’t know?”
“Like when Carlos thought “diction” was talking about penises!” A burst of laughter from the table next to the bookshelf completely loosened the pent up tension, but quickly threatened to derail communication as side conversation brush fires ignited around the room.
“Avalanche!” I yelled, startling them into learning the attention-getting technique. “You all say shhhhhhhhhhhh like snow whooshing down the mountain when you hear that word.” The commotion settled.
“We get to focus on one short sentence making sure we understand every single word. Copy the whole phrase in Spanish and translate it into English, including the professions and nationality of the author.”
“What if we don’t know?” someone close to the headbanger blurted.
“Ask each other for help and use the Word Reference link in the daily agenda. Five minutes, go! ”
I set the phone timer and slipped it into the back pocket of my trouser-cut jeans and straightened the slightly puffed sleeves of the dark floral print blouse that pinched my biceps a little. How many years ago did I buy this from Target? I wondered, strolling between the tables smiling encouragingly. I hovered expectantly next to those who had yet to even get out a binder or pen.
The perfect font-like handwriting and highlighted words of a girl glancing up at me through stylish, thick-framed glasses caught my attention.
“Wow, looks like you got everything, even all the professions including “dramaturgo.” Did you know that word already?”
She flicked her waist length, heavy braid to her back as if shrugging off shyness to answer. “Actually, no,” she smirked confessionally and added, “but I suspected it had something to do with theater.”
Her genuine curiosity and openness warmed my heart as I continued my patrol.
A digital chime cascade stopped me in my tracks at the Mean Girls table. They barely registered the alarm tones or my presence as they continued their gossip session. Nothing had been written on their papers except for one of them.
“Ladies, you’ll want to finish up writing as we go over the phrase as a class. Remember you’re welcome to use Word Reference if you’re stuck!” I chirped.
Red checkered pajama pants girl kept her back to me as I talked while pink squares side-eyed me from a stretched out Superman position across the table. Her expression suggested I had just barged into her living room and demanded she vacuum the carpet.
I had to drop it and move back across the room to the TV to facilitate the translation of the intentionally simple phrase I’d chosen to set them up for success. I started out in English and periodically stopped to let the whole class offer the next word. It worked like a charm.
The only hold up was that word, dramaturgo. I anticipated the silence and scattered shoulder shrugging admitting defeat.
“Did anyone get a chance to look it up on Word Reference?” I asked hopefully. A few students tapped on their phones half-heartedly searching up the definition.
“The hint is the word “drama,” I prodded. The late summer morning’s chill was heating up quickly toward an almost triple digit afternoon. Sunshine on the corner windows illuminated the asparagus fern’s lush, trailing offshoots in a pleasant green glow. It had come back to life under my loving care at home during the summer from its scorched condition at the end of last year.
The thoughtful student with glasses quietly, but confidently offered, “It means “playwright.” A person who writes plays.”
A few murmurs of assent acknowledged her declaration. The tall boy next to Adidas sweatshirt guy thrummed fingers loudly on the desk in a rapid, galloping sequence.
“Thank you for participating! What’s your name?”
“That’s Ana,” one of the phone zombies announced, raising his head slowly from a crouch to join the land of the living. “She always knows the answer.”
“Well, thank you, Ana.That’s exactly the kind of teamwork we need to fill in the gaps.”
I drew their attention back to the agenda indicating our arrival to the “momento meditativo.” The BBC nature video transformed the screen into soaring perspectives of snow covered peaks accompanied by whistling wind. I modeled deep breaths and took a risk closing my eyes for a few moments.
“La salud de mi cuerpo, mente, y espíritu es importante,” I instructed them to repeat as we transitioned out of the activity.
“Are we gonna do that every day, talk about healthy spirits and stuff?” I overheard Adidas sweatshirt kid comment incredulously to his table as his rhythmic companion launched into a tabletop drum solo.
Clearly their attention capacity had peaked. Time for an independent activity. I caught my breath while they wrote answers to get-to-know-you questions before launching into the culminating story I hoped would go smoothly.
“Who remembers story time sitting on the carpet while the teacher read you a book? Raise your hand if you remember.”
This time, about half the class raised a hand almost shoulder level in assent.
“Well, I’m going to tell you a quick story called “The Secret of Happiness” from Paulo Coelho’s book, The Alchemist. Get comfortable, maybe close your eyes and picture the action in your mind.” An expectant hush momentarily graced the room.
“A young man journeyed to a sage’s palace in search of the secret of happiness. He arrived in the middle of celebration, but found the wise man willing to talk if he would complete a task. He charged the seeker with holding a spoon carrying a drop of oil without spilling as he toured the palace and gardens.”
I proceeded holding an imaginary spoon cautiously in front of me. “When he returned to the wise man after his tour, he realized as he recounted the splendors he had seen that the oil was gone.”
“Duh. How is he going to, like, walk up and down stairs and not spill it,” headbanger observed self-assuredly.
“Right!” I agreed, weaving his comment right back into the story. “The sage looked compassionately at the young man and declared that the secret of happiness is to enjoy all the wonders of life while maintaining the drop of oil in the spoon.”
Sparks of comprehension lit a few eyes around the room while the rest scowled with confusion.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” pink squares spat, rummaging through a makeup case.
“Yes. What is it supposed to mean? What does the oil represent?” Plastic chairs squeaked against metal legs as they shifted in their seats and sighed dramatically.
Ana replied almost involuntarily, responding to her own mental line of questioning. “The oil is whatever is most important in life. It could be your family, or your religion. You can still enjoy life, but you have to pay attention to your priorities.”
A fleeting wave of unified comprehension washed over all 32 students, then quickly receded. Like a skimboarder sensing the perfect moment to drop and glide on the thin sheet of water draping the sand, I took a chance.
“You got it, Ana. Right now, on the first day of class, let’s ask ourselves, "What is the most important thing for me?”
At that moment, the roller coaster sensation from the start of class returned, only now the cart jolted abruptly at the top of a steep precipice. Discovering the answer to that question was going to be a wild ride for us all.