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I hated AA. At twenty-five, I was the youngest person in the meetings near Drew. I arrived as they started and dashed out the door after the Serenity Prayer. I didn't ask anyone to be my sponsor, crucial to a happy sobriety, as most alcoholics are liars, loners, and deniers. My self-esteem was still very low, which kept me from asking any woman in the room to sponsor me. Instead, I gave several newly sober men my attention and my phone number, providing them with rides back to their rehabs and listening to their prison stories. Despite all the information to the contrary, I felt responsible for how much I drank, the effect alcohol had on me, and for not stopping when my mother shouted, “Stop!” Although I wasn't drinking, I refused to allow AA to make my life easier, and without the drinking and the drugs, I felt overwhelmed, angry, and lost.

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The New Jersey Shakespeare Festival was in residence at Drew University in Madison, New Jersey. Some New York actors in Equity would spend their summer there performing plays in repertory. Then, there were lowly apprentices like myself who could audition for roles but otherwise spent their time running errands and building sets. One set required a massive grid to fly above the stage, and each square in the grid (hundreds) had to be covered in this shiny stuff called Mylar. It was the perfect task for stoned, bored, resentful, and rebellious apprentices who banded together to form a secret society called FOST (Federation of Set Technicians). We had a secret handshake and signal, a set of ever-morphing regulations, and we spent hours, days, and weekends Mylar-ing the grid.

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I taught an adult creative writing workshop this weekend in conjunction with an art exhibit that asked artists to take an abstract and express that word in a piece of art. Since I often speak to students about using concrete details instead of abstractions (envy, courage, regret, grief), I came up with an idea for a workshop on the subject, which the gallery accepted. It went well. The class was small, only four women, but the writing was mighty, and it felt good to be teaching again. My ex-brother-in-law once asked me why I continued to trust and appreciate men since my relationship history included some terrible things. This is an interesting question, except I remain hopeful and aware that the men who hurt me were a tiny section of the population. However, I have had the same question about teaching. I wonder why I love it so much when I've had horrible teachers.

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