Play the Game

Play the Game : A Literacy Vignette.

Most encouraging experiences are very memorable to writers, especially 

those rare episodes that change our lives forever. My first moment of positive 

recognition came from a sincerely genuine person with a sultry soul, an English 

professor and fiction writer. I would like my vignette to reflect the 

utmost significant aspect of my writing experience, an unforgettable, seven year 

relationship with an English teacher who proudly waved a banner emblazoned with 

her professional motto: "Entertain Me Informatively". 

Today, by genuine fate and favor, you shall know my sophist tale.

I enjoy writing as a hobby and to me it is somewhat like a game. I empathize with anyone

who has struggled to finish an essay or a grueling term paper. Yet, there are a few people

who approach a keyboard as if it was the controller of an arcade game, where the 

reward for victory is a tangible rendition of their efforts that projects clarity of thought with a casual appreciation for detail. Writing may be, in a sense, a contest that pits the writer in

opposition against the reader. In a sporting manner, the reader loses the game if the text is 

found truly interesting, incites positive or negative emotions, or is simply a good read. A 

simple gaming proposition from a writer to any reader may be: "If you smile, I win". 

I pray that, by fate or fare fortune, you endure a love for the gamely sport. 

Some thirty-odd years ago, I entered college for a short time and met a most wonderful

person. I must briefly digress to explain that teasing someone is a custom in south Louisiana.

To amuse oneself, to have a goodhearted laugh at the expense of another's feelings is as 

common down there as are the warmhearted welcomes bestowed to every newcomer, be

they friend or stranger. One day, through fate and good fortune, I met one of those 

unique and colorful characters and the game began. 

An English professor, who was fast approaching retirement, sensually reeked with well-

refined, down-to-earth sophistication and openly encouraged her students to pursue efforts

in writing for mere personal enjoyment. During the first class session, my teacher gave a 

sincere and heartwarming speech about her goals, her accomplishments and her family. 

"Having been married for thirty-eight years has not been ranked amongst the easiest of tasks 

for someone as special as moi", she smiled in mock arrogance. "Those special ones, such as 

moi, strive for and deserve the very best that life has to offer, and I thank God every day for

that dear, sweet husband of mine." She then spoke of her son, That boy! Oh, what a high 

price to pay for a perfect marriage!"  Laughter flowed to her subtle wit as her radiant sense of humor charmed the air. 

Heavens clouds, strong loves protect the fare lady from ills and grave misfortunes. 

We bonded early on in that first semester.  I was always late for class, for I had not yet 

perfected punctuality, and had become the primary target for her cynically sly rebukes. One 

day, a written assignment was given and was to be turned in upon completion. The paper was

relatively simple, a personification of a penny. 

As I wandered into class late, I saw that my teacher had noticeably hesitated in chastising me 

for my tardiness. So, out of common courtesy, I quickly broke the silence, "Ma'am, if I have

offended you again by coming to class, please say so and I will leave and come again

next time. And, don't mind my feelings while deciding my fate." Despite my polite and 

courteous manners, she said, "Your feelings are the least of my concerns. On the contrary sir,

your presence brings a pleasant chill to the air. Sit, if you will, but please do not speak, for

when you do, the heat here does become so terribly stifling for a lady," she sang in a

Southern Belle drawl, as her fan daintily fluttered so, so femininely so. 

Man your dignity! For the fare temptress remains the most humbling of hostesses. "Tempt 

not the silent beast!"

She instructed me, ever so courteously, to begin the exercise. Fortunately, the words came 

easily that morning. I finished that short story with time to spare. The next class day, of which I was prompt and on time, the teacher announced that a person's paper had been chosen from this class and would be published in a nationwide collegiate circulatory. I grimaced, sensing that the paper was mine. There were undoubtedly other papers as good as or better than mine was.  But, how else could that pleasantly vindictive woman embarrass me more than she had the previous day by demanding that I come forward and read my paper aloud. It was obvious to everyone that the lady was gloating about her cunning little move. As I humbled myself, in erubescent humiliation and read, the lady's face glowed with pretentious self-contentment, as did her sparkling green eyes, so sensuously soft and kind, and oh, so, so keen . . .

On our first, ever so memorable closed-door meeting in her office, I intuitively 

perceived my teacher's true nature. She was overtly pleasant and a tad eccentric. Our

friendship became engraved that day, as were the four large letters carved into her solid-oak

filing cabinet, INTJ. Inquisitively, I probed for the mystical meaning of the graven symbol. 

"Are they initials for some verbose French or Spanish surname, perhaps?", I grinned. "Or, do 

you just buy junk on sale, you know, damaged?" Stoically, she informed me that the letters 

represent the personality type of her people. As if on cue, she proclaimed a commitment, I 

assumed a fetish, to establish and maintain contact with her people for reasons of her own.

"Since it is literally impossible to involve everyone in the game," she outwardly reasoned, "I 

must remain focused on the world's one-percentile, My Chosen People," she proudly 

beamed. 

"What game?" I curtly asked, as bizarre scenarios flashed across my mind, macabre, 

burlesque panoramas.  In the blink of an eye, as if by sleight-of-hand magic, a test 

materialized right before my eyes that I eagerly accepted with her best wishes. When my

results were tallied, she shrieked, "I do declare! I have found another."  Boldly, she sashayed 

in the most elegant Southern style and with her best Scarlett O'Hara voice, she sang, "It is my

honor and privilege, kind sir, to welcome you to the game of life", as she gracefully 

curtseyed. Her charm literally mesmerized me, to say the least. I silently reasoned that no 

matter what this enchantress' facade was all about, no matter what kind of game this Dixie 

Darling was playing; "Deal me in, Miss Scarlett". 

Time proved her a true Southern gentleman, a man-of-her-word, so to speak. That lady was,

truly was, a relentless opponent. 

Our friendship ensued for many years after my joining the game and our open-

communication relationship remained my secret treasure. My friend was a flowing fountain 

of open-minded criticism and freely offered insightful suggestion to improve my writing, as

well as well-balanced analyses of other delicate issues. She was my cherished friend, plus

much more...my confidant. 

Occasionally, on those days that I dubbed "Black Fridays", sound verbal thrashings with the

sharpest cynical lashes struck at one on my pieces that I painstakingly plastered with off-color 

language, for her enjoyment of course! As always, her furious, retaliatory, emotion filled 

assaults were the eagerly anticipated rewards for my cunning and guile, premeditation, if 

you will, those sweet, savory fruits, my just deserts. 

My friend taught me that the rewards for writing are weighed in the appreciation of one

person at a time. I gladly wrote for this one-person audience. Way back in the beginning of

the game, I had musingly teased, "What are the rules, Missy?" With an angelic smile, she 

whispered as though divulging a secret. "Encourage and inspire me, make me laugh, make 

me cry, or give me cause for grave concern, then you, my dear sir, win the game". Whenever 

mail arrived, I inwardly hoped for a communique of her sweet praises for a certain story, or 

even a venomous chastising for my delving into a sensitive and unconventional, taboo topic.

Please, allow me to paraphrase the most colorful of critiques: "Your work reflects a level of 

sophistication that I rarely see", "You have a charming voice that resonates grace and wit,

Inappropriate, even by your deviant standards, Juvenile delinquency with an infantile 

mentality, Grossly appalling disgusting at the least, Send to Mad Magazine or File 13,

preferably the latter", and the most memorable lashing of all time, "Litter-ary Feces". The

lady played a good game by calling a spade a spade. 

The kind lady's insightful words nourished and nurtured my soul! 

I thought the game was over when our communications abruptly ended for a long time. Then

one day that lady, whose soul was bent on romance and drama, had a package delivered to

my mailbox. I procrastinated opening it for days. When I finally did, I found the most amazing

things. The package contained a copy of her latest project, an adventurous seafaring 

romance, as well as an old and exhausting piece that I had bombed her with two years 

before, and yet a third unmarked packet was enclosed. Peeling the mystery pack open, in a 

state of joy, I learned that my old piece had been edited and rewritten in her very own 

handwriting and was deftly illustrated with black and white sketches. Never could I receive

as fine a gift as the lady's thoughts, energy, and professionalism literally incorporated into

my tale. Her precious efforts brought forth waves of flowing emotions.

Soft warmth . . . a surreal energy surged through my soul, so breathtakingly soft, sensuous 

wave after wave. So, so bravely I battled the salty seas, waves, and mists to regain my sight;

and the pounding, my heart pounded in anticipation of her next, upcoming move . . .

"What a beautiful lady", I thought, as I wiped away tears of joy. 

The irony of this scene was that that very piece earmarked the worst scolding that I had ever

received from the lady. In her blatant attempt to elucidate my shortsightedness and to

disprove my prior assumptions that she abhorred my story, she inscribed a missive on the

inside-cover that stated, "A  novel with religious overtones may achieve no literary stature. 

Youths often shun religious works and the mere supposition of blasphemy insults the adult

public. Thus, must our idioms edify those tolerant, and not, of our privy game, our 

Litter-ary Feces?"  "Frankly, my dear child, I don't give a damned. As your tale is a marked 

social travesty, it is equally so my most cherished possession", dotting the line with a winking

smiley face. 

"Expand you knowledge and your goals, experience all that you can, and we shall chat again

when you are done", she ended, and a tiny cross punctuated her last words of advice.

She adjourned with: "To my Cherished Truant . . . Godspeed and fare thee well, my dear 

Mr. Butler..."

The game was over. The lady had won . . .