my brother...the writer??

Yesterday my brother sent my parents and me a newsy sort of email. It had been a while since he'd spoken on the phone to them or me, so he thought he’d update us together in print. He began the email with a description of the dinner he’d eaten the night before—a homemade Skyline Chili three-way. (NB: if you’re not from Cincinnati, a three-way is spaghetti, chili, and shredded cheddar cheese. It sounds gross, I know, but don’t knock it till you try it.)

So, in his email, he waxes poetic about this concoction, detailing cheese amounts and rationalizing his decision to use mini-shells instead of spaghetti. The mini-shell, he explains, was “strategically picked to be ‘cup shaped’ so as to hold the correct amount of chili within its starchy confines.”

What? Starchy confines? I mean, seriously! And the rest of the email is equally eloquent and fun to read. I forwarded it to my husband because I thought he’d get a kick out of it and when I asked him if he read it he said, “Yeah. And hey, I didn’t know your brother was such a good writer!”

Before I start to sound like a condescending older sister, let me explain a couple of things. If asked, I would guess my brother would tell you that he hates, HATES, English as a subject, and he might also tell you that he doesn’t particularly enjoy writing. If I had to speculate on the source of these feelings, I’d guess it was this terrible teacher he had in junior high (really, as a teacher’s kid, I rarely bash teachers, but this woman was truly awful). I believe she squelched any positive feelings he may have had about his own writing.

In high school, things went from bad to worse. I encouraged him to take classes from all of the English teachers I loved, only to find out that they made him hate English and writing even more. College writing classes did not help—in fact, I don’t think he took a writing-related course after he finished his first-year writing requirements.

After reading the email, I’ve been thinking about how things might have been (I know, I know, dangerous.) What if he hadn’t had that loathsome teacher in junior high? What if his high school writing teachers had dumped the boring research paper (complete with 3x5 notecards) and grammar drills for an autobiography assignment, or a journalistic-style profile of an object or event, or even a series of short essays on a subject of his choosing? What if he had taken an upper-level writing class in college? Fiction, perhaps, or maybe life narratives? Would he like English and writing more?

One things seems pretty clear to me: my brother enjoyed writing that email. I’d be willing to bet he took pleasure in choosing words and crafting sentences. The email reads as if the author liked to write. I know I enjoyed reading it.

My brother is by no means alone in his frustrations about English classes and writing classes. I’d say at least 50% of the students who enter my first-year writing classroom LOATHE writing class and see it as a necessary evil—the bitter pile of Brussels sprouts they have to eat before they can leave the table. So, now I’m wondering: What was missing in all of those classes he took? And why, oh, why do so many people see writing as a chore? As punishment rather than as a pleasurable activity? What are we writing teachers doing wrong? Is it because the courses are required? Is it the assignments? Do we teachers not do enough to incorporate the kinds of writing students want to do into our courses? I could go on...