about violence
Only once in my life have I been punched in the face. So far. And that was a direct result of my writing.
I should backtrack to say I grew up in the Sixties on Long Island, in a neighborhood that was middle class and homogeneous. There were a lot of war veterans on my street and one of my favorite memories is of my neighbor, who had been a parachutist. On weekend afternoons, after he had a bit to drink, he liked to hitch up his son to a parachute and that to the back of his car and then he’d take off down our road. I can still see my neighbor’s son floating over Cynthia Drive, his father red-faced and gunning the engine.
However, my mother was concerned that my upbringing was too sheltered. Why she wasn’t concerned about my brother I don’t know, but she decided to send me to a camp for children from the inner city. It would be a learning experience. (I’m reminded of Woody Allen’s great line about how he was sent to an interfaith camp where he was beaten up by children of all races and creeds.)
I’m small now, but when I was young I was like a whisper. I had pale white skin and was always either bruised or eaten up by mosquitoes. I was not a threat. However, I did have a journal that I wrote in faithfully. Every night I wrote down my thoughts and put the journal under my pillow. Of course it took all of 23 minutes for my fellow cabin mates to figure this out, and so every day after I trooped off to breakfast, they read my journal out loud and laughed. Unfortunately, I only found this out later.
There was a girl in our bunk who was an Amazon. Huge, powerful, strong, and I wrote down in my journal, meaning it as a compliment, that she could have been the leader of the Black Panthers. She didn’t take that well. I, oblivious, walked into my cabin one afternoon. She held up my journal, read it out loud, lifted me up by my neck and punched me in the face. She got into trouble. I spent the rest of the week with a bandage over my nose and the next summer my mother sent me to a camp where we put on musicals.
But I still remember the horror of the moment when I realized she was holding my journal. That was actually worse than the physical pain. It was the feeling of exposure. People who didn’t know me were reading my words and criticizing them. It’s something I think about at the start of a new semester. I understand when I see how nervous my students are about having strangers read their work and I sympathize. We all just want some mercy.
How about you? Have you ever gotten into trouble with your writing?
August 12th, 2009 at 8:15 pm
Hi Susan,
What a great topic for a blog. You know this, I’m sure, but Glimmer Train does an article on or with a writer who has experienced some kind of serious price for his/her writing, such as being jailed. It’s a good reminder that words are powerful indeed.
I got into trouble once when I was a sophomore in high school. I wrote what I thought was a nice essay about my favorite English teacher and why she was my favorite.
I meant it to be a “hey, I appreciate what a good job you’re doing” kind of thing, but as she pointed out to me one day after class, other English teachers that I had also deserved recognition. I felt like I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Still do a little, even now.
But, the experience taught me an important lesson, which is to think carefully about who could be hurt or angered by what I write, and whether risking that hurt or anger is justified. In the case of my essay, I should have thought more carefully about the topic (duh, seems so obvious now). In other cases, such as writing about racism in a particular segment of society, I’d say, “No pain, no gain”.
KT
August 18th, 2009 at 9:42 am
Susan,
Yes, oh yes, I have experienced the pain of being exposed. More than once, the last time shut me down for years before I wrote again. Once my mother, that is how she found out I was not a virgin anymore, I thought my sister told her. Another time my roommate. She read my journals and told people what I wrote about them. It sucked. That may be why I gained 20 pounds then, or it could have been the vodka collins. Both were a way to protect myself and ease the pain I felt. That was back in my 20’s. Now I am 43 years old.
I started a writing class last fall. It is held at a senior citizen establishment. At the time I signed up, I was unaware it was a class full of actual seniors, I thought they were just offering up there nice day rooms for a writing class. When I entered the room, 6 old faces turned and looked at me. I stayed though, and read my stories to them all fall and winter long. It was the best, safest environment to expose myself to. I no longer am afraid to reveal, by the end of the class I started to be able to read my stories without shaking and turning red, and getting hot.
I even had some put on the programs website for the rest of the city to read. I am unblocked and will never ever let someone shut me down again. I even leave my journals semi unprotected, hiding them seems to make them more enticing.
Keep on writing,
Trisha
September 25th, 2009 at 8:29 pm
my mouth has always gotten me in trouble and by association my writing. Whatever comes out of my mouth has already been written by me usually.