Cycling America, Virtually: Shreveport, LA

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235 miles to Centenary College, Shreveport, LA
August 4 to 11

A turning point in your life can be where you decide not to turn. In the summer of 1984, I wrote three essays that anticipated the course I've followed to this day. That makes where I wrote them, Centenary College in Shreveport, a good place on my virtual bike tour of the US to pause for reflection.

In 1984, I faced a decision. Though I'd left Duke with ambitions to write plays, every writing project I started was derivative or didactic, except for this true-to-life and remarkably succinct poem:

This frustrated writer of dramas
has sulked all day long in pajamas.
It isn't that he is
not full of ideas;
it's just that they all are his mama's.

So I took a position at St. Andrew's Episcopal School in Jackson, MS, planning to teach for three years and then strike out for New York to make a living as a writer.

In 1984, time to start my writing career, I had qualms, like, what would I eat? And, didn't I actually love teaching the students?

A fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities gave me the opportunity to work out those qualms. With other teachers from around the country, I stayed in a dorm at Centenary College and attended Professor Michael L. Hall's seminar Montaigne, Bacon, Donne, and the Personal Essay. In the 17th century, those three writers made the essay an instrument for exploring answers to questions.

For my capstone, I wrote three pieces. Two were essays in the style of Montaigne. "Of Fanatics" wondered if single-minded people annoy us because they're so limited, or because their dedication makes us feel like dilettantes and ditherers. "Of Teaching" compared the ideals of the liberal arts education to the reality of teaching kids who just want to get credit and move on.

The third paper was more fun. Punning on the literal meaning of essayer, "to try," it was "A Trial" in the style of Gilbert and Sullivan with parts for my classmates. At the gate of heaven, with St. Peter the judge, St. Paul accused me of failing to live up to my own ideals. He sounded a lot like my father.

In my defense, my guardian angel said that her client had a dream of being interviewed in Esquire, looking fit in the cover photo and talking sagely about his Pulitzer-prize-winning play, his faith, and his opinions on everything from music to politics. "Is my client false to himself in not trying to realize that dream? or is he in the process of realizing a truer [i.e., more mature] dream?"

The jury of my classmates split. Later, my dad said, "Guilty."

Today, having pedaled 235 miles in seven days, I'm fit and relaxed. From retirement, I look back on 40 years' teaching, during which I wrote a lot: history texts tailored to the needs of kids and curriculum, dozens of plays and songs for students, often written in collaboration with them. I've notes from students who said I taught them to realize that they could write.

Looking back, I feel that I probably had Montaigne in mind when I named this blog "The Word Sanctuary." In retirement, he took sanctuary from active life in a tower on his estate to write his essays on any topic that interested him. His collection won wide readership; my blog has a few dozen readers every day, not counting Russian robots.

In other words: Two roads diverged in Shreveport, LA, and I -- I split the difference.

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