Memoir Writing Class 2015

It's that time of year again. I'm teaching two eight week sessions of memoir writing at the Puyallup Senior Activity Center.

Every Friday I'm privileged to spend at least two hours with a group of women (occasionally a man will venture in) who want to tell their stories. Yesterday was the last class of the first session.

 

"I'll go first. I want to get this over with," one of the participants said yesterday. We all laughed, but with understanding because the assignment for the week was to write about a difficult or sad time in life, how the person got through it, and what was learned from the experience. It was the same assignment for everyone and many of the other seven women felt the same way.

Most of my students write their histories to leave as a legacy for family members, but there are some who simply write for themselves with no intention of sharing with anyone other than the women who come together once a week.

From the stories that were shared yesterday, it was evident the women had gained confidence in their writing and trusted the others to keep what they heard within the group. There were a few tears and certainly a lot of sympathy for what was revealed from their past.

We ended the day on a brighter note, reading excerpts from high school students' writings that English teachers have collected over the years. The way in which they used similes was hilarious. Here are three of my favorites:

Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

And so it goes with these classes. Strangers come together, share their histories, find common bonds, are amazed by what they can remember and write about, laugh a lot and sometimes shed a tear with one another. Many have returned to class two and three times.

A student announced at the end of class yesterday that I don't get paid for teaching. That really isn't true. I get excited about spending Fridays with my new acquaintances, some of whom have become friends. I'm honored to hear about their lives and help them hone their writing skills. So when it comes to payment, I'm more than compensated, not in dollars and cents, but with intangibles more precious than gold.