When I began to teach at the University of Minnesota (1964), many students told me they were the first in their family to go to college. As students in a Shakespeare course, they felt “stupid” because they had never seen one of his plays or read one of his plays. I was gifted with these words as my answer: “You are not stupid; you are ignorant because you have not been exposed to Shakespeare. You are taking this course to get exposed to him and it is my job to help you do that.” As time went on, I decided it might be my job to help adults get exposed to wonderful writers, so I became interested in ways to do that initially through the University, but eventually through a variety of avenues. There was a program run out of the Extension Division with the nickname “Rusty Ladies.” It was attended by very smart white women, often graduates of prestigious schools, who were married to men climbing their professional ladders fast. Their wives were expected to enhance that progress but not be independent thinkers. When Edith Mucke, the woman running this program, asked me to teach a class in downtown Minneapolis, I jumped at the chance. I stopped referring to the group by the odious nickname and we read and discussed wonderful books as the women began to grasp that they still had brains and that I was asking them to turn up the volume.

In the decades since this first outreach to community education, I have facilitated many remarkable groups of serious adults willing to read whatever I ask them to read. And, though many tell me they feel “stupid,” I just wave my hands and ask them to keep reading and speaking.  What I get from creating spaces where regular readers can strengthen their critical abilities is a major feeling of usefulness.  John Milton has a sonnet written to his postman shortly after that person died.  It seems the man had delivered mail for decades, but finally had to retire.  He died very shortly after he stopped walking his beat, and Milton’s sonnet talks about how he lost his purpose in life.

I want to share about these groups I’ve formed since working with the “Rusty Ladies,” because each of them has given me so much fresh insight into the authors and themes we have studied together.  For two long periods, I led a group determined to read every wor\d Shakespeare ever wrote, even really silly plays like “Much Ado About Nothing” or “Love’s Labour’s Lost.”  When the second round of people finished with the Bard, they asked me to continue by leading them to discuss Greek tragedies, about which I had hardly thought since a mythology course in college.  That group still meets for six evenings in the fall and then again in the spring.

In 1977, I, along with four other feminist women remodeled an abandoned cattle farm in Maiden Rock, MN, and turned it into Maiden Rock Women’s Learning Institute.  For several summers, we offered a variety of “classes,” ranging from study of literature to learning basic martial arts defense.  Women and children came for a week’s experience in safe spaces in quiet natural surroundings.  This experience prepared me for agreeing to several subsequent community education adventures where I have used my skills as a facilitator  and critic.

Several months a year, I go to the gorgeous Minnesota Arboretum and discuss books about gardens/gardeners, nature, the environment, other species of living beings.  And forty-five years ago, I agreed to form a monthly women’s book group because those wishing to join wanted to see what women writers from the past and the present had to say.  Recently I retired from leading that group, but they have paid me the ultimate complement–they have continued the group with new facilitators.

Finally, for four evenings in the dead of winter and in high summer, I read two hard books with a motley assortment of people, mostly women.  These discussions are the ultimate proof of what I believe about teaching in the community, because members work so hard with the searching prompts I provide before we meet, and then speak in spite of shyness or relative unfamiliarity with the authors.  They hear themselves become more comfortable and fluent as critics.  And I delight in their growth.

So I am so glad I looked beyond the classroom setting and trained my abilities to foster dynamic “talking spaces” where anyone willing to attend and work hard can find just how good they are at finding meaning and sharing insights into serious literature.

In 1964, when I began teaching English literature at the University of Minnesota, I lectured. That was how I’d been taught when in college, so I just started doing the same thing myself. I worked hard to make my lectures sprightly and engaging; students took notes eagerly and told me they learned so much in my courses.

This all came to an end during the Viet Nam War. As I came to believe that wars are often about one country’s trying to force a way of living on another. In other words, I began to understand how colonialism, which I found offensive and dangerous, worked. Simultaneously, I had occasion to act on a premise instilled in me as child by my father. He was a worker rather than an executive, so if there was a strike, he didn’t get paid. He explained to me about picket lines and drove home just how loathsome intro was ever to cross one of those. Students and a few faculty set up picket lines outside some of the building where very large lecture courses were taught. I knew I was not to go into my building if students began marching outside it with anti-war signs. So I took all books and papers out of my office and arranged to teach my Milton course in one of the student’s small apartment near campus.

I also experienced an epiphany: I realized that lecturing to students was not so different from waging physical war–I was imposing MY “take” on a given author or work on all the young people in my classrooms. My interpretation “won” over any they might venture to share. They learned to “surrender” any wobbly approach to my “superior” one.

What happened next change me permanently. I stopped lecturing, explaining–sometimes not so clearly–that I wanted to hear what they thought off Hamlet or John Donne or the way comedies ended compared to tragedies. So my directions might be something like “In your small groups, talk about the third act of “King Lear” and then we’ll come back to the whole class and share.” I then sat quietly while the poor students tried to follow my empty directions.

Gradually I learned about front-loading the class before dividing them into small groups. I also took a seminar for faculty taught by a professor of Education who gave me books to read on holding viable and rigorous discussions.
Things got better and I even came to understand that occasionally students deserved to hear my grasp of a given author or form of writing before they contributed their own insights or raised their own questions,

In retirement, one of the best moments for me come from doing gig teaching where groups of usually older adults meet via Zoom or at the University’s Arboretum or, occasionally in my living room. I send them “prompts” that help them organize their responses, go more deeply into the books we will discuss, and expand their knowledge of certain aspects of a given text. The people who join these evenings keep coming back. They listen to each other and to me because they know that will enrich how they are thinking and feeling about a piece of literature.

I realize that I am actually good at creating situations where strangers can sit together and speak and hear amazing things about very hard pieces of writing. When I ask myself how it has come to be that I can help make such experiences happen, I often go back to that time a long time ago when I first labeled what I was doing as I stood in front of young learners and poured my wise words into their weak little brains as intellectual collonialism. Who could have predicted that a very awful war so very far away could help me alter how I would conduct my teaching from then on?