ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

Old Healing Bricks
Lucia Valeria Alfieri
One day at the end of October 2016.
I’m here, in the room that has been my classroom for a while.
Everyone has gone, and soon I’ll have to do the same. There have
been goodbyes, but they seemed like we were going to meet again. As
if this was just the end of the last semester of the year, and after the
summer holiday we’d all see each other again here. But it’s not like
that, and the question the teacher has thrown to us about our plans
for the future bring us again to the reality that we are leaving for
good. And although this means the pressure of the assignments has
finally come to its end, there is already a bit of nostalgia for this time
that won’t ever return.
But I’m sure that I’ll come back here. I’ll find some excuse to again
walk through these corridors and pretend just for a moment that this
is still my time, that I’m still a student and this place still belongs to
me.
I spent three years here, and I feel as if it is part of me. In some places
in particular I feel at home. Teachers know me by my name, and vice
versa. I know the secretary and she knows me. I know the librarian
by his name, but I doubt he can claim the same. Nevertheless, he
definitely recognises my face, and he is often open for a quick chat.
But soon, I know, this won’t be my place anymore, nor of the other
students who have had the same interest in writing and editing
as me. We have been kicked out. Soon, there won’t be any student
of Writing and Publishing; soon, there won’t be any Writing and
Publishing course. The sour news that the course is closing down
has, unexpectedly, been thrown upon us, although on closer
inspection there had been some signs—such as the growing number
of empty seats year after year. The feeling is like perceiving some sort
of unease for a long time, but because you are not prepared to face
it, you repress it and pretend that everything is fine. That is, until at
last, that wretched foreboding becomes a reality.
This room is smaller than the previous one, but I probably like it
more. It has created a more intimate space among us, not to mention
our own compositions. It’s a room they’ve given after kicking us from
our prior one. They had to renovate the space to give it to students of
another—perhaps more profitable—course. They couldn’t wait till
the end of the semester; there was a definite rush to throw us out of
it.
From the window of this room, I can see our former building. Built
with red bricks, with a few benches outside on which, on sunny days,
we spent our break time after hours of sitting and typing on our
computers. Below this room, I can barely see the fig tree whose fruits
I anticipated and savoured throughout the year.
I was told that, in the past, this building was a sanatorium, where
people with some diseases spent time recovering. I believe that this
place has never stopped being what it was: a healing place. At least it
hasn’t for me.
When I stepped onto these grounds for the first time, I was scared
and uncertain of what to expect from this course. I had a low esteem
of myself and my capabilities, but a high ambition: founding the
bases to become an editor. I knew I had on my side passion, as
well as certain characteristics deemed desirable for an editor. For
instance, my love for reading and for the proper use of the language,
the incapability to stay silent when someone made a grammatical
mistake, and instead to be, by nature, pushed by an uncontrollable
instinct to correct them. These are traits that have always
accompanied me. This gave me hope to continue.
I always wondered how authors could write a book, and create words
that flowed one after the other. To me, they were magicians who,
instead of rabbits, hid words under their top hats, which were then
perfectly combined to create stories.
I could never dare to wish to become one of them. But, to be
surrounded by books was all I wanted and by reading them I dared to
dream of working for a publishing company.
I had read that the tendency of correcting language mistakes is one
of the elements that identify editors. Therefore, I was on the right
track! But this natural instinct belonged to me in my other life, the
one that scrolled in the Italian language. Now, living in my second
language, I was the one in the need of being corrected; how could
I dare even dream to become an editor, let alone invest time and
money in it?
By taking the course, I knew that I could be a fool or a pioneer.
Moreover, this awareness was enforced even more when I came to
know that I would be the only International student of the course.
The old but well-preserved red brick building, the surrounding plants
and the roaming resident peacock gave me a sense of relaxation and
peace. And this peace reverberated inside me with a whisper: “You
can do it!”
It was only a silly voice that was unfailingly shut down as soon as I
entered the classroom, being bombarded with a foreign language I
could only in part decode.
How many heavy headaches wrapped me for days in the first year of
study?
Warmed by the sunlight, those iron benches that I see from this
window evoke in me so many moments in which, seated on them, I
would find a pause for my brain. Sometimes, I could only wish for the
end of those daily lessons, but sometimes on those benches, caressed
by the sunlight I could hear again that whisper.
Perhaps I felt just like many of those patients who had lived in this
building before me had: contradicted. Moments alternating between
feeling like I could make it or that I couldn’t. I feared but also loved
this place that put me in difficult situations I wanted to escape
from but didn’t, because something inside me prevented me from
giving up. Perhaps it was my determination or a sense of duty, not to
mention a more pragmatic reason related to my visa condition.
Feelings of being a fool and a failure predominated all those years
and walked over my more glorious hope of being a pioneer. What has
made me keep going was probably the pleasure I felt while bringing
many of those assignments and projects to fruition. I put passion
in them, and while little by little my dream to become an editor has
revealed itself to be a mirage—at least on Australian soil—a new
interest has grown in me.
The writing was hard, but little by little I discovered in it a vent for
my insecurities, for my hidden feelings that were unable to loudly
express themselves. On paper and with words, I’ve been able to
free myself. Within those old red bricks I found people who have
encouraged me to go ahead and pushed me to believe in myself a bit
more. Little by little, I experienced the pleasure of being the creator
of words that flowed on the paper. I was able to do it!
I entered this school without ever having had a strong interest in
writing, but I leave it wishing to have a future in it.
It is said that things and objects keep the energy of the person who
they belong to, and this energy passes to its successive owners. With
bitterness and sadness we are forced to leave this building, but I hope
that its healing energy will never be shut down.
ReadFin Literary Journal 63