My debut as a writing instructor

English became a fourth language for me when I started the first grade. My grasp of English was limited to yes, no, thank you, please (my grandmother insisted I know these last two phrases), and of course the first words anyone learns when trying a different language: swear words. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, taught me English by nurturing a love for books and patiently explaining that a gentleman didn't use profanity. She was successful in teaching me English, a language that has become my native tongue. The other three languages I spoke as a small child: Ladino or Judeau-Spanish, SW Spanish, and Navajo. Others I've picked up as an adult have all but disappeared for me. Mrs. Sullivan wasn't as successful at weaning me from using "colorful language," often at inappropriate times. I read on the restroom wall of a bar, that: "Profanity is the crutch of an inarticulate (insert your favorite 'colorful' noun here.)"

But reading has become as automatic for me as breathing. I will read almost anything.  I tell people in writing classes and writing groups that  "I have maybe twenty or thirty years left on this planet and I don't want to waste it reading crap, including my own." I like to write and even more importantly I love to read both my work and the work of great authors, especially out loud. I loved rolling wine over and under my tongue to awaken the subtle flavors. But as I've aged I love even more to roll the words of great writing around my tongue. I like the way the words cascade from my lips, echo in my mind, linger in my thoughts. 

The Lifelong Learning Program at the University of Utah has invited me to "teach" three courses this spring quarter. I think I worried Mandy Self, the director of Lifelong Learning, when I said, at an instructor orientation last night: "I expect to learn more than I teach, I expect to be a facilitator more than a teacher."
She and her staff have been both patient and helpful.