the great leslie

I've been volunteering as a writing tutor with the Telling Room, a Portland-based non-profit that works with local students. This summer the Telling Room joined forces with another non-profit in the area, Cultivating Community, which runs a Youth Grower program. Youth Growers are teenagers who are paid to work on the farm (planting, tilling, weeding, etc.), as well as participate in kick-ball games and other activities that are organized for them. One of these activities was writing with volunteers from the Telling Room.

I worked with a few students, one of whom was my mentee from the very beginning. She was a creative and prolific writer, but not very willing to share. She always hated the way her poems and stories came out, despite my accolades and encouragement. All this work was collected however, and on Thursday, it was presented her, typed and stapled.

I worked with another student who had a lot to say, but had some trouble getting it on to paper. I'd ask her what she was thinking and she'd tell me and I'd say: "Well, write that down." And she have the pen in her hand and her paper on the desk, but the words would have flown away from her. When that happens to me, I try to "write through it," hoping the words will return to me in the process. But I've been writing on a regular basis for over 20 years; I have a strong writing muscle. This young woman is a new writer, just developing that muscle. For me to say "just write" is not helpful at all. But, by Thursday, she had written two short pieces about her life in Africa, where she was born, one of which was all typed out for her.

Thursday was our last day, and so we had a sharing session. You can guess what that is, if you don't already know, but I'll elucidate anyway: all the students and volunteers sit in a large circle and the students are asked to read the pieces they've worked on.

My first mentee stood up, but had so much work in her hands. She was overwhelmed by the words on her pages and the eyes on her, and couldn't get started at first. But when I told her to read a certain poem I knew she had in her pile, she got right to it and read with gusto. It was a funny, imaginative poem and everyone really enjoyed it. As soon as she got going, the words carried her.

My second mentee was so nervous she couldn't stand up. I was sitting next to her, and she asked me to read it. I said I would, but I asked her to stand with me. When we were standing, I asked her to read the first line. I said I would read the second if she read the first. And so she did, and again, the words carried her. I stepped back as she read her entire piece.

Sometimes dread is the only thing in our way. Once we start, the words carry us to completion.