The Scholar by Quentin Massys: Courtesy Pinterest
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I am an orphan... That is to say I met my father 3-4 times when he dropped by, and my mother died when I was 5. I spent the next five years in captivity (the less said about that the better- except to say I was constantly abused) and was never sent to school. On one of my father's rare visits he gave me a set of Compton's Encyclopedia, with which I taught myself to read (with a modicum of help from my mother at first who was busy staring out the window crying for my father to come back).
Books, my encyclopedia in particular, were my escape... my magic carpet that would take me anywhere I wanted to go and enable me to be anyone I desired to be. I could be one of King Arthur's knights, or Rob Roy, or Ivanhoe (two of my favorites). I could live in a castle high in the air, or a tent in the desert. I read everything I could get my hands on. Some of my captors gave me books, most didn't but one or two were not terribly unkind. There I remained until I was 10 being handed around like a party favor until one fateful day when my Uncle Arthur rescued me and took me away (along with my books) to New Hampshire.
Uncle Arthur was my mother's brother and he became my teacher. He didn't work, he was a fairly strange character... he had what they call "shell shock" from the war (WWII). In retrospect, I suspect he was a collector for the loan sharks and wise guys in Boston. He would give me my assignments and take off for the day and when he came home he had money. I never asked about it... To tell the truth, I didn't care- he was the first adult to treat me with kindness. He told me that if he sent me to public school they would take me away and put me in a home- so he taught me at home. But when I was 12 or 13 he died, and I was on the streets.
I went to Boston where I ran errands for the wise guys and learned to steal cars- BUT- I still read constantly. I went through books like they were going out of style. Back then they were cheap... you could get used ones for a nickel at the bookstores. I read about everything- I once read or heard (I don't remember which) that anything you could ever want to know is written down somewhere... I really took that to heart, in fact, it's one of the first things I told my kids (my next post will be about my pedagogy). When I turned 17 I enlisted in the service.
They make you take a test, an ASVAB- kind of an aptitude test and without ever spending a day in school, I blew it away (it was ridiculously easy). During the years in the military, I didn't get to read much, but afterward, I picked up where I left off. Now I had no idea how much someone with a high school diploma was supposed to know- I figured probably a lot more than I did. But- one my job applications, I always put down that I graduated from high school- and I guess I was at least articulate enough that nobody questioned it... Until one day in 1990!
I applied for a job selling advertising at a radio station in Michigan... and the guy checked. Well, there I was, no job, no prospects, a pregnant wife and three kids. I enrolled in Adult Education- 45 years old and NO schooling behind me. I couldn't believe how easy it was... it was all stuff I had already read. After a month, I spent lunch time correcting papers for the lady that taught English and History. I signed up for a class in Literature, which of course I enjoyed- until one day.
For a reading assignment a story by Jack London came up- I hate Jack London... not personally, I don't know the guy, but I do not like his stories- they're always about some guy in the frozen tundra, a place I wouldn't get caught dead in. He's a talented writer, I just don't like his subject matter. I went to the teacher and begged: "Please don't make me read this guy- I hate his stuff. I'll read four stories by anybody else," I say. "What don't you like?" She asks. "He sucks," I tell her. "I write better than he does."
Well, I had done it... let my battleship mouth overflow my rowboat ass. "Oh, you write?" She says. "Why don't you bring in some of your stories and we'll talk about it." Now I was screwed- of course I didn't have anything. So I went home, got out my wife's trusty old Corona and went to work. I slammed off three stories that night- I don't even remember what any of them were about- and brought them in. "Oh," she says, after reading them. "These are really good. Do you mind if I forward them to my friend at Central (Michigan)?" I said I didn't care- it couldn't hurt.
I get a letter in the mail from this guy- the head of the Creative Writing Dept. begging me to consider coming to Central, saying I would be welcome addition to the department. Well, the rest, as they say, is history... but she still made me read London- To Light a Fire, or something like that. A story of a guy that ran out of matches and froze to death (idiot).
