Words Are Immortal

 For Gretchen White (1958 – 1981)

Teaching was the second-to-last thing I ever wanted to do, so I stumbled into it sideways as the only way I could afford grad school.  I was that desperate to continue studying what I loved:  beautiful words.  Arizona State University used TAs as so many universities do:  we were full-charge instructors in the freshman composition program.  In lieu of training, we were handed class rosters, a textbook, and a class schedule. Sink or swim.

I kept my head above water until Spring semester.  On Friday just after Spring Break, I fished a phone message from a Tempe Police detective out of my mailbox.  What fresh hell?  The detective sounded polite and kind as she asked when I had last seen my ENG102 student Gretchen White.  That was easy—Gretchen had been noticeably absent from class that day.  I’m not sure she’d ever missed class before.  As a 23-year-old graduating senior who’d put off research writing until her last semester because ew, she was a model student.  Always where she was supposed to be and always prepared for anything.

People took notice of Gretchen wherever she went because of her physical beauty.  She was gorgeous:  long, softly curling blonde hair, sky blue eyes, sweet and easy smile, and an impeccable sense of style she’d learned in her fashion design program.  She was supremely quiet and self-possessed, apparently unaware of the admiration or envy she sparked in others.  She didn’t seek attention—she simply couldn’t avoid it.  Her younger classmates were in awe of her.

I asked the detective why she was questioning me.  I couldn’t imagine Gretchen getting into trouble with the police. “I can’t disclose that,” she said sympathetically.  “All I can say is that we’re investigating a crime she might have been a victim of.”  Then she asked for my home number and ended the call.

My mind raced with possibilities.  College students do crazy things and lead unpredictable lives.  They take off on road trips without telling their roommates, who then report them missing.  They forget to show up for work.  Once in a while, there’s a drunken escapade.  But not with Gretchen.

I had a special rapport with her because we were the same age.  Among the 18- and 19-year-old freshmen, we felt wise with our hard-won knowledge of college life and our reams of real-world experience.  She rarely spoke in class but was always ready with a smile when I made a snarky joke about Greek life or registration nightmares.  I thrived on her quiet energy.

Another detective called me at home on Sunday with news that Gretchen had been murdered and instructions on how to inform the class (“Just say she died—do not use the words killed or murdered”).  He told me I must immediately excuse class and return to my office, making sure to have someone with me because “the killer might be one of your other students.”  Words I’ll never forget.

From the evening news, I learned Gretchen had been taken from her apartment in the middle of Thursday night, raped, strangled, and run over with her own car in the parking lot of Corona del Sol High School in south Tempe.  Maintenance staff had found her on Friday morning, but it took some time to identify her because of the condition of her body.  It would take longer—35 years—to identify her killer.

In my office I sat at my desk staring at the last piece of writing Gretchen had done in my class the day before she died.  It was freewriting and I can’t recall the prompt, but she’d written of her love and gratitude to her parents for trusting her enough to let her come all the way across the country from Michigan to go to ASU.  Perhaps her parents were on her mind because her mother had come out to spend Spring Break with her just the week before, and they’d had a fabulous time shopping, eating out, and sightseeing.  Gretchen was eager to graduate in May and head back to Michigan to launch her grown-up life.

She’d left me with a love letter to her parents.  It felt electric in my hands.  I’ve wished a thousand times since then I could read it again, but I didn’t keep a copy.  It was not mine.  I sent it to her parents with a letter full of sympathy and memories of my half-semester with Gretchen.

So when they came to Arizona a month later to pack up her apartment, they asked to meet with me.  It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in a long career.  Her mother barely spoke (like Gretchen, I thought!).  Her father told me what she’d been like as a child and asked me to remember everything, anything she said or did in class.

And then through tears, he said, “As much as we’re hurting, I can’t help thinking of the parents of whoever did this to her.”

I’ve kept this story close because it transformed me into a teacher.  More than any other student I’ve worked with, Gretchen taught me the power of words to reach out to others, to name our experiences, to tell our loves, and to heal broken hearts.  I understood the commitment I had to make to teaching:  everything I ask of my students must be worthy of their fragile time and must make space for the stories and ideas that bring meaning to their lives.  Gretchen’s spirit infuses and inspires every day of my teaching career.

Today almost 40 years later, I learned the name of Gretchen’s killer.  I can finally let go of the mystery but not the lesson:  words are immortal.