April 23, 2009

Mr. Snowhite


Mr. Snowhite hired me.

The chronology goes like this:
Born.
School.
Married.
Kid-move-school-kid-move-school-kid-move-school-kid-move-divorce.
School.
Marry.
School.
School.
Grad school.
Sabbatical with husband in Washington DC.
Start new job.
Fired after one week after they determined that a Creative Writing Graduate really can't/shouldn't teach writing/English.
Redo floors in the house.
Look around for a real position.
None.
No money.
No one's hiring.
I want an office, a job, a place where I can hang my posters, greet students, do the Great Work of a woman who finally, after all these years and sacrifices and missteps can Contribute.
Go see Mr. Snowhite.
He hires me as an adjunct and gives me two classes, and more importantly, gives me the Magic Document that says even though I probably hung out in trees with all my Creative Writing Friends and smoked bongs, and sat cross-eyed on cushions thoughout my entire college career, the English dept. will take a chance on me. Maybe, just maybe a Creative Writer can teach writing.
The classes don't fill.
Start re-doing the bedroom.
Substitute in for a college teacher who went AWOL first week, teaching grammar and paragraphs at neighboring campus.
Mr. Snowhite gives me a summer English 101 class, and thereafter, two solid classes every semester that have filled.

While somedays I whine too much about the homework load, I am more than happy to have some gainful means of bringing in some money, occupying my time, and letting me contribute.

Bless you, Mr. Snowhite. Have a nice retirement--you've earned it!

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