When I think about my former college writing professor,
Sister Mara, one day in particular comes to mind.
I had made an appointment to visit her office—a room with a
desk, sofa chair, and hundreds of books. It was the middle of fall semester,
when her students’ final essay projects were just getting under way. A bit
behind on my own essay, I once again felt the need to bounce ideas off of the
most famous English professor on campus.
As usual, I was buzzing with a mixture of energy and nerves.
Sister Mara is not an intimidating woman. In fact, she has
the persona of a caring, unassuming great aunt who happens to have a doctorate
in literature and be an accomplished writer. She is usually smiling, and when
she’s not, she’s probably thinking about how to best offer her help and advice.
So when I say that I was nervous, I don’t mean that I was nervous because I felt intimidated. I was nervous because,
well, I hadn’t exactly made much progress on my essay for her Writing Essays class.
I’m sure you know the feeling—all those ideas, all that
research, all the good intentions dancing around your head—all falling out window
the moment you face the blank page.
So, braced with a notepad and pen, I sat down on Sister
Mara’s couch and attempted to engage her in introductory small talk.
She smiled, and asked the question I was hoping to delay for
as long as possible. “So, how’s your essay coming along?”
My response, which I’d rehearsed to no avail, came out like
a Slurpee dumped onto the sidewalk. “Well actually, I was just thinking yesterday how my third
draft is just not working, and how there’s just something not right, and just
this morning I came up with another idea—“
“NIK,” she said emphatically. Not a shout, but a firm plea
for me to stop talking (in retrospect, I don’t blame her). “I don’t want to hear about any more ideas,” she said, still
smiling. “You have lots of ideas—all very good ones. So now you have to choose ONE,
and stick with it.”
And that was that. Our meeting was adjourned. Sensing my
eagerness to escape the writing chair, Sister Mara did what all good writing
teachers do—she sent me back to it.
I went to a Catholic university (hence the presence of monks
and nuns) that stressed the importance of community, hospitality, and the need
to trust and rely upon one another. Even with all that support, there were many
times that I felt inexorably alone. During one of those times, I had gotten
lost while hiking through the 2,400-acre forest that surrounded my campus. During
all of the rest, I was writing.
A good writing teacher reminds you of a great irony—that writing
is an act both solitary and public, performed behind closed doors and, once
encountered by a reader, completely out in the open.
Sister Mara retired in May after more
than 50 years of teaching. As she writes in her 2009 memoir Going Blind, she inherited a genetic
disease that has blinded many of her family members and that may lead to her
own blindness as well.
Even without seeing, she gave the gift of sight to thousands
of students like me, who were able to see not only their writing, but also
their purpose and existence, in a new light.
Writing instructor Nik Nadeau now lives in Boston. He spends his free time "reading, speed skating, and writing about Asian American topics."
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