2006 Heather Campbell Personal Essay Contest Winner
Honor in the Ordinary:
Teaching Honors Intensive Writing at BYU, Fall 2006
WHAT DID I HAVE TO TEACH THEM? Before me, I counted nineteen faces: a new crop of BYU honors students. At the last place I taught a writing course, the students needed me. They needed me to show them how to craft thesis statements, to fix split infinitives, to write complete sentences. Here, was I irrelevant? Fresh from AP programs, these kids seemed to have a “been-there-done-that-bought-the-T-shirt” attitude for many of the concepts I presented. Self-doubt began to plague me. I’d just returned from two years of self-exile—two years of Teletubbies, diaper wipes, and Gerber’s baby food smeared on every shirt I own. Two years of waiting for my baby to turn two.
I had the students read William Wilson’s article “In Praise of Ourselves: Stories to Tell.” I used it in my master’s thesis. Wilson, a beloved BYU English professor, argues that each of us should seek our family stories, the stories we listen to or tell about the events of everyday life, in order to create meaning and identity. He concludes, “We seek courage to face the future by learning to celebrate ourselves.”[1] What did the students think? Wilson’s article was long and boring, they said, especially all the stories about his mother’s life. Did everyone really have a story to tell? I asked them. Ordinary lives were only interesting when they intersected with major historical events, they answered, like the couple sitting next to the Lincolns at Ford Theatre. I felt physical pain when I realized that my story would be included among the uninteresting. They would read my story, the story of a young Mormon mother trying to retain part of her professional identity, and find it . . . wanting. Mechanically, I opened my mouth and stated my belief that everyone has a story worth telling, even ordinary people.
They were more cosmopolitan than I was. Sure I had suffered through two degrees and the births of two children, but what did I have on these kids besides ten years? In their short lives, I would find out, they had been to Rome, England, Paris. They spoke languages. They were artists. They surprised me. One student wrote about her fears when she thought she might have AIDS. Another wrote about her reaction to the revelation that her father was a child molester. They were dealing with issues I had never dealt with. Who was I to teach them? I came from Idaho, from loving and faithful parents. Even when I revealed that I was a former rodeo queen, the only reaction I received was eyerolling. I came to BYU, married my next-door neighbor, and moved to Orem. We live in a house built the same year that I was born. We need to re-roof the place. My husband, from Washington state, is a returned missionary and a successful civil engineer. We have two daughters.
After class, I rush to pick up daughter number two from the babysitter. Then we rush to pick up daughter number one and drive the kindergarten carpool. On Tuesdays, I rush to the church to take the Mia Maids bowling. Am I a Mormon cliché? At least I don’t drive a minivan. Although people in the neighborhood have been hinting that it’s time we took the plunge. They let me into the carpool without one. Barely. “It’s okay, Lisa,” one mom explained, “Before I had a minivan, people still picked up my kids, even though I couldn’t always reciprocate. We’ll just work the carpool into two different groups, so that you can fit some of the kids into your car.”
While writing this, I’ve been interrupted twice. Once because my five-year-old flooded the toilet (and consequently, the bathroom) and once because my two-year-old had paper clips up her nose. Is my life really flavorless? My sister, who dated and then married a Maori warrior she met online, compared all the BYU white guys she previously dated to chicken. They taste like chicken, she said. Maybe I taste like chicken too. Does chicken have a story to tell? The same sister is currently on a cruise in the Caribbean, declaring she and her husband need time away from it all (question: what is “it all” when you don’t have kids or a job?). Last weekend, my husband and I went camping with our ward in the Heber Valley. It snowed. It froze. We all remembered Martin’s Cove.
I worry about mundane things, like how am I going to pay the dentist bill. I just had to have oral surgery. The dentist recommended it, and even though it isn’t covered by insurance, I went ahead with it. Now I’m discovering hidden costs.
There are things I can say to these students. Things like, “Your exposition is going too long in the beginning. I’d cut it, and start with action. You don’t need to explain so much.” But really, I feel like I have much to explain. That I’m worthwhile. That I do know something about writing, even if they feel my life experience has been limited. That the path I’m on now may be the path that they will tread later.
Is there honor in the ordinary? There better be.
During class, I feel like I’m on a quiz show. Are you quoting or paraphrasing Mortimer Adler? (Answer: I can’t remember. It’s on an old overhead). What’s the name of the French princess that Henry V is wooing? (In the movie, it’s Emma Thompson). Is that really the pronunciation of litotes? (Yes. I went back and checked—twice). I can’t always answer their questions. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been called overconfident before. Now I realize I need every ounce of moxie I’ve got to walk in the classroom and call myself a teacher. Here are my options: I can feel threatened by their talent and experiences. I can study every night to know every answer to every possible question in lesson plans I’ve used for years. I can fret over the questions I miss.
Or I can tell them the truth. I will make mistakes. I will not have all the answers. Sometimes I will mispronounce a word. And I can feel okay about that. And I can celebrate who they are. After all, I realize, they don’t expect me to be right. Like others of their generation, they will question authority. Once, when talking about the James Frey incident and the truthfulness of memoirs, they caught me off guard. They weren’t shocked. “We expect adults to lie to us,” one said.
So what will I do? Will I lie too? Sometimes. But not in the way that they expect. I’ll go along with the idea that their lives will be bright, shining, and important. I won’t tell them of the wrestles they’ll have in mundane life, with insurance companies and car repairs. I won’t introduce them to the idea of cubicle walls. I won’t tell the girls that they might have to sacrifice their goals or put them on hold. They may find themselves living in moldy apartments, feeding Spaghettios to small children while their husbands argue ideas and theories in grad school. I’ll listen to their hopes and dreams. I’ll challenge them. But I won’t squash them. After all, my professors endorsed my dreams of being a writer. I was told that I had talent. And still, I remember those moments—even what my professor’s handwriting looked like on the paper: “You should publish this, Lisa.”
And throughout the semester, I will find out who they really are. That “they” aren’t a “they” at all, but individuals. That the boy with the big vocabulary hides hurts behind big words. That his meth-addicted brother beat him up daily. That he doubts God exists. And that’s why he came to BYU. One day, in conference, I’ll find out that the girl who writes mediocre fantasy stories late at night is under such pressure to achieve from her doctorate-holding dad, that she’s teetering on the edge of mental breakdown.
By the middle of the semester, three of them will have disappeared, unable to balance school, work, and their social lives with an instructor who doesn’t accept late work. I’ll realize that they don’t know everything they think they know. I’ll find out that while they may understand the concepts, they struggle with application. I’ll discover that they don’t understand this world they’ve found themselves in anymore than they understand how the dinosaurs fit into the creation story. And I’ll try to help them navigate that path. I have been there before, you know. Before postpartum depression and high chairs. I have doubted, questioned, and then been led to answers.
Would I trade places with them? No. There are things I love about my chickeny-Mormon-cliché life: my daughter’s excitement after the first day of kindergarten. She told me, “Mommy, that was the biggest, most important day of my life!” The day my baby first started counting (she counted the freckles on my face). The day my husband took off work so that I could have dental surgery. He got daughter number one to kindergarten, daughter number two to the babysitter, and then, armed with my lesson plan and his own master’s degree, he went in and taught my H150 class about metaphors. Now that’s moxie for an engineer. No, I wouldn’t trade them.
Instead, I’ll learn with them. In their essay, “Transforming the Composition Classroom,” Elisabeth Daumer and Sandra Runzo state, “Mothering and teaching partake in an important social function: the work of ‘socializing’ and ‘civilizing.’” [2] The thought strikes me, raising questions in my mind. Aren’t the fears I have about teaching similar to the fears I have about motherhood? The fear that I won’t have all the answers? The fear that I will make mistakes? Yes. Oh yes. And even with all their polish, cynicism, and veneer, are these students that much different than my own children? Children who question, criticize, complain, demand, squeal, throw fits, cry, refuse to comply, and finally return to me for validation and support? Of course, there are important differences. None of my students have ever flung oatmeal at me (so far). My daughters I have for life. My students, a mere semester.
At the seven A.M. final, I count again. Eighteen faces. All but one have returned. They aren’t eager today. They’re exhausted: bedhead, dark circles, no makeup. I stand in front of them, no longer plagued by doubts. Instead I’m thinking about them, peeking into their futures. Where will they go after this class? What will they encounter? How will they face the challenges that await them? Are they better prepared to fight their way through to a good, honorable, and yes, even ordinary life because of me? I don’t know. I hope so. But I’m not afraid I’m irrelevant anymore. I understand my stewardship better now. My role is wider than the subject I teach. It is still overwhelming. During the semester, I have prayed. I have fumed. I have cried. I’ve questioned them as they have questioned me. But I kept going, even when I didn’t want to. And they have too. And there is honor in that.
Lisa Rumsey Harris received a bachelor’s and master’s degree in English from BYU, where she still teaches honors writing classes. She lives an ordinary life in Orem with her husband and two daughters. By day, she makes grilled cheese sandwiches, dances in the kitchen, and watches Little Einstein videos. By night, she grades papers, writes short stories, and dreams of writing a novel.
Notes
[1] William A. Wilson, “In Praise of Ourselves: Stories to Tell.” Readings for Intensive Writers. 3rd ed. Ed. Susan T. Laing. (Boston: Pearson Custom Publishing, 2002), 40.
[2] Elizabeth Daumer and Sandra Runzo, “Transforming the Composition Classroom.” Teaching Writing: Pedagogy, Gender, and Equity. Ed. C.L. Caywood and G.R. Overing. (Albany, NY: State University of New York P, 1987), 50.
