We were worried about that TV because the World
Series is on today.
I have to begin tonight.
I'm going to read you a story called "The Whore's Child."
But before I do that, I have to begin with an apology.
I lived here for a long time, so, of course,
I have a lot of apologies to a lot of [INAUDIBLE] people here.
But I should probably--
I should probably-- just one apology,
which is to I should apologize to all
of the graduate students, current graduate students,
in the English Department at the University of Arizona
because I have done them over the years a disservice
that they probably don't even know about.
I came to the University of Arizona in 1967
as an undergraduate, graduated, took my BA in 1971.
That was the beginning of an extremely long journey
through the English Department.
I did then an MA starting in 1967,
'68, which took a couple of years.
And then I did a PhD, which took a lot of years.
And I was supposed to be finished then
but then went on and did an MFA in fiction.
So I was here 1967, 1971.
And then from 1971 through the 19--
it was 1980 when I left.
And when I was getting ready to leave,
the members of the English Department Faculty I know
were putting into effect something
that they must have called the Russo rule to make sure
that nothing like this ever happened again,
which means that graduate students now only get
a certain number of years on their teaching assistantship.
They probably wonder why in certain circumstances
if they're doing good work they only get so many years,
like four years or five years.
And I am that reason.
So I'm sorry.
What can I say?
I'm going to read a story called "The Whore's Child."
"Sister Ursula belongs to an all but extinct order
of Belgian nuns who conducted what little spiritual business
remained to them from a decrepit old house purchased
by the diocese seemingly because it
was unlikely to outlast them.
Since it was on Forest Avenue, a block from our house,
I had seen Sister Ursula many times
before the night she turned up in class,
but we had never spoken.
She drove a rusted out station wagon
that was always crowded with elderly nuns who
needed assistance getting in and getting out.
Though St. Francis Church was only a few blocks away,
that was too far to walk for any of them
except Sister Ursula, her gait awkward but relentless.
"You should go over there and introduce yourself someday,
Gail," my wife suggested more than once.
"Those old women have been left all alone."
Her suspicion was later confirmed
by Sister Ursula herself.
"They are waiting for us to die," she confessed.
"They are impatient of how we clutch to our miserable
existences."
"I'm sure you don't mean that," I
said, an observation that was to become my mantra with her,
and she in turn seemed to enjoy hearing me say it.
She appeared in class that first night
and settled herself at the very center of the seminar
despite the fact that her name did not
appear on my computer printout.
Fiction writing classes are popular and invariably
oversubscribed at most universities and never more so
than when the writer teaching it has recently
published a book as I had done in the past spring.
Publishing the kind of book that's
displayed in strip-mall bookstores
bestows a celebrity on academic writers
and separates them from their scholar colleagues
whose books resemble the sort of dubious specialty items
found only in boutiques and health food stores.
I'd gotten quite a lot of press on my recent book and my first
in over a decade.
And my fleeting celebrity might have explained Sister Ursula's
presence in my classroom that first chilly evening
in the fall semester, though she gave no indication of this,
or did she recognized me as her neighbor.
No, Sister Ursula seemed innocent
not only of me but also of all University
and department protocol.
When informed that students petition to take the advanced
fiction writing class by means of a manuscript submission
the previous term and that the course's prerequisites were
beginning and intermediate courses,
Sister Ursula disputed neither the existence nor the wisdom
of these procedures, nor did she gather up her things
and leave, which left me in an odd position.
Normally, it's my policy not to allow unregistered students
to remain in class because doing so
encourages their mistaken belief that they can wheedle, cajole,
or flatter their way in.
In the past, I had shown even football players the door
without the slightest courtesy or ceremony,
but this was a different challenge entirely.
Sister Ursula herself nearly as big as a linebacker--
was herself nearly as big as a linebacker,
yet more persuasive than this was her body language, which
suggested that once settled she was not used to moving.
And since she was clearly settled, I let her stay.
After class, however, I did explain
why it would be highly unprofessional of me
to allow her to remain in the advanced fiction workshop.
After all, she freely admitted that she had never
attempted to write a story before, which I explained,
put her at an extreme disadvantage.
My mistake was in not leaving the matter there
but instead I went on.
"This is a storytelling class, Sister.
We're all liars here.
The whole purpose of our enterprise
is to become skilled in making things up and substituting
our truth for the truth.
In this class, we actually prefer a well told lie,"
I concluded, certain this would dissuade her.
She patted my hand as you might the hand of a child.
"Never you mind."
She then assured me adjusting her wimple
for the journey home.
"My whole life has been a lie."
"I'm sure you don't mean that" I told her."