Cutting is a frequent subject in my community college English classes. In one class of fifteen, six students, two of them young men, wrote about their cutting and depression. When one permitted me to copy and distribute her paper and read it aloud in her class, five others followed suit. We discussed depression, unhappiness, self-medication, alcohol and drugs, wanting to die. All six used or had used marijuana to treat depression and unhappiness. They smoked every day. In pencil I make copious marks on student papers, correcting spelling, punctuation, and format, suggesting changes in syntax and diction, asking questions, and offering comments. There is no penalty for so-called errors in usage or mechanics; students merely have to integrate improvements and resubmit. All my corrections are done silently and privately between the student and me through my marks and comments on their papers; there is no “picking apart” of their essays, no public criticism in class of their writing. Class discussion is about the issues or the themes of their writing only. The greater and deeper the intellectual inquiry and engagement, the more everything else in their writing improves along with it. Students respond wonderfully to this approach. They yearn to be heard, to share, to find solidarity with others; they love to tell their stories, express their pain, loneliness, unhappiness, and struggle. They love the openness, honesty, of these classes. Though not explicit, the process is generally Buddhist (the Four Truths and the Eightfold Path) and AA (the Twelve Steps)—give up, be honest and brave, tell the truth, forgive, make art. No student is compelled to disclose; confidentiality is respected if requested. But honesty and courage are contagious. It all gets very deep, very real, in a hurry. I have to be vigilant, caring, alert always. Over forty years there have so far been no student tragedies among my students as a result. Not all of us have relinquished our loneliness, courage, honesty, conversation, and compassionate listening to licensed experts and institutional review boards. We warily trust each other, confess, apologize, forgive, and only rarely consult the therapists, deans, counselors of special needs, the doctors, or the lawyers. We allow ourselves to use colloquial English, “bad” grammar, and to be sloppy, trite, and self-indulgent. We cry and laugh and love and loaf and live and ask no one’s permission. Then we work in concert to try to shape this raw material into literature and art. We try to identify the truths of our own life experience, to explore the meanings of these truths, and to express these truths in writing so others understand.
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