Seattle 44, or Vulnerability, Part II; A Story Out of Order

I have had this feeling before; the feeling of working very, very hard and seeing very little come of it. Such is the case with writing class. I am writing a lot, improving my craft, but continue to meet resistance in class. I don't get along with the other students easily; I usually find little difficulty in pre-class banter and casual chatting; here, I seem to be a brand of socially awkward that doesn't fit in well. Then, there is the matter of my poems, which are sometimes unintentionally very offensive, and the class either shuts down and says nothing, or very carefully calls me out on its offensive properties. I call these "misfires." I've been misfiring for weeks.

But I have also had this feeling before, and it usually means I'm in the middle of something big, something that will eventually lead to real, measurable progress. I still have energy for this. Every homework assignment my teacher gives me is the right one. I can do it. I'm learning so much, every week, working so hard - it has to work out eventually, right?

*****

Levi and I sit atop a giant playground slide outside the hospital, while he listens to me narrate my thoughts, making plans, crying just a little. Eventually we begin to read poems to one another, slide down the slide, go grocery shopping at midnight because all I want to do in the world is make soup, and both of our kitchens are a little too far away at the moment. Grocery shopping is the next best thing. In this moment, I'm pretty sure Levi is the best thing.

*****

The thing I fear most in this world are the words, "We need to talk," in any variation.

*****

I take bad news best in large doses, particularly when it's unexpected.

*****

I trust my teacher. I trust her so much that I don't even panic anymore when she asks me to stay after class and talk. It's just that she knows I'm having a rough time - her whole class is having a rough time - and she's been checking in with me regularly, giving me homework. I always do the homework she gives me. I'm the best student I've ever been, with her.

*****

The last student trickles out, and teacher closes the door. I'm almost glad she's asked me to stay a minute because I can't wait to tell her how well the vulnerability exercise went. She turns around and mercifully comes right out with it.

"Dane, I'm asking you to leave Bent."

*****

If I was the teacher, I'd do the same thing. She says students have been leaving class, quitting, because of the discomfort and awkwardness I bring to the group. The school can't afford to lose that many students. She knows how hard I've been working. She says she's so, so sorry.

*****

I'm bawling.

*****

I am not angry. I'm not even hurt. I'm sad.

*****

Bent is why I came to Seattle. Thank G-d I've found other reasons to stay.

*****

Who will be my teacher now? She's one of the best I've ever had.

*****

She tells me to take a month off, then call her. She's willing to help me find other writing schools, other classes, maybe, maybe a new Bent class she's starting to work on. Her emphasis on taking a break makes me think she's exhausted too, needs a break from me.

*****

She sounds worried that I might think she doesn't like me. On the contrary, I've never been more certain that she does. The amount of energy she's invested in me is worth far more than what I've been paying for classes.

*****

I think my mother should probably still be awake, so I call. But as the phone is ringing, I grow embarrassed. This feels so much like failure. I've never been fired, never flunked a course. I don't want to explain it to her, don't want sympathy. I'm relieved when she sounds like I've woken her up. Shhh, Mom, everything's fine, just wanted to talk, thought you'd be up. Go back to sleep.

Hang up and cry some more at the bus stop.

Call Levi. He's eight blocks away. Maybe I'd like to swing by and say hello?