Day 3

Tonight I give you a story about a story. My story? Maybe. It could be your story. It could be the story of any number of women you know. And like every other story ever written, it begins with a single word.

A SINGLE WORD

  My mother told me every story begins with a single word. “What’s the word that starts my story?” I was only six; could I understand? She didn’t answer. She couldn’t look at me. “Mama! What word starts my story?” I stomped my foot. It might be temper tantrum time.

“You…you’re too young to know.”

“You always tell me something, then say I’m too young.” I put the pout in my voice; temper tantrum would be the next step.

“I’m sorry I mentioned it. I was talking about…writing. Learning to write.”

“I know how to write”, I pointed out. “You taught me.” I watched her, concerned. Was she getting amnesia? Or was she having a stroke?

“I’m sorry.” Mama rushed out of the room; it sounded like she was crying. Why? What was wrong? It was just a question…and she brought it up!

My sister was in the tree house, reading. I climbed up and sat beside her. She ignored me; she usually did. I was a late-life child, and my sister was sixteen. She didn’t want to be bothered by a six-year-old sister. I sat beside her; when she pretended not to notice me, I pinched her.

“Ow!” She rubbed her arm. “What’d you do that for?”

“I gotta know something.” I waited until she put her book down; I wanted her to listen to me. “What’s my word? The one that begins my story?”

“Pest.” My sister went back to her book.

“That’s not it. Mama would’ve told me that one.” I tried to sound as sophisticated and jaded as she was, but I failed. I hadn’t lived long enough yet.

“Okay, you gotta know your word? You can’t wait to learn it when you’re older?” I shook my head. She looked thoughtful. “Your word is…no.”

That was ridiculous. How could a story start with no? Especially the story of a person’s life? Shouldn’t it be something grand? Something marvelous? Something…inspiring? “That’s it? Just no?”

“That’s it.” My sister went back to her book. I decided I wasn’t welcome in the treehouse, but before I left, I stuck out my tongue. She didn’t see.

I tried all afternoon to figure out how my story might end if it started with no. In my short life, I had learned nothing good ever starts with no. I didn’t want to start life with a negative. It was like being in debt, and I was only six.

Lucinda stopped; she always stopped here…let her students process what she read. She watched for signs of recognition, for anyone who understood, but the faces stared back at her, as blank as a plain sheet of paper before it’s written on. It got worse every year. Trying to get students to focus on anything…most of them weren’t even looking at her. They were staring at their phones.

“Your assignment. Continue the story…what does her first word mean? Also, I want you to try to figure out the first word of your own story.”

“Dr. Hutchinson?” A boy in the back had his hand up. “How long does it have to be?”

The perennial question. Every writing teacher faces it…sometimes every day. “As long as you need it to be.”

Another hand. “What’s the girl’s name? I can’t relate to someone nameless.”

“Call her by whatever name works for you. Her name doesn’t matter. Her first word does.”

The students shuffled out, not speaking to Lucinda or to each other, not chattering as they used to do when she first started teaching. They were glued to their phones, unable to tear their attention away from whatever thing fascinated them now. She shook her head; it was likely fewer than half would turn in the assignment. That was getting worse every semester, too. She gathered the few papers that were submitted for today’s assignment and headed to her office. One more hour, and she could go home. Three classes in one day could be brutal, especially when they were right after each other. Mondays and Wednesdays, she didn’t even get any lunch. She forgot about the assignment almost as quickly as they did; her email exploded with excuses while she was in class. The hour flew dealing with them.

Lucinda marked the papers; grammar, spelling, indentation, double spacing…there were so many ways a student could screw up a formal paper. The quality of the writing was scattered; some of the students wrote well, others could barely formulate a coherent sentence. No one had figured out the ending of the story, but they came up with some creative ways to develop it. She turned over the last paper, red pen ready.

“I learned quickly what my first word meant. No, you can’t do that, it’s not for girls. No, you can’t play with that, it’s a boy’s toy. No, you can’t take that class; girls aren’t good at that. I faced a world full of no, wondering if I would ever get to hear yes.

College came; no, I couldn’t go away to an out-of-state college. My brothers did, but my parents wanted me where they could keep an eye on me, even though in my wildest imagination I couldn’t get in half as much trouble as they did. I decided to study science; no, you need to do something feminine. I studied science anyway. I wanted to move past my first word, move past the beginning, and find a new story, one I felt was right for me, one that didn’t begin…and end…with no.”

The story continued: three pages…four…a delicately woven tale of a girl who worked hard to rewrite her story…until…on page five…the no was hers. Lucinda read the final words, feeling like she was hit in the gut. The student had written her story…just as she lived it…including the blind date who wouldn’t take no for an answer. The beginning, and nearly the end, of Lucinda’s story, of the story for so many women…no.

She tried to place the student in her mind; she knew the name was on her roll, but couldn’t put a face with it. She found the seating plan; the ethereal, almost transparent girl…woman, she reminded herself…who sat in the back row, looking like she wanted to disappear into the wall. Lucinda wondered…was she writing her own story?

The next day was stormy and cold. Lucinda rushed across campus, her coat pulled tight around her, hood up, only a minute to spare. She slid into the classroom, only a five minute run across campus from her last class. The students drifted in, the final one arriving twenty minutes after the start of class. They weren’t as diligent about making it from one class to the next.

She shuffled the papers. She looked out, waiting, as she always did on this assignment, for them to say something. They didn’t disappoint. It was the gregarious young woman in the third row…Dani…that asked first. “What did it mean?”

Lucinda picked up the paper on the top of the stack and started to read. The students understood from the beginning…it was in the syllabus…that she would sometimes read papers aloud. She would never give away a student’s identity; if they claimed the paper, it was their decision. She would never violate their privacy by telling anyone who it was…and if there were identifying marks written into the story, she would leave them out. This one had no obvious identifiers.

The class was silent when she finished. The women looked anguished; the men looked smug. One of the men started to laugh; the rest of them joined him. “Wow. I should have known.” He tilted his chair back, oblivious of the danger until he fell. She didn’t rush to pick him up; he wasn’t hurt, only embarrassed. He finished what he started to say as soon as he was vertical. “A dumb feminist thing. Women always complaining about how bad they have it, when men are the ones who have it tough.”

Female voices joined in, denying that feminism was dumb, denying that men had it harder than they did. They gave examples; for every example, the men just said ‘prove it’. It was the most energetic discussion she ever had following this assignment; the story written by the student hit them harder than the story as she told it when no one figured it out. She let them continue; their next essay was to persuade, and they were getting good practice.

“Prove it!” All the male voices rose together, a crashing thunderous sound that made her head hurt. She didn’t know what point the females made; she let her attention wander. As if to punctuate the demand, thunder crashed, announcing the arrival of the storm that threatened all morning.

The class fell silent as one of the women…a woman so quiet, so small as to seem transparent…walked to the ringleader. She slapped a paper on the desk in front of him; she turned her back and returned to her chair. Everyone watched; no one seemed to realize she was in the class until her action. Lucinda watched as the men crowded around, reading whatever it was she gave them. They turned as a unit and left the room.

“What? Where are they going?”

“It’s okay, Dr. Hutchinson. They’re mad because she proved it.”

The class was only female now, though the men would be back on Wednesday. All eyes were on the young woman scooting further toward the corner. Lucinda decided to reclaim her class.

“Since it appears we are all women now, I want you to do something for me. I want you to yell…as loud as you can…yes.” She listened to the enthusiastic din; she felt her word change…her story still began with no, but it would no longer end there.