I had lunch with my writing professor after class today. she is my favorite teacher and also my mentor of sorts: as a writing professor AND retired photographer, she has a lot of wisdom to offer to someone like me. sitting down and talking over food is something we’ve talked about doing for a long time so I’m glad we finally got around to it!
she packed up her books after lecture and I walked out with her as she picked out a cafe she has frequented often. the place was so quaint - filled with an older generation and adorned with local art. I sat down with the intention of ordering a coffee or something else cheap, but she insisted on a real meal. we decided to cost-effectively split the butternut squash soup and a vegetarian avocado tomato sandwich on a brioche bun. despite my plea to split the check, she ended up paying - I told you, she’s the loveliest woman.
as we ate, we extended today’s classroom discussion about jazz. she mostly wanted to talk to me about photography because I integrate it into class often. for our upcoming fieldworking project, she suggested I take pictures of jazz musicians and shape my essay around that. she shared the names of famous jazz photographers with me as well, urging that I make myself familiar with their work.
we ended up sitting and talking for much longer than anticipated. I had my journal on me and she expressed interest in reading some work beyond my formal essays and assignments. I obliged, handing my most precious possession over to her. she read poems and prose, stories and scattered sentences. I felt exposed and vulnerable, but relatively at ease, in a way. I see my writing professor as an aged version of myself - someone which whom I have a lot in common. I also respect her opinion and feedback very much.
she offered some of the kindest compliments to me in return for the imparting of my personal writing. “you’re an artist,” she said, gesturing across our tiny window side table. “it’s written all over you.” I legitimately flinched at her statement. artist is a big word. I swallowed all of my breath at once, uneasily looking down at the crumbs on my plate. she asked me what the matter was so I told her: “I don’t identify myself as an artist.” she needed to know why. I explained that it seemed pretentious to me to adopt that title at my age. and I didn’t think it fit me. she understood, but disagreed and went on to say, “well you are an artist. you’re gifted and burdened at the same time and you’re growing into it. the moment I first read your writing I knew you were distinctive.”
I was shifting my weight from side to side and shuffling my boots against the tiled floor at this point. her words were generous, but uncomfortably so. she urged me to dig deep and discover more faith in myself.
we shifted topics and began to discuss my “future.” that big word that makes teenagers cringe - I’m pretty sure people of all ages hold an immense dislike for it. I explained how all I want to do is write and take pictures and be happy and she promised that would be so. “as a matter of fact,” she went on to add, “you’re not going to pursue that path - you’re already on it. aren’t you? you blog, you keep a journal, you take photographs, you do it all. I’m not worried about you.”
so many absolute wondrous tangents emerged out of this meal. I feel blessed to have her as a teacher and friend.
jessie I love you so so so much
you’re the sweetest and I’m glad you’re my friend
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