Brilliant Young Voices

Office Hours

I think this is supposed to be one of those Thursdays when we take off around here, but I’ve got something cool to share.

Also, a reminder that, behind the paywall, we’re just launching into our long, slow read of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Join us for some holiday cheer/close reading.

Some of you may remember this post from last year, in which I introduced you to Jeff Berger-White, a teacher at Deerfield High School and a faculty associate at Bard College's Institute for Writing and Thinking.

Every year, for the last ten years or so, Jeff has read my story, “Tenth of December,” aloud to his high school students. This is something I now look forward to every December – hearing from Jeff about his student’s reaction to the story, after Jeff leads them through an exercise he calls “text explosion¹.”

Then, I got this email from Jeff last week:

Dear George,

Happy tenth of December!

I'm writing early this morning, in advance of my classes, to say my heartfelt thanks. There's so much that so many of us are so grateful to you for: Story Club, for one, and for all of the books, of course, and also for being such an unbelievable model of kindness and generosity. I fail daily, but I aspire always to approach your level of compassion.

I am retiring from Deerfield High School at the end of May, and while I may find myself in other classrooms in the future, it seems likely that this will be my last time reading "Tenth of December" to a roomful of young people.

I want you to know that it has been a deep and profound honor to share your story with my students. I feel a little like Richard Burbage about to walk on stage for his final performance of King Lear and turning to Shakespeare and saying something totally inadequate but heartfelt. And I know reading is not quite performing, and I'm no Claire Keegan, but man, have I loved "Tenth of December" about as much as I can imagine a person can love a story.

With Endless Gratitude,

Jeff

Photo by Riitta Paivalainen, in The New Yorker, October, 2011

A few days later (after the class on “Tenth of December”) I got this:

“Dear George,

I read "Tenth of December" to my two classes of seniors on Tuesday, and then yesterday, we shared some writing and discussed the story, and then concluded with a text explosion around the final paragraphs. I had asked them to prepare this for homework. What I heard in both classes was truly remarkable.

I asked a handful of students to share their writing with me. I always want to respect your time, so I've only included some of these, but really, George, I think you have to read these (especially the last two). None of this would have been possible without the profound magic and beauty of "Tenth of December." What my students wrote about the story only convinces me that it's the greatest short story ever.”

**

Well, I don’t know about “greatest short story ever,” Jeff, but I do want to say how much our correspondence has meant over the years.

Isn’t this the way that important things, like how to read a short story, get passed on, generation-to-generation, down through time? One caring older person taking the time to nurture a roomful of young people? In the spirit of the holidays, and to remind Story Club that brilliance and attentiveness and good-heartedness spring eternal, I wanted to share a few of the student responses with you:

STUDENT RESPONSES TO LINES IN “TENTH OF DECEMBER” (the referred-to lines are in quotes, at the beginning of each student’s response):

CC:

“of someone’s affection for you always expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you’’

This quote encompasses the idea of true love. It describes the acceptance necessary for a relationship to be strong and flourish. It is a wonderful idea that someone will expand rather than contract their love for you to “encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you.” Rather than shrinking back and allowing the scars to dig deep ruts in a relationship, creating space, they are physically closer. They are accepting you back. They love you and your faults. They see your imperfection and love it. They aren’t selective about when to show you their love. They don’t withhold love as a punishment. They pour it all the more into you in order to right the wrong, to diminish the insecurities before they can manifest. You forgive so that they have a chance to change, rather than cause them to live in continual guilt about the “new flawed thing.”

We are not stagnant creatures. We are constantly evolving to have different struggles, faults, or talents. This love allows for growth, not expecting one’s partner to be the same person they were when they met. The point, as Morrison stated beautifully in Beloved, is to put your story next to another person’s. To understand that they have a life that is evolving and the beauty is that you evolve with them.

It reminds me of rocks. Basalt contains graphite and graphite is melted out at a low temperature. We can help our partners melt out their flaws, not with fiery arguments, but compassion after an argument. Shale can become slate and then phyllite after it has had pressure and low heating over a long period of time. There is a saying, “This person is my rock,” which is supposed to mean an unmoving person. However, it is really someone that you change with, you apply pressure, you stick with them, you put your story next to theirs and suddenly, though made of the same rock, they are different, they are more aligned, they have molded to fit with you because you allowed them time and forgiveness.

Josh:

“That feeling of being accepted back and back again, of someone’s affection for you expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you” (251).

This quote captures something profoundly true about human relationships: on a basic level, we all yearn for unconditional acceptance and love. The quote speaks to the vulnerability Eber shows, how he exposes his true flaws without fear of being rejected for them. The idea of "being accepted back and back again" highlights the ongoing nature of love. Like we saw in the beginning of King Lear, love is not a one-time act and something you can express in a simple sentence. Rather, it is a continuous process of embracing someone at their best and worst moments.

In the story, this idea is expressed in a few ways. We experience loving a total random stranger. Eber, depressed and on the verge of suicide, puts his own life aside to save a young boy’s. If this is not love, I am not quite sure what else is. Then later in the story, Robin and his mother bring Eber into their home, returning the favor, now literally saving his life. But what feels to be the most important interaction is between Eber and his wife at the end of the story. Eber recognizes his wife’s thoughts; he saw it on her face because of a connection only two people in love with each other could have. He sees that his wife is angry and could blame the problem on him, but instead, she feels guilty as a result of her own actions. In a world where judgment often feels quick and unforgiving, this recognition that her husband need not be reprimanded but shown compassion is comforting and hopeful. It reminds me of an idea that we have discussed all year: love is not a concrete action with a simple “how-to” handbook, instead, it varies from person to person, and it is our job to learn how and when each individual needs to be loved.

Brooke:

“That feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone’s affection for you, always expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing he’d ever—”

The beauty of true love is that it is unbounded. To love someone fully is to love who they are at their core despite how they are swayed by circumstance. To love this deeply is an investment of self. It requires a constant and sometimes painful effort to understand each other fully. So much of Eber’s life is a product of Molly’s resilience; he now realizes that he was being selfish with what was not entirely his own. He was cheating her of a goodbye. He was killing a part of Molly, too.

True love is not having to mask imperfections. What she did know, Molly loved unconditionally. But she could not love what she didn’t know was inside of Eber. No battle he fought was alone except the one he concealed inside his mind. His memories of unconditional love are ultimately where Eber finds his greatest solace and survival instincts. Molly, Tommy, and Jodi’s spirits never leave him. His overwhelming love wakes him up and, desperately, “He tried to send some last thoughts to Molly. Sweetie, forgive me...” (246). Had she known what was happening, she would have come to the rescue.

In this tender embrace with Molly, Eber is flooded with gratitude for her sacrificial love, and also for his own. His mental declination brought floods of ugly memories of his stepfather.

He is grateful, now, that what is on his mind is not “THAT,” but Allen. “The deepest, dearest thing” is the way that love does not falter in moments of crisis. It is also Allen delighting in Eber’s manatee presentation. And how this memory overtook the other ones in this fateful moment.

Shaina:

“They were accepting each other back, and that feeling, that feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone’s affection for you always expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing he’d ever—"

I think about how lucky Eber is that, even though it took him to the brink of suicide to realize that being vulnerable at the end of your life is worth it, he is lucky that he is surrounded by people who are willing to take care of him in that way. I think of my grandpa sleeping on a blow up bed on the floor next to my dad's hospice bed for a month. How he would wake up at 4:00 in the morning to wet the corners of his mouth or adjust his pillow or help him go to the bathroom. It may seem hard to imagine if you haven't been a caretaker—and to be clear, I was not my dad's caretaker—but it is so much emotional, mental, and physical work. The only people who can do it are people who, like Molly and my Grandpa, don’t let their frustration or shame bubble over—which are very legitimate feelings when you have to take care of someone terminally ill 24/7—because they love them so much, they would do anything to keep them around. Eber and my dad were so fortunate to be surrounded by people who loved them that much.

Rachael:

“She was angry at him for pulling this stunt and ashamed of herself for feeling angry at him in his hour of need, and was trying to put the shame and anger behind her now so she could do what might be needed.”

This sentence speaks in a language that aches with contradictions and half-whispered confessions. It’s a mirror held to the face of anyone who has loved, anyone who has felt the messy entanglement of care and resentment. It is not about heroics or grace but about the brutal work of staying, of choosing to love when love feels less like a gift and more like a burden. In this moment, we see the truth we often try to hide: that love is not pure, and we are not saints. And yet, in this mess, there is beauty.

Shame is anger’s shadow, the quiet recognition that our fury is unjustified and yet entirely human. I’ve felt this duality, standing in the kitchen as my grandmother asked for help once more. The weight of caregiving clashed with the weight of guilt. How could I begrudge someone whose need was so innocent, so desperate?

But Saunders’s sentence doesn’t stop at the feeling—it moves. It arcs toward the work. The choice to “put the shame and anger behind her” is a choice to be human in the best way: imperfect but striving. This isn’t the loud courage of hero narratives; it’s the quiet bravery of care. And isn’t that the kind of courage we most often need? Not the kind that charges into battle but the kind that holds someone’s hand, prepares another meal, stays when it would be easier to leave. It’s hard to admit that love often feels like an obligation, even in its truest form. But Saunders reminds us that this obligation is sacred. It’s not about erasing the anger or the shame—it’s about carrying them forward and choosing care anyway.

The cadence of the sentence mirrors this tension. The anger stumbles into shame, which stumbles into resolution. There’s no clean break, no clear demarcation between feeling and action. This is how it feels to wrestle with love in its most difficult moments: messy, imperfect, but ultimately moving toward something greater. The sentence doesn’t judge its subject; it holds her complexity tenderly, recognizing that this inner conflict is not failure but evidence of her humanity.

When I look back on the times I’ve felt ashamed of my anger or impatience, I realize those moments have shaped me more than any moments of ease. They’ve shown me where my love falters and where it grows. They’ve taught me that care is not a feeling but a practice, something we return to again and again, even when it’s hard.

Saunders’s sentence ultimately gestures toward a deeper truth: that love is not an escape from ourselves but a confrontation with ourselves. In choosing to “do what might be needed,” Molly doesn’t erase her anger or shame; she absorbs them into her action. This is the alchemy of love: it takes our ugliest impulses and, through effort and intention, turns them into something beautiful.

In the end, this sentence is not about perfection. It’s about the choice to love anyway. It’s about the way we rise, again and again, despite our flaws, to meet the needs of those we care for. It’s about the courage it takes to be human, messy and full of contradictions, and to find beauty in the striving.

Thank you to CC, Josh, Brooke, Shaina, Rachel, and all of the class who responded. And special thanks to Jeff, and the warmest wishes for a joyful retirement. (Jeff has also kindly agreed, maybe this time next year, to guest-teach “Tenth of December,” alongside “Master and Man,” by Tolstoy.)

See many of you on Sunday, to discuss A Christmas Carol.

1. Last year, Jeff provided us with a little additional context on this “Text Explosion” process, as follows:

“Text explosion is a dynamic practice. There’s an unpredictability in what the people in the room will say and who will speak when. (Because the order is not predetermined, you don’t know who will read next.) The practice has a performative quality; the repetitions make it poetic; and the many voices make it feel theatrical. Ultimately, like many Institute practices, it feels like democracy in action, a kind of enactment of what it means to give value to all the voices in the room.

“Since I was first introduced to this practice, I bet I have tried it close to two hundred times. I always do it with Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy, the story within the story in Nathan Englander’s “The Twenty-Seventh Man,” and the end of George Saunders's "Tenth of December." I’ve used it with the rabbi’s speech that begins Angels in America and with Yahweh’s reply in the Book of Job. I use it with the final paragraphs in Harold Goddard’s critical essay on King Lear and Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping. And I often use it at the end of the year with Nazim Hikmet’s poem, “Things I Didn’t Know I Loved.””