It had been an exhausting visit: I had just completed my final 10-day residency to earn my MFA from the Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing Program in Maine, and my husband and kids had made the trip across country to witness my graduation.  It was the first time we’d seen my mother-in-law since my father-in-law’s funeral, so it was an emotionally charged celebration.

We took our seats and promptly fell asleep as the other passengers shuffled their way down the narrow aisle.  I don’t know how long I’d been dozing, but from the outer perimeter of my consciousness, I heard a flight attendant say, “We’ve called the paramedics; they’ll be here shortly.”

— Which pulled me right from my dream-state and into the reality of the 25th row.  Two flight attendants hovered in the aisle by the row behind us, leaning in to attend to the gentleman sitting behind me.  He wasn’t well — not well at all.

“Here, sir, have some water.  Are you having any trouble breathing?”

I sat up and looked across the aisle at my husband, who was also starting to wake from the activity behind us.  Gav, I mouthed and pointed toward the row behind me.  Someone’s sick.

Of course, by sick, I was thinking something life-threatening, like a heart attack, which, given the recent events in our family, was not what my children needed to see.  PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod, please do NOT let this guy have a heart attack.

“Sir? The paramedics are coming, but our boarding is complete and we will need to make a quick decision about whether you’re okay to fly.  Are you feeling any better?”

The man spoke in broken English: yes, is better with water.

“Do you think you will be able to go, or do you think you’ll need to get off the plane?”

No, he said, we go.

— And not 15 seconds later, I heard the splash of the contents of his stomach hitting the back of my seat.  Then again.  And again.

Oh, he said, sorry.

Now, at this point, everyone is awake and alert and has passed the motion sickness bags from their own seat pockets toward him.  I tossed some baby wipes in his vicinity, but kept the vomit bags to myself in anticipation of the domino-effect to which I expected my children might succumb.  But this is not the point of my story.

The point of my story is this:  After the vomit in seat 25-E, after the man then ran to the back of the plane and got sick again in the bathroom that 250 other passengers were supposed to use during the 4-hour flight to Denver, after he and his travel partner were escorted from the plane by the paramedics and the ground crew spent an hour *sanitizing* the area while we all sat buckled into our seats, trying to distract ourselves with iPhones, iPods, and the sudoku puzzle in the back of Hemisphere magazine — after all that, the poor woman who had been sitting next to him when he erupted had to return to her seat so we could finally take off.  It was a sold-out flight.  There were no other seats available.  Nobody could have imagined an unluckier scenario.

Except that about an hour into the flight, while this woman sat as close to the edge of her aisle seat as her arm rest would allow (probably wondering what might have splattered onto her purse stuffed beneath the seat), a different man walked up from the back of the plane and asked if he could sit in one of the vacant seats in her row.

At first she was silent, probably as stunned as the rest of us were.  But then she said, “Uh, yeah, I guess, but you know what happened here, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know.  That’s okay.”

“I mean they sanitized it, but…”

“Yeah, I know.  That’s okay.  It’s still better than my seat.”

— Which made me wonder: what in God’s name was happening in the back of the plane where he had been sitting that would prompt him to knowingly nestle into the H1N1 row behind me?  Whatever it was, it must’ve been brutal, because he slid in and grabbed the seatbelt that was probably still wet from the de-con…

Nearly a week after the trip, I still can’t shake my curiosity about the details of this guy’s circumstances.  I want to know about his story.  What was so bad about his situation?  Did he not understand the medical drama that had played out in the seat directly behind me?  Or was I, perhaps, overstating the risk of sitting in that seat because I had heard the splash, smelled the smell, seen the floor…

Regardless, being the literary geek that I am, I can’t help but see a lesson in the Vomit On A Plane episode: that all characters have their own motivations.  And that these motivations are best understood with some insight about their perspectives. 

I had made an assumption when I said that nobody could have imagined an unluckier scenario than being that woman who sat in the contaminated 25th row.  Because obviously, somebody did.  And now the story seems incomplete, unbalanced without a little exploration of that perspective.   

—Which is exactly what I’m thinking I need to do as I revisit some of my own work: explore my characters’ perspectives.  Try to understand why they’ve done the crazy things they’ve done.  Perhaps I’ll learn a little more about them.  Perhaps I’ll learn a little more about me.

The post Vomit On A Plane: A Lesson in Perspective appeared first on Mary Heather Noble.

Thank you, Dean Tuchinsky, Justin, Annie, Robin, Stonecoast faculty and staff, friends, families, graduates and distinguished guests.  I am so honored to be standing up here tonight and especially humbled to represent my fellow and extraordinarily talented Creative Nonfiction graduates.

We have shared so much with each other and I feel so privileged to have gotten a glimpse into each of your experiences and truth-telling journeys.  I want to thank our families especially, for supporting us through the all work that comes before our literary work — be it research… or therapy… or in my case, both.  And I specifically want to thank you for providing us with good material.  For the record, all writers use their families for material — CNF writers are just more forthcoming about it.

Now, as a member of this incredible group, I feel it is my duty to clarify a common misconception that is held about the Creative Nonfiction genre and CNF workshops here at Stonecoast:  We do not — I repeat, DO NOT pass tissues around the table when we workshop.  It would have been nice, though, because — and I know this may shock some of you — I am… the CNF Crier.

I’d like to think of it as a position of honor, like a Town Crier, except that instead of wearing a fancy pirate hat and carrying a bell to deliver important proclamations, I have this ridiculous head of hair and carry snacks and actually cry.  Sometimes during workshop.  Once in front of faculty (if Deb Marquart were here, she’d be nodding her head).  I am, unfortunately that one who feeds the cliché.  You know, the image of Creative Nonfiction writers that depicts us gathered around the table, burning candles, doing deep yoga breathing, confessing our deepest sorrows.  The stereotype that sometimes saddles this genre with the unfortunate reputation of ‘therapy over craft,’ of ‘confession above literature.’

Well lucky for us, this is Stonecoast.  And at Stonecoast, nothing rises above literature. Here, literature is the medium not just for telling stories, but for challenging unfair stereotypes, for lending voice to the voice-less, for advocacy and activism.  And for creative nonfiction writers, these stories are not just true, they’re often personal, and —whether through literary journalism, or memoir or essay— wrestle difficult issues like freedom and oppression, racial and sexual discrimination, love and grief, abuse and neglect.  So yes, what we deal with stirs emotion.

Perhaps that’s why I, and undoubtedly other Creative Nonfiction writers, feel the distinct and pointed pressure to pay particular attention to our craft.  To pour all of our intellect into the rhythm of our sentences, the vibration of our imagery, the lyricism of our prose.  It has to be good, because… well, you know.  We’re telling stories that are true, and when they’re about us, we haven’t anything behind which to hide.  Not the structure of a sonnet or the made-up name of a fictional character.   This makes some of us feel a little more sensitive, a little more exposed.

Now, as the CNF Crier, I feel a certain duty to the other genres to do some nation-building around this issue — become an ambassador, if you will, to the virtues of being a Crier.  So I will share with you some of my own daily Stonecoast affirmations:

1.        Crying makes you sexy.  It’s true!  Everyone looks good when they cry, and this is especially true if you have blotchy, freckly skin like myself.
2.        Crying serves as an important function in the ranking of an academic program.  For instance, the more of us who cry after the blunt trauma delivery of Rick Bass-kicking wisdom, the more the legend lives, right?  Tough faculty = tough program = high marks, which benefits all of us.  Faculty, administration: you’re welcome.
3.        Crying serves as an excellent ice breaker between fellow students.  Better than stickers or drawings on your name tag.  Trust me, when you’re a Crier, everyone knows who you are.

But in all seriousness, what I’m talking about is vulnerability — something with which Creative Nonfiction has specific experience and particular advantage, because again, our stories are often personal.  And I think the vulnerability in our stories is what makes readers lean in.  Vulnerability is what bridges the gulf between two otherwise separate groups until they’re close enough to admit of each other’s conditions: “Hey, yeah, — me, too.”  The authenticity of our stories is what connects us, what becomes the building blocks for community, the agents of social change.  And this, my writer friends, cuts across all genres.  There are no genre boundaries around the human condition.  No mutually exclusive ownership of longing, pain, empathy and love.  — Which brings me to my final affirmation:

4. Crying reveals what a supportive and nurturing community we have here in Stonecoast.

Last residency, I stood up in front of several of you at Open Mic to read a short piece that I had written about my family.  I’d had plenty of practice in writing through what Creative Nonfiction writers call “the hard place.”  So I thought nothing of standing up in front of my peers to read something revealing about my youth.

Well, writing through the hard place and reading through the hard place are two entirely different learning curves.  And I was not nearly far enough along when I stepped behind the podium.

For those of you who weren’t there, I’ll summarize: I started to cry.  But what really happened is that I tried to restrain a surge of emotion that felt a little like stomach-pounding nausea with the urgency of childbirth.  I panicked, so when I glanced up and saw Trevor the Timekeeper doing his little dance, I gulped and said something like, “So maybe I’ll just… stop?”

But everyone in that room was listening, leaning in, urging me to finish. I looked at Trevor.  He looked at me with serious eyes and —like we were in a Rocky movie or something— gave me one pump of his fist that said, Go on.  You can do it.
— Which I did, and when I finally finished, it was for more than just myself.  That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?  That electricity between storyteller and listener, between writer and reader.  Electric moments generated by the current of vulnerability in our work.  So my parting words to you: Don’t be afraid to cry a little in your work.  There will be a family —in whatever broad sense you define— waiting to embrace you.  The first one will be your Stonecoast family.  Congratulations and thank you.  I love you all.

The post On the Virtues of Crying: A Graduation Speech appeared first on Mary Heather Noble.

Mary Heather Noble is the winner of the $10,000 first-place prize for Creative Nonfiction’s The Human Face of Sustainability essay contest, sponsored by Arizona State University’s Sustainability Solutions Festival.

Mary Heather Noble’s prize-winning essay, “Acts of Courage,” uses a series of flashbacks from her youth and early scientific career to recall how cancer from contaminants intersected her life, unflinchingly using devastating statistics to show how carcinogens have so easily entered into daily life.

Noble will be honored at the Sustainability Solutions Festival in Tempe, AZ, February 17-22.  The festival is a program within the Rob and Melani Walton Sustainability Solutions Initiatives at the Global Institute of Sustainability at Arizona State University.

“The idea of sustainability can mean many things to different people, but it is clear through Mary Heather Noble’s brilliant essay, as well as by each of our other finalists, that there is a deep, human connection to sustainability, regardless of definition,” said Patricia Reiter, director of the Walton Sustainability Solutions Initiatives.

Read the full announcement at creativenonfiction.org and asunews.asu.edu.

The post $10,000 Sustainability Essay Prize Awarded appeared first on Mary Heather Noble.