Join me for A PERSONAL HISTORY OF SPORT 

​Dates: 4 Wednesdays, September 21 - October 12
Time: 6 - 8 pm PST
Instructor: Mary Volmer
​Format: ZOOM
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Genre: Nonfiction (Fiction Writers and Poets Welcome!)
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Price: $275    
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Enroll

Sports are a vital part of western culture, yet we rarely reflect upon, much less write about, how sports have influenced our lives, our families, or our communities. In this four-week writing class, we will use sports as a lens through which to study and write personal essays.  
 
Fear not! You don't have to be an athlete, has-been or otherwise, to join us.  We will be exercising our literary muscles with daily craft talks and guided writing prompts. Together we will learn about essay structure, voice, pacing, scope, and audience. And we will read and discuss excerpts of longer works by poets, novelists, and memoirists such as Natalie Diaz, Pat Conroy, Reginald Dwayne Betts, Lucy Jane Bledsoe, John Edgar Wideman, John Updike, and Sue Hyon Bae.
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With these diverse authors as our guides, we will write about our own complicated relationships to sport. How do sports affect our self-image and self-worth? Are sports a religious activity? A patriotic activity? A selfish or a selfless activity? What is a “team player”? How do we view race, gender, and sexuality through the lens of sport?

Join us and write personal essays inspired by sports.  

When I was a kid, dad grew cantaloupes in abundance. Summers tasted of cantaloupe, warm and messy straight from the vine, or cold with salt out of the fridge. One day, when I was eight, I was in the kitchen cutting myself some cantaloupe when my sister, who was three, decided that she wanted some too. So, I cut her a thin slice, very near the tough woody outer rind, with hardly enough flesh to bite into and I gave it to her. Away we went, each with our portions, however unfairly cut.
It might be hard to believe, but it wasn’t until my dad marched my sister, still gnawing her rind of melon, out to the porch where I was eating, that I had any notion of my wrongdoing. My father is a tall, physically imposing, but quiet man and his words that day, as much as the stricken look on his face, stay with me.

“How could you? How could you treat your sister like this? What were you thinking?”

Nothing. Beyond a mild annoyance at her existence, I had not been thinking of my sister at all. I had not been thinking of her hunger or her feelings or the fact that there was plenty of melon to share. I had acted out of blind self-interest, yes, but not out of conscious ill-intent, and my instinct when confronted, now, was to object, to deny, to get angry; an instinct made stronger by a wave of shame I had not felt until that moment. Dad made me apologize and share my melon — there was plenty to share. But I did so grudgingly, ragefully, and then ignored my sister for the rest of the day, punishing her for my shame. 

It wasn’t until that night, listening to my sister’s raspy asthmatic breathing on the bottom bunk, that my conscience began to catch up to me. I climbed down to stare at her, three years old, a pain in the butt, but not so bad as sisters go, and I began to cry. I felt a deep sadness and then a shocking wave of rage — at myself, at my sister, I really can’t say. Then, on the heels of rage, a cold and terrible remorse that forced me, finally, to recognize what I had done, and to be truly sorry.

Now, I’ve done many worse things in my life, but this, my first memory of remorse, remains sharp in my moral imagination. Since then, I’ve wondered: If dad had not brought the injustice of my act to my attention, would I have recognized it? I want to say yes, but I don’t think so. I considered myself a “good girl.” I had become pretty invested in that title, actually — so invested I didn’t question it. I needed dad to catch me out, to expose my greed and disregard for what it was. I did not grow or even pick that melon. I was merely big enough to take and then hoard the riches within — to hoard them from my sister. We were both poorer for it — poor in spirit on one hand, and in nourishment on the other.

I’m not going to pretend I was an angel to her from there on out (you can ask her), but I did become more conscious than was comfortable of my motivations, more skeptical of my goodness. Maybe it was not my sister’s pain (she seemed grateful enough for that rind, after all), so much as my shame that made me want to be better. I accept that. If the desire to avoid shame is what makes me into my better self — makes me a better neighbor, sister, mother, teacher — I accept that. Shame has its uses. So does remorse, though I admit I had spent most of that day avoiding both.

I’m prepared to believe that over the history of this country, many white Americans have behaved to our brothers and sisters of color like eight-year-old me: that is, without conscious ill-intent. When confronted with our blind self-interest, our thoughtlessness, our racism, our greed and its consequences, what do we do? What have we done over time? When someone finally stands before us in grief and love and says: “How could you? Look at what you’ve done. Look at what you’re doing,” many of us regress like children into defensiveness. Or we respond with rage and denial and misplaced righteousness. We prefer to think of ourselves as “good” after all. Good people. Good Christians, maybe.

But Our Father, who loves us no less than our sisters and brothers, knows better. Our sisters and brothers know better. We know better.

White America is not an eight-year-old child. It takes deliberate ignorance, now, to ignore the inequalities perpetuated by systemic racism; maintaining this ignorance takes just as much effort as knowing does, and it harms us all in body and spirit. Avoiding shame, and the strong medicine of remorse, harms us all. Our fear of punishment is largely misplaced. No one is forcing upon white Americans the rind of the melon we saw fit to give our sister. No one is suggesting slavery, either, or disenfranchisement, or mass incarceration, which itself is a miracle and an undeserved mercy.
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We are being asked to recognize and to acknowledge our behavior. We are being asked to apologize, to endure the necessary shame and remorse, and yes, to share an equal portion of a wealth we did not earn and have no right to hoard. We are being asked to love and honor our brothers and sisters as ourselves, as they deserve. Amen.

First publish in Arc Digital; republished in The Common Politic 

I lost my dear friend and long time editor Naomi Schwartz. Cancer made an anguished shell of her. But this how I’ll remember her: book in hand, barefoot, bathed in light. She was always telling me, "it’s okay to leave a work unfinished." She didn’t mean undone, incomplete. She meant imperfect, open. So I’ve left this picture unfinished, with white space and pencil marks to show where she lives in my imagination and the divine mystery of where she’s gone.

I was listening, Naomi. Even when I disagreed, I was listening. We all have literary mothers. Some of them are monuments like Toni Morrison. Others are humble, crazy-haired, big-hearted adopted aunts, who feed you books, and whisper over and over: Keep going. Just keep going.

Thank you Naomi. 😢❤️

From  "Into The Lake," a talk given at the 2018 Festival Of Women Writers. 

This is a fish story.

It’s late May in the sierra foothills, and I’m five years old, determined to catch a fish. My first fish. A big fish. And I’m not going to use my brother’s hand-me-down fishing rod, just my size. No. I’m determined to use my mom’s rod, three times my height, amber brown with a fitted cork handle, and this beautifully complicated casting mechanism, which, can’t be that hard to use. Mom made it look easy.

Besides, I’ve already dreamed my success. I’ve already stood, triumphant on the lake shore holding my fish aloft in one hand, and my pole in the other — Annie Oakley, Calamity Jane rolled into one. I’ve already basked in phantom glory, and I’m ready for the real thing. It’s early, just past dawn when my mom, brother and I set out from the camp ground bundled in layers. Scrub jays heckle back and forth, and the shadows of the cedars move with us; there’s the lake, clear and still — I can all but see the fish — and the water is snowmelt cold.

I know how cold because a moment after I set my feet on a raised rock ledge, and with a heroic heave, throw my weight behind that first cast, I find myself, hook, line and pole, in the lake.

I can’t escape this story. My mom tells it on me every year or so. Maybe she’d quit if I’d ever outgrow my childish attraction to fantasy and yes, self-aggrandizement. But the story remains relevant and true and points to a pattern of behavior I have never escaped, even if my focus has shifted. Even if I dream now catching stories, beautiful, necessary, difficult stories, I inevitably find my plans, at some point in the process, soaking wet in the lake. My abilities have always, in every instance, come short of my dreams.

I’ve been lucky. After that first of many spectacular failures, I had someone to fish me out, dry me off, warm me up and, after my pride had scabbed over a bit, to point me back to the lake side with a smaller pole and hard won humility to try again. What I discovered (in retrospect, of course), what you’re bound to discover in any activity — like fishing or writing — requiring as much patience and persistence as skill, is pleasure in the process, and the transcendent, perhaps spiritual state, achieved when finally you surrender what you thought you wanted — the fish, the championship, the publication — and discover purpose.

The fact that I seemed doomed to relearn this lesson, again and again, doesn’t make it any less valid, I don’t think. I don’t know many people who grow out of who they were at five years old. And the fact is, I need that five year old alive and well within me. I need the dreamer, the egoist to stand with bold oblivion on the lakeshore. I need her to cast herself in.

Every book worth writing (and reading) is too much to handle for the writer on the day she conceives it. It doesn’t matter how many books she’s written before. New vision (vague though it may be), is intoxicating and compelling so that even if she’s knows better — about the labor involved, about the limits of her own abilities — she returns to a state of stubborn naivety. I think this is why having children is so often used as an analogy for writing books. No matter how well informed or seasoned, you will never be prepared for the pain, joy, labor and love required of you. The only certainty is that somewhere along the way you will find yourself overcome and shivering in the lake. The only certainty is that to succeed you have to try again. Rediscover joy and humility. Fail better.

I began my first novel by accident. I was living in Wales as Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, giving lectures on California Gold Rush history to Rotary clubs up and down the Welsh coast. In college I’d been an English major and a basketball player, no historian; I was from California. This fact seemed proviso enough for my Welsh hosts. I did my best, filling my talk with dates and names of important men. Yet my audiences, older and mostly male, remained politely uninspired. So was I. Until one day a lady — one of the wives, I think — raised her hand and in the bored silence asked, “What about the women? Weren’t there any women in the gold rush?” The most shocking part about that question, looking back, was that I had never thought to ask it.

I shelved the text books and popular histories from which I’d cribbed my facts. I trashed my talk and went back to the library. I went looking for women and found them in journals, letters home, in newspaper accounts and marriage records. The sources were sparse and fragmented. Beyond three poles of existence — birth, marriage, and death — the stories of 19th century women remain largely undocumented and inconsistent; a fossil record of heirlooms, which borrowing Virginia Woolf’s lament, “lies at present locked in old diaries, stuffed away in old drawers, half obliterated in the memories of the aged.”

But to a budding novelist discovering her subject nothing is as attractive as a lost or untold story. She has freedom to fill with imagination what the record leaves out; freedom to speculate and create fully conceived characters from an amalgam of people about whom little might be individually known. My first novel, Crown of Dust, about two women, one who disguises herself as a boy, in a ramshackle Gold Rush town grew out of this research. And when the book was published, though I had never claimed the title before, I began to think of myself as a writer.

Now, you have to imagine the title WRITER written in that heavy white marquee movie-house lettering, all caps, to appreciate the foolish burden of self-importance that word placed upon me. I wasn’t daunted, at first. Because I had an idea for another book, a big book, my book, and for the next five years I failed, and failed, and failed again to write it.

I was trying to catch a fish, you see, a big fish, my fish. I’d somehow forgotten the point of writing, and the reason I loved to read, was to connect with other people. And if I had a story at all it was not mine, but ours. A story of us: about mothers and daughters; about the women left behind and the children born in the long shadow of the Civil War. About the divisions that ripple though communities large and small and the glacial pace of social change. About the plight of women, and the unheralded and imperfect efforts of the people who fought for the economic, political and sexual freedoms we enjoy and dare not take for granted. Out these slow revelations my second novel, Reliance, Illinois was reborn.

I’m stubborn. It took me years to strip away the sodden layers of my ambition and to settle into the satisfying work of discovery, which I had embraced on instinct with the first novel. I had to learn to listen, again, to translate, not dictate. I needed to put myself, my plans and intentions aside and recover the ability to feel with and for and through other people. Baudelaire understood this necessity: “How do I make you see,” he said, “that when I speak to you of myself it is of you I am speaking?”

You can’t eat a story as you might a fish. It has no value unless shared. Good writers know this: good writing, regardless of genre, is communal. Whatever else the story, or poem is about, it is about us.
And you can say the same of good readers. Good readers are willing to feel with and for other people — willing to listen. “Reading is a means of listening,” says Ursula Le Guin. “[It] is not as passive as hearing or viewing. It’s an act: you do it… and though you’re usually alone when you read, you are in communion with another mind…you’ve joined the act of imagination.” You have helped create what poet Matthew Zapruder calls an “imaginative space,” allowing us not only to empathize, but to “acknowledge obvious [even if not convenient] truths.” “People,” he writes, “do not disbelieve in inequality or racism or global warming because they have not been informed: they disbelieve because they cannot or choose not to imagine. They are cruel because to them, others have become an abstraction, and cannot be truly imagined.”

Back in 2014 Ursula Le Guin warned us “that bad times were coming and that we’d all have to work to imagine some real grounds for hope.”’
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This is the task laid out for writers, readers, teachers, and community leaders. This is our big fish. While the ideals we pursue may not be achieved in the manner we imagined, while we may find ourselves shivering in the lake, as many of us did on election night 2016, we pick ourselves up, dry ourselves off, and try again. Because if we can use our imaginations to write the story of us then, by God, we can change it too.