The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (30 page)

“What would
you
guys like to do?” I asked. “We could play a game of Telephone. Does that sound good? Or we could do weekly conversations on celebrity news to ensure that we, as writers, stay up to date on what goes on around us? Or … oh! I got it! What about a twenty-minute eating break?”

The students chose the twenty-minute eating break. But then we tried it a few times and realized that people eating but not really talking serves only to heighten one’s awareness of the sound of other people chewing.

It was circumstance, then, that forced us into another plan of action, a game of our mutual devising.

We called it “This Might Be Controversial.”

“This Might Be Controversial” came about in the workshop portion of the class. Every week, two students submitted essays their fellow students would read and then critique using a series of “positive” and “improvement” comments. So you’d hear things like, “It was good how on page four, paragraph ten, you wore that wig to pretend you’re Barbra Streisand. But then on page six, paragraph twelve, it was weird when you wrote about how hot you think you are.”

“I didn’t mean hot like sexy. I meant hot like ‘I’m too warm.’ ”

“Oh, right. Well, that’s unclear.”

One student, Sven, an enormous, kind-faced Swede, combined a mastery of the English language with a devoted unwillingness to criticize. He’d eschew anything that felt in any way harsh. “On page three, paragraph nineteen, I am very impressed when the character cries, and then washes her feet,” he might say. “And for my improvement … I am sorry, Instructor. I think in every part, Good for you, Miriam! Writing is hard, but you are trying!”

Miriam was a recent retiree, who, in lieu of an essay, had turned in a eulogy she’d written for her recently deceased mother. Miriam wore only purple clothes, and would’ve done well to wear a sign that said,
HANDLE WITH CARE, WON’T YOU PLEASE? MY GRASP ON REALITY’S NOT GREAT
.

So Sven handled her with care. It was sweet, in its way, but the problem was that he handled
everyone
with care.

I tried urging him toward a more honest critique.

“Sven,” I said. “Listen, you have to find a way that works for you.”

Sven told me he’d try harder, and in the weeks that followed he started prefacing his comments with, “This might be controversial.” For Sven, it worked as an effective disclaimer. He’d say, “This might be controversial, but
on page six, paragraph twenty-seven, I thought the line with seven adjectives was very silly.” Or, “This might be controversial, but on page five, paragraph nine, when you talk about your boyfriend, I thought, Hello. This part is very boring.”

“This might be controversial” freed Sven up and, over time, caught on with his classmates. Two more weeks went by and we hit a point where everyone said it. Where everyone couldn’t
not
say it.

“This might be controversial, but on page three, paragraph twelve, it was really, like,
bad
how cheesy the dialogue was when your father tells you he has cancer.” Or, “This might be controversial, but on page one, paragraph eighty-five, your interpretation of manic-depression as creative genius feels really self-delighted.”

One day, Harry, he of the homosexual persuasion and well-coordinated colors, returned from a lengthy visit to the bathroom. Harry spent most of my lectures in the bathroom; however, on
this
return, he seemed atypically chatty.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“What is it?” I said.

“How about if from now on when one of us says ‘This might be controversial,’ we’ve got to follow through with something
really
controversial. I think that that’d be fun. Add some spice to the class. A little excitement.”

“I think spice and excitement sound good,” I said.

“Great,” he said. “Then I’ll go first: This might be controversial, but gay marriage is a bullshit thing to legalize. I loathe the showers and the registries. I loathe the blah fucking
blah
of it all. And, well, I’m sorry, okay? But if
my
time and money saved means fewer rights? Then fuck it.
FUCK IT. Fine
by me.”

Harry took a breath.

“Wow,” he said. “That felt
so
good.”

“It
sounded
good,” I said. “You know, like, cathartic.”

I was not the only one who thought so. Harry made his feelings known, and it was like something electric was let loose in the room. You could feel, not judgment—not the sense that anyone had been offended—but rather: a desire creeping out. Other students wanting their catharsis.

One more week went by and this unearthed, universal desire shifted the meaning of the phrase. “This might be controversial” changed from a means by which you softened your critique to a means by which you set yourself up for the truly controversial. We were in the fifth week of class when I clocked the marked transition. Someone had said, “This might be controversial, but when I meet an anorexic, I want to punch her in the face,” and someone else had said, “This might be controversial, but I saw a thing on the news the other day about a family with ten kids, where one of the kids had drowned in a river. And there the parents were sobbing and yammering on about how there should’ve been a fence up to prevent river access in the first place, and I was like, ‘You still have nine more kids. You fuck with the planet when you fuck like that. And so the planet fucked with you.’ ” And
then
someone said, “This might be controversial, but I went down on a black man recently, and his pubic hair smelled African to me. Does that make sense?”

There was a pause as the class considered this last one, and that’s when I made my observation. I said, “Wow! This Might Be Controversial is spreading among us like wildfire!” And Sven had shouted, “No, Instructor! Not ‘spreading among us like wildfire.’ That is so cliché! Let us say instead, ‘It is spreading among us like … flames upon the gasoline-soaked peyos of a Jew!’ ”

“Oh! I have another,” Miriam piped in. “This might be controversial, but Israelis are so
rude
. Whew! I never met a one who is polite!”

This is how it went, with just one rule in place: You couldn’t say something you didn’t believe.

This proved not to be a problem.

“This might be controversial,” started Dave.

Dave was a twenty-five-year-old Caucasian. He had a waist-length set of dreadlocks, wealthy parents, and a virtual allergy to any and all critiques of his own writing. He was of the opinion that any and all edits to his work affected the “integrity” of said work.

“Integrity” was Dave’s word, not mine.

Dave continued, “But, well, I don’t think bestiality’s that gross. I mean, I get it, how it’s hot, you know? Just, like, getting off without having to return the favor.”

Harry nodded in acceptance. Not agreement, but acceptance.

“Yes, well,” he said, “
this
might be controversial, but the number of photos you post to Facebook is directly proportional to how big a dick you are in life. Upwards of once a day, you
are
a dick. There’s no two ways about it.”

Was this most of us? It was.

We nodded in agreement.

ONE DAY, SVEN
arrived to class looking atypically upset.

“What’s wrong?” asked Miriam.

“I have something controversial to say,” said Sven, “and it is very bad. I am very ashamed by my very private feelings.”

“Don’t be,” said Dave. “I pretty much confessed I want a blowjob from a dog.”

Sven nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You were very open on that day. Well, okay. Here I go: This might be controversial,
but the politician John Edwards? I do not blame him for his cheating. His wife is very homely.”

“Not ‘is,’ ” said Miriam. “ ‘Was.’ Elizabeth Edwards has died.”

“Miriam! Chill!” shouted Dave. “Sven’s just being controversial. Don’t make him feel bad! He
knows
it’s bad! Just look how sad he looks!”

Sven did indeed look sad. His shoulders were slumped, his bottom lip protruding.

“I’m sorry, Sven,” said Miriam. “I don’t mean to be cruel. We all have our … things, I guess. For what it’s worth,
this
might be controversial, but I only go to male doctors. I have a problem trusting women.”

Sven smiled. “You must hate yourself for this,” he said.

“I do,” she said. “It’s very hard.”

There were others in the class—a Paul, a Brian, a Lisa, a Lauren—and each one of them, like Miriam and Sven, had their own painful realizations. Statements that prompted not relief so much as the glorious pain of self-loathing:

“This might be controversial, but I wish divorce upon most of my friends.”

“This might be controversial, but you can’t be
truly
raped if you find the guy attractive.”

“This might be controversial, but I hated
The Wire
.”

“This might be controversial, but I hate
Breaking Bad
.”

“This might be controversial, but I think women who change their names after marriage are morons. I judge every single one. Not to their faces, of course. To their faces, I’m all like, ‘To each his own. It’s all about a woman’s right to choose!’ But in my heart, I’m all like, ‘C’mon, woman! PLEASE! Just grow a fucking backbone!’ ”

THE WRITING CLASS
was ten weeks long, and as we inched toward the end, I, too, made hard admissions:

This might be controversial, but I’m attracted to Rick Santorum.

This might be controversial, but I don’t like Malcom Gladwell.

This might be controversial, but if you’re living on public assistance, you shouldn’t be allowed to have a pet.

When we reached our tenth and final week, something unprecedented happened: We didn’t play This Might Be Controversial. We’d reached a saturation point the week before. Dan had said, “This might be controversial, but I think a gay man is more likely than a straight man to be a pedophile,” and Harry responded, “But that’s not controversial, even. I mean, it’s wrong. Just … wrong. It’s objectively untrue.”

Things were uncomfortable now in a way they hadn’t been since I’d barreled in and called myself professor. Tension replaced camaraderie, and we lost the will to speak on controversial subjects. More to the point, we didn’t need to speak on controversial subjects, and the reason was more shocking than all things controversial said thus far:

For the first and only time, my students cared about my lecture.

The final topic was The Business of Writing, and when I announced it, when I said, “Okay, everyone. Let’s talk about how to make money,” I clocked unprecedented interest. Suddenly, the students scribbled in their notebooks. Suddenly, their hands flew up with questions: Will I get published? How often? How much money will I make?

“Everyone! Calm yourselves! Please!” I shouted back.

If there was something sad in our loss of camaraderie, it was made up for now, in the pride that I felt. For here I was at the end of the experience, achieving what I’d hoped for at the start: My students were excited and engaged.
My students had questions, and I, their teacher, finally had some answers.

“You
might
get published,” I said, “but only online. And you won’t make any money.”

“
Any
money?”

“Well, no: You might make
some
money, but not the kind that does you any good.”

The students sat for a moment, considering my knowledge. Considering
my truth
.

“Is that why you pack a homemade tuna sandwich every week?”

“Yes, Lauren! Good!”

“Is that why your clothes are always stained? Because it’s too expensive to dry-clean them?”

“Spot on, Paul!
Also
good!”

My students, it seemed, had done a lot of growing in the weeks we’d been together. Maybe not in terms of effective writing methods, but certainly in terms of how to read people and judge character.

“Wow,” I said. “You guys have learned so much.”

I saw them eyeing one another. Harry shook his head and raised his hand.

“I’m not so sure,” he said. “I think that might be controversial.”

I’ve only ever enjoyed one athletic activity, and that’s biking. I like the lack of skill and study required for adequate performance. It’s like photography that way: The training you need is immeasurably less than what’s required for other artistic endeavors, and it is why, when seeking a creative outlet, grown adults get into photography in lieu of, say, ballet—the nature of it is couched in enough subjectivity to make the study of the craft look less embarrassing. Whereas if a layperson did a pirouette, you could definitively say, “Wow. That looked pathetic”; if he/she started taking photos, things wouldn’t be so clear. It’d be another photo of another landscape. And still you’d say, “Wow! That’s so gorgeous! You’ve got such a great eye!”

Biking is to athletics as photography is to creativity.

As such, I knew it was the sport for me.

I learned to ride a bike when I was six years old. Between the ages of six and thirty I rode many different bikes through many different landscapes. I therefore looked adept when I did so, comfortable with various accessorizing movements like French-rolling my pant leg and/or making a belt of my kryptonite lock.

Biking has been the singular activity throughout my life that has allowed me to look arguably authentically cool.

As with anything, however, there are factors that can undermine this singular authentic coolness. For example:

The former issue poses the bigger threat to my hair, while the latter issue poses the bigger threat to my body and brain. When I should be zoning in, I’m zoning out. When I should be clocking traffic patterns, I’m imagining instead the development of a voice-box replacement surgery to grant me a stronger singing voice. I’ll be speeding alongside a yellow cab, but I’ll be thinking about how much I’d love to sing—really
sing
—“Don’t Rain on My Parade.”