things of our lives, so that our lives would make sense. You told us that we had to think seriously about everything that happened to us so that we could translate it, and place it there, in some order, within sight and reach, because language is the shelving and without language everything is a mess, confusing, tossed anywhere as if it were garbage. Those were your words.
I’m not going to lie and tell you that your words put us at ease, Mr. Rose, on the contrary, my hairs stood on end each time you started preaching, when you reminded me of a priest, sorry to say. Who did you think you were with your lightning-bolt scar, your precious little nose, and yellow shirts? It angered us when you tried to tell us what we had to do to pretend you were on our side, because when it came down to it, neither you nor anyone else was on our side; the rest of the world was out there, and we were in here, alone with our solitude.
On top of that, that day we were like lionesses because of the shelves. Real shelves made of concrete, that’s right, hard concrete, you know, twenty inches long and eight inches deep, and all you could come up with was your philosophy. But I’ve always remembered what you told us that day about the shelves of language, Mr. Rose. And that’s where the good part starts, and the bad part, because what you put on shelves is there to be seen but some things I’d rather not have seen. Nobody can imagine what I have gone through, and it’s best if they don’t imagine.
I’m always hoping that someday I’ll see you again, Mr. Rose. Imagine running into you and telling you my story so that you can turn it into a novel. You know some of it already from the exercises I turned in for the creative-writing workshop. I like to dream that your novel about me becomes a bestseller and they make a movie from it that wins an Oscar. It’s not that I want to be famous. For what? If you want a famous Colombian you have Shakira; I, on the other hand, am inmate number 77601-012. That’s the hard truth. I’m also not after money, and it seems you are even less so—if you wanted to become a millionaire you wouldn’t be sticking your nose in these deathtraps. That’s why I’m telling you, if they pay you a fortune for my story, which could happen, Mr. Rose, donate to a foundation for the preservation of the white-tailed deer, which is a god to the Tarahumara Indians and is in danger of extinction. It was you who told us about that, remember? You almost made us cry with the melodrama about the white-tailed deer. By then I was beginning to like your class, really starting to get the hang of it. There were only two things that I enjoyed about Manninpox those days: your class and the TV show House M.D. , which was also on Thursday. From two to four in the afternoon your class, and at seven, reruns of House M.D. on TV. I spent all week waiting for Thursday.
The reason I’m writing you, Mr. Rose, is to unburden myself of everything I know, a confession of sorts that will bring me forgiveness and peace. I remember your first classes, when you had us do exercises so we would learn simple things, like how to tell a verb from a noun; and once you had us make a list of ten verbs that were important to us. We had to do it quickly, jotting down the first ones that came into our head, and among my ten, I wrote “phobia.” You said that you couldn’t accept it because phobia wasn’t a verb, but I defended my choice, I insisted it was a verb, in a way, because a phobia couldn’t exist if someone wasn’t there to feel it.
“Fine”—you were polite—“let’s say it’s somewhat a verb, but only somewhat.”
“No, Mr. Rose.” I laughed. “You don’t have to give it to me. I get how phobia is no verb.”
The next class you made us do another list, this time adjectives, writing the definition on the board. One of mine was “phobiaized” and I wrote beside it “consumed by phobias.” You asked if to be phobiaized wasn’t
I’m not going to lie and tell you that your words put us at ease, Mr. Rose, on the contrary, my hairs stood on end each time you started preaching, when you reminded me of a priest, sorry to say. Who did you think you were with your lightning-bolt scar, your precious little nose, and yellow shirts? It angered us when you tried to tell us what we had to do to pretend you were on our side, because when it came down to it, neither you nor anyone else was on our side; the rest of the world was out there, and we were in here, alone with our solitude.
On top of that, that day we were like lionesses because of the shelves. Real shelves made of concrete, that’s right, hard concrete, you know, twenty inches long and eight inches deep, and all you could come up with was your philosophy. But I’ve always remembered what you told us that day about the shelves of language, Mr. Rose. And that’s where the good part starts, and the bad part, because what you put on shelves is there to be seen but some things I’d rather not have seen. Nobody can imagine what I have gone through, and it’s best if they don’t imagine.
I’m always hoping that someday I’ll see you again, Mr. Rose. Imagine running into you and telling you my story so that you can turn it into a novel. You know some of it already from the exercises I turned in for the creative-writing workshop. I like to dream that your novel about me becomes a bestseller and they make a movie from it that wins an Oscar. It’s not that I want to be famous. For what? If you want a famous Colombian you have Shakira; I, on the other hand, am inmate number 77601-012. That’s the hard truth. I’m also not after money, and it seems you are even less so—if you wanted to become a millionaire you wouldn’t be sticking your nose in these deathtraps. That’s why I’m telling you, if they pay you a fortune for my story, which could happen, Mr. Rose, donate to a foundation for the preservation of the white-tailed deer, which is a god to the Tarahumara Indians and is in danger of extinction. It was you who told us about that, remember? You almost made us cry with the melodrama about the white-tailed deer. By then I was beginning to like your class, really starting to get the hang of it. There were only two things that I enjoyed about Manninpox those days: your class and the TV show House M.D. , which was also on Thursday. From two to four in the afternoon your class, and at seven, reruns of House M.D. on TV. I spent all week waiting for Thursday.
The reason I’m writing you, Mr. Rose, is to unburden myself of everything I know, a confession of sorts that will bring me forgiveness and peace. I remember your first classes, when you had us do exercises so we would learn simple things, like how to tell a verb from a noun; and once you had us make a list of ten verbs that were important to us. We had to do it quickly, jotting down the first ones that came into our head, and among my ten, I wrote “phobia.” You said that you couldn’t accept it because phobia wasn’t a verb, but I defended my choice, I insisted it was a verb, in a way, because a phobia couldn’t exist if someone wasn’t there to feel it.
“Fine”—you were polite—“let’s say it’s somewhat a verb, but only somewhat.”
“No, Mr. Rose.” I laughed. “You don’t have to give it to me. I get how phobia is no verb.”
The next class you made us do another list, this time adjectives, writing the definition on the board. One of mine was “phobiaized” and I wrote beside it “consumed by phobias.” You asked if to be phobiaized wasn’t
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