Title: Backstory

Author: Emmet

Disclaimers: Characters are all from Once and Again, created by Edward Zwick and Marshall Herskovitz. Chapter titles and lines of dialogue in this and future chapters are from episodes  by Winnie Holzman, Sue Paige, Daniel Paige, Liberty Godshall, and Maggie Friedman. Thanks for the inspiration.

Rating: PG for now

Summary: Season 3 from August Dimitri's eyes.

Note: I became intrigued with the Mr. Dimitri/Grace story arc, and wondered about Dimitri's take on the experience. No one seems to have written the story I wanted to read, so I thought I'd have a go. Feedback appreciated.

Chapter 1: The Awful Truth

Every teacher secretly hopes for one. That special student, that student that you know has that unique something that will transcend your classroom, about whom you can say I knew them when, like that teacher Matt Damon and Ben Affleck credited when their first screenplay won an Oscar.

Is that what I want, now, just future credit from a former student? My own books forgotten. And the Well Ran Dry. How sad to be emptied at 25, to have your identity revolve around being a poetic genius and then have nothing come. The fallout of altruism.

It's ironic that the path that led to my love of teaching also led to the end of my own writing. Don't look back, Bob said. At 23.

Poems, stories, more poems, used to flow, unbidden – I couldn't write them down fast enough. I, who never believed in writer's block, who took my genius so for granted, the genius that got me through high school, the genius that was appreciated in college, honed, recognized, published, lauded.

A rare impression of déjà vu the first time I saw her in class, red hair a shade darker than mine, slightly plump, as I was at that age, reserved. But I didn't know then that she would be the special one this year, or that she would significantly change my life. I've been lucky enough to have had a few notable students over a decade of teaching, those who have had a certain perceptiveness, advanced for their years, an ability that they could only have at this transitional stage of life, the certain know-it-all naiveté of late adolescence, combined with rare, intense brightness that allows them to express insights beyond the average high-school junior.

After the first essay, I was again reminded of myself, though I hadn't yet connected the name to the face. I knew from the opening paragraph that Grace Manning might be one of those students we teachers all don't admit that we hope for.

Maybe I appreciated her more because this was an introspective year for me. I had turned 40 a few weeks before class started. (Yes, my parents named us each for the months in which we were born: August, April, June. At least none of us were born in February.) I was determined not to be a mopey cliché, age is what it is, but in spite of it all, there's something about turning 40 that made me stop and think and review my life – past and future. "What do you expect?" my friend Chris says. "If you're lucky, you've reached the exact middle of your life. And in many places you've already made it through two-thirds of your life. So smile! Take what comes. Enjoy." She was a year older and had already come to terms with the experience.

The class was Literature: Craft and Critique, an honors class. Students didn't have to apply to get in, but they had to understand this was a reading- and writing-heavy class. Read a book per week, daily journal writing, weekly writing assignments, both creative original and literary criticism. I didn't mind teaching my other, more basic courses, but this was my favorite one to teach, both because of the works covered, and because of the students. Only those who were really interested in reading and writing took this class – it had a reputation for being the toughest offered. Because it was.

The first assignment that I gave on day one was an in-class 20-minute essay, and it always elicited a laugh, because these honors students didn't think I was serious. It also gave me a sense of how they responded to any assignment, however frivolous it may seem. "I want you to write an essay, three pages, right now. Theme: 'What I did during my summer vacation.'"

Hesitant laughs at first, then groans, always groans, when they realized I was serious. I smiled, I looked over the classroom. I had taught people of all ages, from elementary to adult ed, but high-school juniors were my favorite --  I could still influence how they thought. They already had the development of a couple years of high school. They had more worthwhile ideas to express than  a freshman, the 17-year-olds did, yet they weren't yet in the senior year gotta-worry-about-college-essays frame of mind.

The groans, then the essays. Which I read that night, with a glass of wine, sitting on a stool in my kitchen, an old Melanie album playing in the living room. Sucker for those crooners. This assignment served three purposes. One, it gave me a sense of their innate, spontaneous writing ability, of what I should be able to expect from these kids this year. Two, obviously, it told me what they did over the summer, and gave me a sense of who each kid was – did they work, did they play, did they laze around, what did they do? And three, it told me what they thought was important about what they did., what they needed to share with the teacher, how they viewed me as their reader.

I went through the pile of essays. Scrawling, almost illegible handwriting, tiny, cramped, precise letters. Some essays were humorous, some were poignant, some were merely boring. There were camp counselors, life guards, waiters, trips to Europe, hiking, even Disney World. There was a list of all the television programs seen in July, with episode summaries. And then there was an essay that began:

This summer started with a honeymoon for six, the perfect party during the year my life turned excruciatingly upside down, inside out, twisted, rippled, drained and gone. A perfect life and family ruptured behind the scenes we didn't see, secrets revealed I'd rather never know, but now can never not.

The minister fixed sinks and built fountains.

In Hebrew, ring is taba'at.

The taba'at of my father is buried in a garden, thrown into a well, drowning in an ocean.

It is no longer connected to him. A piece of worthless precious metal, a whole broken circle.

A  Musician who shouldn't be a brother, new sister who is Porcelain, old sister who is Much Too Cute in a house that is much too small because there's no more room for me.

There cannot be a new father, even if there is a new ring.

I couldn't put it down for the three pages, written in blue ballpoint, slanted, legible. I looked at the name, Grace Manning, trying to picture a face. It took me a few days to learn everybody's names. I remembered, suddenly, the redhead, and wondered if she were Grace Manning.

The next day, when I handed back the essays, my hunch proved correct. Grace was indeed the reserved redhead. I saw her shuffle the pages to the end, where I had written, "Remarkable writing." I saw her smile.

But no student is perfect, not even the special ones. After handing back the essays, I discussed my expectations for the class, and handed out the notebooks they would use as journals. I explained, "These are your journals. You all are in this class because, supposedly, you like to write.  Journal writing is essential to your development as a writer -- and reader. You need to be writing every day. As part of your grade, you are expected to keep a daily journal, which I will read, thoroughly."

"But what if we want to say private things?" The inevitable question.

 "You are writing to be read." I paced as I talked, walking among the desks, associating names with faces. "That may include private things. But you know that I will be reading them. If there are more personal thoughts you do not care to share with me, you can keep a personal diary. But this is your writer's journal. Your observations, your thoughts – I want your feelings, your reactions. I want you go to the depths of your feelings. Because it's important as writers for you to connect to that part of you. I do not want to see, 'Today I finished six homework assignments and had a milkshake for snack.' I just want you to observe the world around you and write what you see and feel, every day. Clear?" I looked around the classroom. I got a few nods. I looked at the clock. "We'll start right now. Take five minutes. I'll be reviewing your journals every Friday. Since this is a short week, I'll look at the journals next Friday. For Monday, read The Dangling Man by Saul Bellow and explain the title to me by Wednesday. Now write."

I watched them as they worked. A boy, Tad Lafferty, fiddled with his pen, looked out the window, then hunched down and put pen to paper. Another boy, blond, with wire glasses – Russell Wagner-- kept staring at me, then writing, stare, scribble, stare, words. A brown-haired girl with large eyes, Alexa Yagoda, began writing from the moment I said go and did not lift the pen until the bell rang. Grace shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and seemed to write with distraction.

Wednesday. Grace's Bellow paper was as good as her summer essay. I found myself looking forward to her daily journal. My weekend reading. Invariably, the first week of journal entries from students were lacking, even for those who had been keeping journals before. I was looking for impressions, notes on the world, ideas to use in writing, comments. I saved Grace's journal for last, but began to frown as I read it. Oh, it wasn't bad, per se, but it was removed, chatty, superficial – though she did have an ear for dialogue. Her mother appeared quite a lot, saying, Gracie, I really think you ought to see this show, Gracie can you keep an eye on your sister, Gracie do you want that extra pancake? Gracie? Grace didn't seem to be present in her journal.

It's funny, what's in a name. The simple addition of a vowel changes the whole sound, from a word evoking elegance to one of humor, endearment, childishness. "Grace" seemed independent, solemn, eloquent; "Gracie" seemed obedient, stifled, cute, trite. Grace Manning needed to break free from that "i" to find herself.

None of the journals were perfect, or close to it. After all, a journal is not a paper or a story, it's the chance to let loose and write badly. It's the letting loose that's important. I was just more disappointed with Grace Manning's because she had demonstrated so much more potential as a writer than anyone else in the class. When I handed the journals back on Monday morning, I noticed Grace suppressing a yawn. "How did you find the journal experience thus far, Miss Manning?" I asked, annoyed.

"Oh, well, I've kept journals before," she said.

Annoyed again that she had missed my point about the class journals. "Oh you have? And?"

"It was fine. It was nice."

Nice. Of all people. I expected more from her. Nice. One of the more inane words in the English language.

"I'm sorry. I thought you said 'nice.'"

"I did."

"Oh. Because I don't want to misquote you or anything." Why was she so resistant to this particular assignment? Should I give her break, drop it? But no. I knew she can do better. Her writing was excellent, but there was room for improvement.

"I said 'nice'!" She asserted herself this time, taking a stand, getting annoyed herself. I liked that she did, that she wasn't being… nice.

But neither was I. "Nice...nice! Let's see, whatever shall I do today?" I approached her desk. "I know! I shall write in my boring old journal. It will be ever so nice!" The class laughed, and Grace smiled because she had to, flushing nonetheless. I walked back to my desk. "'Nice' is for shrimp salads and grandmothers. I'm not interested in 'nice.' Now, all of you – next time, I want to see observations – descriptions of people you've never thought about before, conversations overheard, snippets of ideas. These are writer's journals, after all. Fill them with life!"

***

I got to school early the next day. I like getting there before school starts, the usually noisy halls quiet, serene. I was grading my regular English class book reports when Grace entered the room. She put her journal on my desk.

 "Mr. Dimitri?"  she began. "Can I just ask you something?"

I nodded, surprised to see her there that early. But pleased that my comments to her the day before appeared to have made her think.

She took a breath and burst out quickly, "Just because someone's life doesn't seem interesting to you personally --"

I checked the spelling of a word in my Webster's. "You don't think you're interesting?" I asked, turning the conversation away from the one she'd obviously prepared.

"No!" She raised her voice, and I looked up from my papers. "I'm saying you obviously don't think I'm being honest enough --"

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait." I said, interrupting that line of thought. Apparently my nice speech affected her, though not in the right direction. "Honest enough? What's 'enough'?"

"I just can't believe --" she started, then stopped.

"What? What can't you believe?" I asked.

"I can't believe that I'm the only person in class who isn't being 'honest.'" Ah, why am I picking on her. Because she said "nice"; of course I made similar comments to others, in writing. But she didn't know that. Grace was the one who happened to be held up as an example to the class. Catalyzed by the yawn.

I put the papers I'd finished grading in my desk drawer. I picked up her journal and opened it. "Who calls you 'Gracie'?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"My mother, sometimes… why?"

"Tell me something. Why are you letting her come to class? Why are you letting her write your journal?"

Now she was genuinely confused. "Who? My mother?"

"No," I said. "Gracie. Augie Meyers plays keyboards on the latest Dylan album, and he is amazing, but I am August."

She didn't get my point. I was being too esoteric. It's a problem I have, left over from my days as a prodigy. Maybe I had overestimated her? She fell back on, "Well, I just don't think it's fair." Fair is another one of those inane words. What is fair? Is it fair that I once could write beautiful poems and no longer can? Is it fair that my younger sister never could write poetry in the first place? But I wasn't going to go on another semantic tirade.

I just said,  "Fair? Who you love, who you hate, who changes your life, none of it's fair. Why don't you write about that?" I tried to clarify, to help her see, remembering a small personal comment she had written in her journal: What about that situation makes me so nervous? Why can't I…? "What would happen if you said what you're most afraid of to the person you're most afraid to say it to? And then write about it. Don't clean it up, don't make it presentable, don't be Gracie. Be in a state of grace. Because that's what Grace means. Grace is about what's sacred, and that's the truth." I handed her her journal and she took it,  reluctantly. She looked at me without saying anything else, though her eyes, brown, registered an understanding, and also… an apprehension.

I was at school early again the next day – we had our weekly staff meeting, and I grabbed a few minutes in the classroom to organize some books. I didn't hear Grace come in, and was startled when I heard her voice behind me. "Mr. Dimitri. I tried it. What you said. You know, about saying what you're most afraid to say to the person you're most afraid to say it to." I turned. Her eyes were lit up this time, and she spoke with excitement. She looked… inspiring. She spoke of being able to write about "the most embarrassing person." Good. That's how I wanted her to think, to stretch herself, to exercise unused literary muscles.

I saw the clock and realized I'd be late. "I must away, fair Grace," I said, bowing with a flourish, in my best faux Will. But at the door I turned, and she looked at me expectantly, then realized I was waiting for her to leave the room – I locked my classroom what I wasn't there. I thought of the reclusive poets, scared but brilliant, the ones that inspired me when I was 17. "You know who I think about a lot?" I said. "Proust. Proust and Emily Dickenson. I mean, they were so scared they never even left their rooms. You don't have to become the bravest person who ever lived." I turned off the lights and we stepped into the hallway. "Just the bravest writer."

She left me, smiling this time, clutching the journal against her chest. I smiled too, and headed down the hall for the staff meeting. She would surprise me, this Grace.

(to be continued…)