Author: Chris Dunn
There was this lottery I never won, and this failure determined
the course of my life. I’m talking of course, about the Miami University Class
Registration student lottery. Every semester they “randomly” determined the
order in which students could apply for the next semester’s classes. You would
be assigned a day based off the last digit of your Social Security Number, and
sure enough, each time I would receive my assignment, I was last or second last.
This would have been fine once or twice, but it’s a 1 in 10 chance, and I got 9
tries at! Well, technically 13 since I took 6 years to get my BA. I could blame
that on bureaucracy too, but in truth it was more simple fear of the unknown
that weighted my feet.
Five, my last digit is a 5. Smack dab in the middle of the
run, and still every draft found me down at Millett Hall on Thursday or Friday shuffling
through discarded printouts and hand-scrawled option lists trying to find some
set of classes that fit together, applied to my major or University
requirements, and didn’t have me up at 5am every day racing across campus every
Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I’d scan down the dot matrix printouts hanging on
the walls searching for a Fiction class to fit into my schedule. Closed… Closed…
Closed… CLOSED! Crap!
The plan had always been, once I switched to English, to get
a double major in Literature and Creative Writing. I had completed ENG 226 Introduction
to Creative Writing. I managed to muddle through while still wrestling with the
two intro-demons every writer meets at the outset (Embarrassment and
Worthiness). The class served to slay the first fairly easily. You had to turn
in papers. They had to be read before the class. Everyone’s papers sucked, in
some form or another. You got over the “Oh, I don’t want anyone to see my stuff…”
pretty quickly, and I thank the course for that. I was ready to move on to the
next step. Find the next demon, or be gifted the tools to slay Worthiness - who
was still crawling on my back, whispering in my ear, convincing me I was little
more than a poser and a fraud. But ENG 320 Intermediate Creative Writing:
Fiction was always full by week’s end. They only offered 2 classes per semester,
and then only in the first semester of the year. For sophomore and junior
years, I simply shrugged and took another elective. Sure, Meteorology sounds nice.
Want to hear about all the different types of clouds I can recall?
By my fourth year though - arguably my senior year but
numerically still far from graduating -things were getting tight. I received my
unfortunate placement again, and hurried down at my first allowed minute with
hopes held high. CLOSED! “FUCK, Fuck, fuckity fuck-fuck!” What the hell was I
to do? I had no interested in “Writing for Media” or “Creative Non-Fiction”. I
had stories to tell! Suddenly a bell rang in my mind, and I scanned down the
list. Sure enough, ENG 420 Advanced Creative Writing: Fiction Workshop was
open. What if….? I filled out my form took it to the registrar window, they
entered the data without a question and handed me back my new course list. I
was in! Why hadn’t I thought of this years ago? Take 420 since it was open,
then circle back and pick up 320 when I had a chance OR I caught a lucky
lottery break. Whew! I’d done it. I’d outsmarted the system. I was going to be
a writer.
First day of class, we were all seated in a circle. No desks
here, just an open forum for the free exchange of ideas. I was so psyched. The
professor spoke with a calm, open voice with an undercurrent of inclusion and
community instead of dogma and authoritarianism. This was going to be great.
Until, “Is there anyone in here who hasn’t taken ENG 320?”
I timidly raised my hand.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s like a total pre-requisite for this class.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s like a total pre-requisite for this class.”
“Well, it isn’t listed as one, and they let me sign up.”
“Yeah… I don’t know about that, but it is.”
Seriously one of the most embarrassing moments in my life,
as I gathered my things and slunk out, under the mocking glares of the world’s next
great writers. On the way to the Rez to return my books while still within the
grace period, I came to a decision. Fuck it! So, I wouldn’t major, or even
minor, in creative writing. Why did I need their approval? What could they
possibly teach me? I would be a student of life! Experience and practice would
be my muses. Surely, it wouldn’t be ten years before I found the nerve to write
again…
As a fellow Miami alum I can vouch for what it used to be like registering for classes before the internet. My stepdaughter went to MIami about 30 years later and never got to experience the "lottery". I hope you got a toasted roll when you went to the Rez to return your books, Chrissie.
ReplyDelete