Gatekept: Inviting Creative Community Literacy

Abstract

As instructor of the Community Writer’s Workshop at Abilene Christian University, it’s my duty to unlock the outer door to the library so that our workshop participants can enter the building on Saturday mornings. Our group gathers in the ACU Writing Center. The Center is usually closed at this time and normally reserved for student tutors to help peers develop better written arguments, fashion thesis sentences, find evidence from research, and learn how to cite sources properly. This group, however, is more interested in writing for themselves or for family, and throughout the free, six-week workshop, they never quite seem to believe that they’re in the right place. They don’t all arrive at once, but when I reach the Library doors at 8:50, a couple of workshop participants are already waiting outside: the 16-year-old high school student, Miranda, and her mother, stamping their feet to keep warm on this blustery November morning, and Bob, the middle-aged campus police officer, who has a key himself but graciously waits for me to unlock the door. I love that I am a part of the hospitality of the Writing Center’s mission with this endeavor, and this is one of my favorite parts of Saturdays in the fall. As I set up hot coffee and scones, and the early birds warm up, the other workshop members straggle in: the young mother and writer, Sara; Ed, who works at the State School but dreams of writing his memoirs; and Betty, the elderly retired teacher who writes stories for her grandchildren. A few others will arrive even later, but we don’t care. If you can get here by 10 a.m., you’re welcome. We’re a diverse crowd, but we all find solace during these Saturday mornings, talking about and sharing our writing. “I’m so glad y’all could make it today. Let’s start off with a brief writing exercise,” I say. “We’re going to write a story using six words that we all agree on. First, give me three nouns….” “Okay, Shelly. Hopscotch,” says Betty, shrugging. I write it down. “Watch, like on your wrist,” says Miranda.