Yesterday Harold Pinter won the Nobel Prize for Literature for penning plays such as the Caretaker and the Birthday Party. Harold Pinter is also known for his outspoken anti-Western and anti-American views--his politics are anathema to me--but one’s appreciation of talent can be kept separate from one’s liking for the individual. Harold Pinter is also peripherally involved in a youthful episode from which I derive some childish satisfaction.
By the second half of my high school senior year all the college applications had been submitted. No longer concerned about getting good grades, I could afford to wander from my strength in math and science and take a course in modern literature. I would learn about character, exposition, and dialogue; I would be able to talk intelligently about O’Neill, Faulkner, and Hemingway. If I evidenced any ability, maybe someday I could be a journalist or even author the great American novel.
The course was a huge disappointment. The teacher wouldn’t lecture, he would simply ask the students how they felt about the book that they were reading. In the spirit of the Sixties, everyone knew that one woman’s opinion was just as valid as another’s, and no one should be reluctant to proffer theirs, no matter how inexpert. Perhaps the teacher subscribed to the belief that knowledge already resided in the individual, and all he was trying to do was help unlock it. But for six months I could never find the key.
During class the teacher would praise the whimsical comments of a couple of girls. They would describe in excruciating detail how their personal experiences related to the passage that we had just read. But to be fair to his methods, there were a couple of sessions which weren’t devoted to the mindless blatherings of 17-year olds. He would reach into the bottom desk drawer, pull out a sheaf of typewritten pages, and treat us to a reading of his unpublished novel; when he got to the passage that described horses on a hill, he became quite moved, and his favorite students emoted in sympathy. I minded my manners and did not snicker.
Surprisingly, I didn’t do well in his class. He didn’t respond well to my writing and gave me a B-minus, which was the low point of my high school transcript.
Despite my obvious lack of talent and potential, I decided to sit for the Advanced Placement English exam. If I got 4s or 5s on three AP exams, I could finish college in three years, and English was an extra string to my bow in case I slipped up in Physics, Calculus, or History.
Someone told me that you could get a better grade on essay questions if you picked a lesser-known author or topic. The evaluators’ eyes would glaze if they had to read, again, about the Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, or Romeo and Juliet. So the night before the test I boned up on Harold Pinter, paying particular attention to his 1957 play, the Dumb Waiter.
My teacher was one of the proctors for the AP English exam. He smiled and lingered over his prize pupils but barely glanced at me when he handed me the booklet. I was lucky: I knew most of the words in the vocabulary section, and there was an essay question that allowed me to expound at some length on the Dumb Waiter. Most kids thought the test was hard, but secretly my hopes were high.
When the envelope came a few weeks later, I had to look at the “5” several times. The teacher didn’t believe it either, especially since few of his favorites, from the expressions on their faces, did well. He did try to make conversation a few times, and I was civil, but the B minus rankled. But the semester would have been a lot worse if it weren’t for the work of a little-known English playwright. Congratulations, Mr.Pinter. © 2005 Stephen Yuen
No comments:
Post a Comment