TO BE OR NOT TO BE A MENTOR

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

I’d chosen a table to the left of the door in the corner. It’s a good vantage point, allowing me to see before I am likely seen. Also, the door opens toward me, shielding from the cold wind a second or so later than the rest of the patrons.

I sip my mocha grande and make a few notes about what we’ll talk about during our session. I’m waiting for my intern, Summer. We’ve met on Wednesdays after lunch since the beginning of the year and will continue until June when she graduates.

Our first meeting, I supposed, would be me deciding whether I wanted to mentor a high school student. This wasn’t my first endeavor with a high school student who said she wanted to be a writer. Last year I’d been contacted by a women’s network organization and asked if I’d like to mentor a young woman from a local high school. She said she wanted to be a writer and since I was a writer, they thought this might be a good fit.

“Ashley” was a fifteen-year-old high school student who had signed up to participate in the Mentor Program at her school, sponsored partly by the networking group I belong. Through a mix-up, I’d missed the indoctrination meeting where the students were paired with their mentors. I’d not received the booklet explaining the program, guidelines and expectations of the students and mentors. I was told the name, address, phone number and age of my “mentee” (the term decided on by the network group that never quite rolled off my tongue well.)

I phoned Ashley to introduce myself and explain why I was getting a late start with her and the program. I asked what she liked to write.

“Poetry,” she said.

Ah, poetry. Who doesn’t want to be a poet when you’re fifteen? I wondered.

My total knowledge of poetry lies somewhere between being able to recite a few lines of Emily Dickinson to actually owning a Rod McKuen book. I knew what I liked when I heard it, but no idea how a poet approaches his work beyond how passion for a subject sometimes sparks excitement on a page. I did, however, personally know and hang around a few really good poets who won awards, and even one Pulitizer nominee who created a sonnet style named for her. I would be able to find information and direct my mentee to the right path.

My own attempts at poetry were not stellar. I know words that rhyme. I knew how to put feeling into the poem. I knew the importance of rhythm in a stanza. I just didn’t know if I’d be the best person for a burgeoning poet. But, I wanted to try.

I told Ashley how excited I was to be a mentor. I sent her some handouts I’d gathered about poetry along with my web site info so she could check me out and would recognize me when we met for the first time. I set up a time at a coffee shop near her school and prepared to meet her after her last class. I was traveling across town. She was down the street.

I sat in the coffee shop and wondered if every young woman coming through the door was her or not. After twenty minutes, I called her home and she answered.

“Are you running late?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said and sighed dramatically as only a fifteen year old can. “I was going to call and let you know I couldn’t make it.”

I was disappointed, but I remembered: she’s fifteen. I’d cut her some slack. “Okay, well, when can you reschedule?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Can I call you later?”

“Sure. I’ll look forward to your call.”

She didn’t call that evening or the next day or the next. I did get a call from the head of the Mentor committee chair telling me Ashley had decided she’d rather be a graphic artist.

Although the lady didn’t say the words, I’d been fired from the mentor program. I’m not sure if that had been done before, but it was happening to me and I’d never set eyes on the girl who could have been my protégé.

“You probably scared her,” my husband said. “Telling her all about the organizations you’d introduce her to—the contests and all the work it took to be a successful writer. She’s only fifteen.”

Only fifteen. What had I been thinking about when I was fifteen? Although I said I wanted to be a writer then, I didn’t really do anything about making it happen. Maybe Ashley would continue to write poetry while she tried the graphic artist routine. I doubt it is any easier than becoming a writer. And I’m sure it pays better than poetry.

But today, I’m waiting on my intern. (A term she chose and one I like much better, too.) She’s seventeen, dedicated and has her head on straight. We’ve worked together all semester and are embarking on the second half of her senior year. She’s got a wicked sense of humor, enjoys sarcasm as much as I do and oh, yeah, the best part is she wants to be a mystery writer. I might be able to actually help this one.

From where I sit, this looks like a great opportunity for both of us. She’s eager to learn, I’m eager to share. Together we’re sitting pretty in a cozy coffee shop talking about lovely, mysterious things.