Teach is a strong word in this instance, as there really are no instructions offered. We are more voyeurs, listening to the lives of each student who cares to share their story with us, their classmates. Family albums have been spread across tables, pictures ripped from living room walls, and CD home movies played on my laptop. We truly become part of each other lives. I’m not surprised long lasting friendships are formed in that corner classroom.
Putting their memories and experiences to paper is an exercise in poignancy and tenderness. We are often moved to tears and sometimes laugh until we realize its time to go. Learning a history of someone’s life, glimpsing briefly into the edges of their hearts has been rewarding beyond words. Wars, romance, heartbreak, death; its all there, and then some.
Some students from the Spring session have returned to continue their books, which is a personal thrill for me. Hearing their stories read aloud is akin to watching a serial movie every week. I can’t wait to hear the next chapter. There is never any pressure to share what they’ve written, but no one ever seems to mind. Sometimes the information gleaned from their memories is personal and meant only for the eyes of their intended recipient. That idea is respected and encouraged. There seems to be a level of trust in the room, however, and long held secrets and private hurts are sometimes uncovered, surprising even themselves as they read it aloud. Voices hushed, tinged with sadness or loud with humor, we never know what we are going to hear – and that’s what is so rewarding about this class. There is no “wrong” way to do this.
Every week I hand them a list of ‘triggers,’ questions to give rise to a memory either long buried or close to the surface. It’s really like the proverbial “box of chocolates;” we never know what we’re going to get. But I know I am not alone in my excitement when I pose the same question that starts every class.
“Ok, who wants to start first?”
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