Short Memoir Published in Potato Soup Journal

 

I’ve written about my writing practice group a few times on this website. Recently, the group spent seven weeks writing towards a short memoir story. I’d always wanted to write about my college experiences, but not in a long, drawn out fashion.

 

Over the years, I’ve had several starts and stops, not happy with anything I wrote. Then, as part of the writing practice group, I read a memoir titled Pansies. I loved the format of the book, presenting the build up as a series of poetic vignettes. Once I saw what the writer was doing, I knew how I wanted to structure my own short memoir piece.

 

Once I had the format, I wrote the piece in a week or two, received feedback from a couple of writing practice group members, and revised the work three or four more times. While it may seem like this story came together quickly, it didn’t. I’d been thinking about it for years. For people that know me, they will shake their heads and laugh because they’ll see me all over these pages, as it should be when reading memoir.

 

 

Getting Schooled

Cathy Beaudoin

 

 

Springfield Technical Community College (Massachusetts, late 1970’s)

 

I was barely eighteen, making minimum wage as a cook at Denny’s and dating a newly minted lawyer. Whenever I’d visit his office, with its plump leather chairs, a state-of-the-art Radio Shack computer, and a view of the city park, I felt like a prostitute, trading sex for hope.  I knew he liked me for my lack of polish. But I also knew he wasn’t better than me.

 

Every weekday morning, around 7:15 AM, I’d stare out the front window of the restaurant and count the number of drivers turning on to the highway, heading south to a salaried job. My future was not cooking bacon, eggs, and hash browns, no matter how good I got at it. My future was with the people dressed in starched white shirts and pinstriped suits, their morning routine carrying them toward their second cup of coffee. I remember how I promised myself I’d be one of them. I remember the desperation.

 

Every other Friday, I’d clock out, get my paycheck, cross the parking lot, then enter the local bank. After depositing twenty-five dollars into a savings account, I’d go smoke a joint and forget about my shitty life. Once the dope wore off, I knew I was going to put myself through college. In less than a year, I had enough to get through community college. I don’t remember how I arranged my classes around my job. But I do remember the joy of finally being a college student.

 

 

Click here to read the rest of the story.