I sat giggling in the middle of Creative Nonfiction class today as a student gleefully mangled the pronunciation of one word after another, and I thought, I'm going to miss this class. I'll miss their willingness to jump with both feet into the murkiest waters--peculiar reading assignments, persnickety writing assignments, peripatetic class activities--but mostly I'll miss all the ways they tossed lifelines to their struggling classmates. The intimacy that arises in a writing workshop creates a sense of community often absent from other classes, so it will be awfully quiet here when that community disperses.
The semester comes to an end with finals next week followed by Commencement, which means the last two students who made the long trek to California with me in 2011 will be moving on, taking all our private jokes with them. I wish them well, but I'll miss their frequent reminders of that joyful and instructive time.
Other times I'd happily forget. I won't miss the student who, on every writing assignment, demonstrated exquisite skill at reaching the required word count without actually saying anything, and I won't miss the Random Excuse Generator masquerading as a student in one of my literature classes. (And really, she missed so many classes that I didn't get to know her enough to miss her. Miss who? Miss Better-things-to-do-than-come-to-class, I won't miss you!)
I'm just fooling myself, though, if I think I'll never see her again, for she is legion. Every new class produces its own problem children, but every class also produces its own stars. And that, I suppose, is what keeps me doing this year after year: the delicious suspense of watching to see who will step into the spotlight and make my heart sing.
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