Through the 90’s, I taught college English in Naples, Italy at a US navy base. It was a remarkable experience, a world away from the ivy-aesthetics of grad school. In a decade of relative prosperity, with a low probability of combat duty, many enlisted to stay alive and find peace. Fully a quarter of one class had lost a close family member to violence. “If I wasn’t here, I’d be dead or in prison,” I heard over and over.
“What’s not to love about basic training?” a young man asked. “Three squares a day, a bed with sheets and the drill sergeant treated me better than my dad.” Murmurs of assent around the room.
A standard essay prompt of “I didn’t understand, and then I did,” produced epiphanies of adulthood. One student recounted an adolescence of constant, furious battles with his mother. On his first shore leave, the two were chatting in the kitchen, a non-event in the combat years. He excused himself, took out the garbage and returned to find his mother frozen in place. “What just happened?” she demanded. “The bag was full, so I took it out.” She asked if he remembered epic fights over this very task. “Really? Over that?” Indeed, over that. Rarely has garbage produced such hilarity.
In the years of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” more than one young man came out to me in the parking lot after fiction-writing class. The process went like this. Short story #1 centered on the struggles of a narrator’s friend who was “different.” I’d suggest we meet to discuss characterization, paragraphing or whatever. In private, I’d let fall sympathy for the “friend” in “this world” and mention that generally in fiction, you want the POV character to be close to the drama/conflict. When the next story came in first person of a gay character, I might note how well-articulated the trauma was, how credible. The soldier would look around to make sure we were alone and whisper, “That was me.” When I said I’d figured, he’d be stunned by my superhuman insight. A satisfying pedagogical moment, if it hadn’t been so sad.
Pamela Schoenewaldt, historical novels of immigration and the search for self in new worlds: WHEN WE WERE STRANGERS, SWIMMING IN THE MOON, and UNDER THE SAME BLUE SKY (all HarperCollins).
pamelaschoenewaldt.com 
What a wonderful exposition of the influence a teacher can have ion a students life. Lost in all the “standards” discussion is the truth that what really matters is pedagogy–the maker in which a teacher interacts with her students. These parking lot revelations did not occur without a clear sense in the mind of the student that here is someone in whom I can trust. Thank you.
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Thank you!
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