In Which I Am Supposed To Know

And strangers are my friends.

Jacques Lacan entering a room for a lecture, 1972

I am teaching a writing class at the moment. In fact enough people signed up that I’m teaching two of them, with about twelve students each. My class is called “Write It Off” and is designed to guide students through the process of writing an essay that puts to bed or at least sends well on its way a problem they’ve been wrestling with for long enough that it seems to require special attention. My class is about editing as much as writing, in the sense that the students will process their experience not just by getting in on paper, but by refining and perfecting the telling, the meanings, the implications. That’s the idea. Results will surely vary based on how much effort students are willing to put in and whether this is their moment to grapple with whatever event or issue, large or small, they’ve decided to turn towards.

Yesterday my second section started, the Monday section. I’ve already taught two Thursday sections. I don’t know anyone in the Thursday class at all, I mean, I know them now, but before the class started I had never set eyes on any of them. This has allowed me to cultivate this persona of a teacher, in the classic sense, who knows stuff the class doesn’t know. I occasionally say arrogant things in a joking way (like I will describe another writer and say, you know who else is good at this particular thing they are good at: ME)! And I will laugh, but I also mean it. I feel very free in front of this group.

But in the Monday class are a few former colleagues and actual good friends: about half of them are people I know, some well, some not well, from real life. And I found as I started to do a full-on launch into the writer personality that was so readily available in that Thursday class, I felt self-conscious.