Nate is dead

I’m taking this class called "personal and exploratoy writing". I don’t know what I was expecting. Something, like, edgy or whatever maybe. Some way to tap into my "emotional writing" . Something I perhaps lost over time. Part of this class is to write in a journal everrrryday something that was once part of life, as hibitual as drinking my redline or vomiting up my food. Ha.

The teacher is religous and I can tell cause she talks about it. She says "god bless you" when you sneeze and wears a fat ass cross on her neck. She talks about growing up in Catholic school and has this teeny tiny voice with this monsterous laugh that emerges sometimes out of nowhere, when you least expect it. I like her though in some stupid way, she’s nerdy and endearing, fumbles over her words a little bit and never gives out harsh critisisms.

I look forward to this class. Three times a week we move the desks into a circle, convention style, and, like, talk about our "feelings" in the form of literary nonfiction. So far in this class, two girls have broken down during their essays and started crying. And I roll  my eyes ’cause I can’t help but be a little beside myself about the whole atmosphere. Yeah, that’s really brave and shit that Nicole finally got out of her abusive two year relationship, but fuck, she should have left him in the first month when he hospitilized her. After an essay everyone claps and then you go around the room, one by one, and critique the piece of writing.

Yet, it’s less of a critique and more of "yeah, I totally have felt that way before" repeat 26 times.

At the beginning of the semester, before anyone knew anything about anyone and everthing, you look and wonder. Then later you find out: abused, morman, insecure, about to be a dad, finally found God, girlfriend moved away, etc, etc.  And it’s fucking fun because it’s like guilty pleasure reality tv in the form of 27 community college kids.

There’s this tiny gay boy in the class with this totally unique, slow, raspy, scared voice, a shaved head and no social skills. The first day I saw him I seriously wanted to take him home and mother him or something. He didn’t talk really, read before class began and trailed off when he was supposed to share thoughts. The other day he read his essay. And it was fucking amazing.  Brilliant, poetic, endearing, he wrote like a novelist, an experienced fiction writer. But he was writing about himself, and you can see in his face and in his voice that he was not used to it, that he was uncomfortable with his own words even though they flowed so naturally and beautifully. This was somewhat electrifying to see.

Another boy, with plastic pointy shoes and shaggy brown hair, read  a letter to his unborn daughter. It was clear, and funny and edgy and smart.

A girl with dark skin and capri pants read about how she recently moved to mesa from el savador and hates it, can’t connect with any Americans, cant ever show her emotions. and she cried during it. which I thought was ironic.

A handful of others have wrote about the presence of God and religion in their life. Either letting go of it, questioning it, or finding it again. I try to be receptive, try to understand how that can conduct someones life so much and whatnot, but I’m mostly talking shit in my head.

I have not read mine yet. I was m.i.a on the day we signed up for slots to read so oddly enough I’m reading last.

The prompt is "what was the biggest turning point in your life?"

I think I’m going to write about when Nate died on Six Feet Under.

Or perhaps the point of this class is to genuiney "explore" yourself, not just yo writing.

but I seriously did cry until I was dry heaving when Nate died.