By Camila Quinones
I could sense something was wrong when she sat down. She was a little shaky, a little uneasy, and usually, new students smile when they come in. Despite their nerves, they put on a brave face. But she was different.
We sat at a table nestled in the corner. She pulled her paper out, voice wavering slightly, and began to talk. It was a memoir, and she was angry. Angry at the subject of the paper. Angry at the people who had hurt her, and she wanted them to know. She told me, vaguely, what her paper was about, trying to summarize one point of her paper, pausing, then fidgeting with her glasses. She wanted to go into more details, but she couldn’t. Despite wanting to know more about her subject, I didn’t ask many questions. Something more was happening here than a writing center session.
Suddenly, she stopped completely. Water bubbled up in her eyes, and she immediately looked down, ashamed of her tears. She began to cry, and my heart broke. Everything changed. Yes, she was working on a paper, but she wasn’t just a student or a writer any more. She was a human being, a young woman with real hurt inside, and she wanted to use her writing to express this. But the pain was still fresh and manifested itself in our session.
I grabbed some tissues and a cup of water to give her time to compose herself. She apologized several times.
I took a breath.
This session changed from one about the paper to one about the writer. I leaned back from the table and angled my body to face her directly; I knew we would have to go back to the paper eventually, but before we could do that, she needed to process her emotions. I let her vent and work through her feelings. That’s when I realized my role in this session was to be something different than an advisor: it was to be a listening ear, a helping hand, and an open heart. To be a fellow human being, to be her friend.
She sighed, fixed her glasses, and smiled sadly. Apologizing again, she turned her attention back to the paper, and I followed suit. Talking through her emotions helped her see the direction she wanted to go. Looking back, I didn’t do much. Sometimes as advisors we think we need to do something, to give the perfect piece of advice, or show a writer how to push through and understand that difficult assignment. I didn’t offer much advice, and I didn’t give her many points of revision. I listened. And sometimes a compassionate listener is all a writer, or a human being, needs.
Camila is a junior at Wittenberg University, majoring in English with Creative Writing, Cinema Studies, and (potential) Journalism minors. This is her second year in the Writing Center, and she’s loved every moment of it. In addition to the Writing Center, she is part of the women’s volleyball team at Wittenberg as well as several organizations on campus.