A rather dreary post with some scintillating flecks of interest

My creative writing class met today for the first time in about a week and half. Our instructor had cancelled three of our classes because her father fell ill to pneumonia, and he died on Monday night. Apparently, the funeral is planned for Thursday back in Indiana where her family lives, but our instructor told us that she needed to be back in class today to keep things moving forward. Needless to say, we had a somber class, and one of the student poems that we read was serendipitously about what that student had done the night before his mother's funeral eleven months beforehand. Weird connection there, right?

Anyway, our instructor told us about how her whole family was gathered around her father's bed, singing to him as he died. There are so many people that die alone it seems; at least her dad was surrounded by everyone he loved telling him that it was okay to go. I looked around the classroom and so many of us were discreetly blinking back tears as we listened and watched our instructor weep throughout. This probably would seem unprofessional to a lot of people, the fact that she told us about this personal issue in class, but it was okay. In fact, it was endearing to see someone's vulnerability and be able to be there for the person, even if it was just listening in silent group form, to what she had to say. No one really said anything back, we just stared uncomfortably with glassy eyes.

On another note...

I had to write ten "vivid" memories for the class. I wrote the whole thing in various sittings because it was hard for me to recall memories that I felt were actually worth description. And then some of them, as you'll probably see, really aren't worth describing at all. Oh well, there are plenty of books in the world that really should have never been written either, so it all evens out in the end, right? We just have to remember that bad art comes from the heart too!

All my memories are "real" as in they are not fabricated, but it's safe to assume that some are more real than others. I mean, I wouldn't actually want to see all my memories sans my mind's creative embellishment. Anywho, here are a few of them...

one

I tutored English to seven-year-old brats in Barcelona and one girl asked me in Catalan,
“Hola, Jackie. Una cosa… Podem jugar fora?”
“No, we can’t play outside. It’s too cold,” I responded in English.
“Pero la Gisela m’ha dit que si!” She argued back.
“Gisela told you that you could play outside? Really?”
“Bueno, segurament ens va dir que si…”
“So, you haven’t really asked her yet, have you?”

I swear; kids are the same in every country.

two

“Jackie, what are you thinking about right now?”
“I’m just looking at your eyes.”
“And what do you see in them?”
I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie.
Nothing. At all.
“I don’t know.” I lied.

three

In preschool I told my friend Teresa that if she came over to swim, she could “have” my swimsuit. By using the word “have” I meant “borrow,” not that it would have mattered to me because I hated the swimsuit I had promised to lend her anyway. I went home that day and told my mom that I “gave” Teresa the swimsuit. Really, I meant that I “would lend” her it. Furious, my mom scoured the house for the stupid suit, me crying the entire time. When she found it, she forcefully corrected me, “Teresa does not have the swimsuit! It’s right here!” I looked down in confusion. Did I not tell her that I “gave” the swimsuit to Teresa? She just did not understand.

four

I am never consciously hungry when I run. Though, when I was seventeen I recall embarking on a pithy two-mile run where I felt ravenous the entire time. With each step I took, it was as though the hunger pangs ascended a notch higher into my throat where they uncomfortably jostled within. I felt like my body was eating itself. Only a mile into what was intended to be an easy run, I was overwhelmed with fatigue. The effort it required for me to move my 88-pound body matched the effort one would exert when pushing a brick using only the pinky finger. I stopped running, collapsed onto the trail, and cried. For the first time I saw that my “discipline” was debilitating.

five

In the botanical gardens behind the University of Barcelona, a 40-year-old creeper sat down next to me, introducing himself as Josep. He complimented my hair, feigned interest in the book I was reading, and requested my number. At first I invented a number but then had to give him my real one when he tried calling my phone on the spot. I made an excuse to leave, and as is Spanish custom, Josep leaned in to give me an air kiss on each cheek. Though, when I saw his fat dry smackers going in for the kill I hastily turned my head to right. He ended up with a mouthful of my hair and, still not giving up, continued to call me for three months afterward.