It was Day 2 of my resident writer's gig and I was eager to see what masterpieces the group produced in response to my prompt.
It was an inane prompt consisting of one word, Moments.
I had no idea what to expect from a diverse group of faculty, students and would-be writers but I certainly didn't have high expectations―quite the contrary.
And sure enough, the group including the faculty, didn't disappoint―as a matter of fact, some of the worst tripe I've ever had the misfortune to assess came from the latter group.
I had listened to five boring faculty readings and the equally mundane responses of the group.
Kill me now, I groaned inwardly as the mousy girl who asked on the first day where I got my inspiration got up to read.
She wrote a first person narration about going to Florida to find love and being disappointed by an insensitive oaf she met on the beach who mocked her white body and nerdy looks.
It was a deeply personal piece of writing with hard-hiting imagery and it had a profound impact on the whole group.
When she finished there was a moment of stunned silence and then a spontaneous burst of applause.
The girl blushed and was obviously flattered by the group's feedback , but then the magical aura was broken by a sudden boorish remark from one of the faculty whose written effort didn't receive the response he felt it deserved.
"That's an attempt at self-expression," he intoned, "but hardly what I'd call literary art. It's purely subjective and should have been written in the third person to give it some gravitas, some weight so it could merit serious consideration."
For the second time a hush fell over the class, but this was more a shocked and embarrassed silence than an expression of awe.
The mousy girl's face fell and I could see she was on the verge of tears.
"There's a legitimate place for direct first person narration," I corrected the lecturer, "and your remark shows an unjustified bias for one narrative mode over another. In this seminar we're open to all legitimate forms of expression from stream of consciousness to even theatre of the absurd."
The man also flushed but not in appropriate embarrassment over his harsh criticism but in deep anger over having his judgment questioned . He stormed out of the room.
Once again, there was a round of applause, but not for the man's position but more relief that his toxic attitude was condemned and exorcised.
It was a watershed moment not only for me but for the group―it was as if a spell had been broken and suddenly people were willing and even eager to share their responses.
The emotional climate of the room immediately changed and lightened and even carried over into the Hart House cafeteria afterwards where students would approach me and suggest possible prompts for future assignments and float ideas about ways to foster shaing and collaboration for future projects.
From the corner of my eye I saw Vi Thompson, my beautiful colleague, watching and smiling and taking it all in.
I had no doubt she'd approach me later with observations of her own. All in all, it was a good day, a day when prejudice died and the masses proclaimed victory. The Bastille had been stormed and people weree free to be themselves...
especially me, since honesty and vulnerability triumphed, the kind of qualities that once made me successful as a writer were stirred up inside me once more.
