A Way of Knowing

In 2010 I was awarded a PEN grant to teach memoir writing to 8th graders at Capshaw Middle School. After the first project, where I was assigned to an honors class, I asked to work with groups who had failed their Language Arts tests. Honors students get lots of perks, others—not so much.

I told the students the only requirement for the program was that they write about an important moment in their lives, meaningful to them. The program was designed for me to meet with the group for ten sessions. By the third class most students were well on their way to writing their memoir, knowing what they wanted to write about. One student stared at his blank paper. Wrote a few words. Crossed them out. Sighed.

I went over to him and asked to see what he’d written: My mother and I live in Santa Fe. He looked at me and sighed again. “I don’t know what to write. I never know what to write. I fail every language arts class.” He put his head down on the desk.

“You have lots to write, “I said. Even though he sat up and looked at me, I could tell he didn’t believe me. I reassured him, “You just don’t know how to access your story.” 

“What’s access?” he asked. I smiled. At least he was asking. From the beginning of the first session, I strongly encouraged students to ask the meaning of any words I used that they didn’t know. I emphasized this was a sign of curiosity and interest. Learning new words was an important part of being a writer and a benefit for the whole class. I told him the meaning and then asked him to get out his fingerpaints. While he was preparing to write, I wrote access on the board with a definition so everyone could use it if they wished.

“What I’d like to you to do,” I told him, “is close your eyes. Visualize what you want to write about. In your mind’s eye, see the people in your story, where they live, how they feel. Think about why you want to write about this, why it matters to you. When you’re ready, paint an image of the moment in the story that means the most to you. He nodded. Sat for about a minute. After opening his eyes, he began to paint. When he finished, I gave him lined paper and asked him to write whatever came to mind.

He began to write: I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. I know it’s not his fault. I don’t care he’s my brother. “Wow!” I couldn’t help myself. “What a difference between what you first wrote and now. He nodded and wrote more. “My father lives in Mexico. He has another family. He keeps asking me to visit. He wants me to meet my brother. I don’t want to. I live in New Mexico with my mother. When my father left my mother cried a lot. He ignored me as he kept writing.

By the time the session was almost over he had written three pages. After showing them to me he said the most he’d ever written before was a paragraph—only two sentences. “And they were boring, just like what I wrote before.”

He showed his pages to his language arts teacher, also his homeroom teacher, who reacted with pride. “I knew you could do it,” she said. “I knew you were a good writer.”

He grinned. “I didn’t know how to find the words inside me. I just needed access.” 

He passed his next language arts text.

What do you need to tell your story?

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