Freshman year at BYU, I made a random selection of classes when
I registered. No one advised me, that I
can recall, and if they did I must not have listened. I ended up with a graduate level art history class,
and some other hefty courses, all of which added up to 16 credit hours. Classes,
in general, were the last thing on my mind at that point. There was just so much newness there in the shadow
of the Wasatch Mountains. So many new personalities, new places, new sights and
sounds and smells. Even the air felt new
against my skin. My hair was silky smooth
in all that dryness. I remember thinking
I had probably jumped the gun by hacking it off before I moved to the desert. My
former waist length hair would have flowed so nicely away that horrid humidity
of my hometown in PA.
At the top of the list of freshman newness was falling in love. Mmmm, delicious love, with its yummy kisses and
stimulating conversation. The last thing
on my mind were classes. Not that they were completely unimportant, just
not prominently there. But I did think that
my poetry class would be an exception. I
was, after all, a poet.
I had received a scholarship/talent award from the university
after winning the New Era Poetry Contest. They published about a half dozen of my little
poems. Even Dave, all the way over in Italy,
and well before I ever met him, recognized my name and picture in the New Era
when they announced the winners. He was
a missionary then, and I was the little sister of a guy he used to play ball with. I defined myself as a poet. My sense of self was
polished with a way with words.
The class was taught by a professor whose name was well regarded,
and whose poetry was beloved, especially by the professor himself. I went into the class confident in my abilities
and pretty excited for the easy grade.
The easy grade did not come.
Even the hard grade did not come. I recall the devastation of having my work critiqued
flippantly before the class. I can still
feel the sting of his scribbled handwriting in the columns beside the stanzas; stabbing
exclamation points to deepen the wound.
At night, in tears, I decided to spend the money I did not have
to call home. Calling home in those days
required money by the minute, and our conversations were often planned and sparingly
executed for the sake of the budget. But
this night I did not care, because I needed to hear my mother’s voice. That voice
that first read me poetry; the one that made my own third grade poems sound so…I
don’t know…mature. Mom’s lips forming
the words of anything anyone ever wrote made it seem so much better.
“He hates my poetry!”
I sobbed, knowing she would understand and likely defend me.
“No matter what I write,
whether it’s what I feel I should write or whether I’m writing what I think he’ll
like, he hates it!”
Mom listened. I could
hear her breathing on the other end of the line. I ached to have her arms around me, her slender
hands patting my back. She listened until
I was done ranting.
“You take what he has to teach you, chew it up and see if
there is anything worth swallowing. Then
spit the rest out.”
I didn’t think there was anything worth swallowing from him. I was sure he was all ego and shallow mindedness. In the end I learned to release my ego and see
if I could learn. And I believe I did,
though I cannot for the life of me recall anything I wrote during that period,
except for that one piece about Roman Duomo not needing to bow to God. In the end all that mattered to me was that the
boy who gave me those yummy kisses wanted me to be his bride.
I’ve thought often of that advice mom gave me, what seems like
a lifetime ago. I whisper it to myself,
and to my own children. I let it echo in
my head when I start comparing myself to others. I can hear her say, “You go ahead and see how
you compare to the other people you admire.
If there’s something good you can learn from such an exercise, then go
ahead and swallow that. But you be sure
to spit the rest of it out!” And she would probably add that most of it was worth
spitting out.
For all those years I sat up with my children, helping them
with their writing assignments, I could almost hear the echo of my own mother’s
voice as I read their work aloud to them. Young mothers and fathers…this is a trick I
will teach you right now: read your own children’s
writings back to them. With your mature intelligent
voice. With the poet’s voice. They will hear more clearly, and write more
poetically, and love you more deeply because of it. And they will become better
writers.
All of our children are fine writers, if I say so myself. I think they learned to love the lilt of the human
voice as it pronounces word upon word, crafted artistically like literary Lego's.
Well chosen tasty words united by poets at heart.
My mom used to bribe all her grand kids to memorize fine poetry. If they stood up straight, announced the title,
the poet, and perfectly recited the poem (at least 8 lines long for the little ones…and
they got more difficult as the kids aged)…then Gram gave them a crisp $5 bill. Thereafter, every time they recited the poem
again, they got a Quarter.
All our children can recite to you poems for which they earned
$5.
The money is gone.
The poetry remains.
Thanks, Mom.
