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Jeanne Bryner
I was a non-traditional student on a regional campus when
a poetry writing assignment changed my life. We were studying
Emily Dickinson. The assignment was to write about a
nightmare, write about darkness. A deep secret of early
childhood pain found its way out of a closet.
That poem won the Wick Poetry Scholarship and flew me
to an international poetry festival in Bisbee, Arizona where
I met and read with amazing human beings. All these poets
spoke of their families and cultures. They brought the story
of their people to the audience through poetry.
Oh, so you can do that? (I mentally hit myself on the forehead.)
I didn't know it was permitted. I didn't know there were ways
to move your mom's green couch out on the stage for everyone
to sit down on. I came home and wrote in a white heat.
When Dr. Hassler called me to tell me I'd won the Wick
scholarship, he said, "of course, you'll be taking a class
with Maggie this fall." I hesitated. "You know, our Poet-in-
Residence." I did not know, but I said, "yes." Oh, so we've
got a Poet-in-Residence? (Another mental bonk to the head.)
Not only that. My first night of class, I go straight to Maggie
Anderson's office before class and hand her a book length
manuscript to read. She is so kind. She is so gracious. She
doesn't hesitate. She takes it and gives it a thorough going
over.
I'm from Appalachia, specifically West Virginia. The night I
read a poem about "ironing money" some of my fellow students
don't understand. I look at them in disbelief. Maggie comes to
my rescue, "ironing money is when your Mom or somebody
takes in ironing and they are paid." Turns out Maggie (praise
God) is from West Virginia.
It takes me ten years to finish a degree in English with a
Writing Certificate minor. I fell down on my knees enter-
ing Satterfield Hall's icy entrance and near the Kiva. Both
times papers and books flew out of my arms like birds.
The students just kept walking past me. I was old enough
to be their mom. Later in the bathroom, a young woman
washing her hands told me, "don't feel bad, I fell the other
day too." She looked like she just stepped off the cover
of Vogue magazine, and I swear my sweatshirt smelled of
meatloaf.
I have so many people to thank for encouraging my writing
life: Betsy Hoobler, Vivian Pemberton, Gloria Young, Gary
Ciuba, Maggie Anderson, Sandy Marovitz, Maj Raigan, Zee Edgell
Bob Wick, Walter Wick, Larry Andrews, Carolyn Sampson,
Wilma Crawford and so many others in my entire Kent poetry family.
In 1986 I went back to college to learn how to write better.
What I learned was how to live better. How to come to the
well and drink. How to take a fall and then rise. How to be
proud of my own people and understand better my own life.
Jeanne Bryner
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