The Miramichi Reader: Interview with Lucy E. M. Black

While working as a vice-principal and then principal in several high schools, I regularly interacted with other
administrative colleagues and on such occasions, we often shared our “war stories” — those difficult and heart-breaking
situations we were attempting to help resolve. Most of us had learned not to communicate such stories with our
families and friends or to outline such tales at parties and social events. Apart from the obvious privacy concerns, the
distaste with which such stories were met was discouraging at best, and embarrassing at worst. Others who did not do
what we did were shocked by our narratives, even when they were drawn in broad strokes — by the language we
recounted and by the dire situations our students were struggling with. And we were also subjected to skepticism —
how could this possibly be true? Who lives like that? The comfortable world of middle-class privilege was such that
many of our acquaintances could not fathom the despair, the hurt, or the harm that we saw students navigating on a
fairly regular basis. We often exclaimed, “when I retire — I’m going to write a book. People need to know this goes
on.” And so, seven years after having done so, I have finally finished one.

I began by documenting the lives of the girls who continued to haunt me. The girls I continued to worry about. The ones
I hoped were somewhere safe and had found ways to be cared for. The girls I had, despite my training and discipline,
wept for. But the lists and notes became stories, first one or two, then three or four, until, over the course of a few
years, there was a collection. Even in fictional form, it seemed that nobody really wanted to read these narratives that
were based upon my experiences. When I occasionally submitted one to a journal, I was told things like “nobody wants
to read a sad story — can you change the ending and give us something more hopeful?”  Such commentary frustrated
me. The whole point was to highlight the desperation of the situations some of these young people found themselves
in. Maya Angelou is purported to have said, (t)here is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. And I
think her words apply particularly to the stories we feel compelled to share but know may be triggering or upsetting to
others. So, the challenge for me was to find a way of providing deep insight into the work that takes place in schools
without “trauma-dumping” on readers, while still yet highlighting the needs that were so obvious to me. If we believe
that reading serves many purposes, then we must recognize the necessity of sharing stories that are reflective of the
whole spectrum of human experience. And some of those stories hurt. They hurt to write and they hurt to read. But that
does not mean we should shy away from writing or reading them.

And so, using the tools that auto-fiction provides, I have attempted to present a snapshot of those young people whose
lives touched my heart — young people I felt that were not well served or supported by the systems we have in place. In
doing so, I did not wish to be salacious or shocking. Rather I found myself motivated by the hope that in shining a light
on lives such as these, discourse might be elicited about what we can do better.

What I dearly want to provoke with this collection is an awareness of the needs of vulnerable youth, and in particular,
the importance of strong community partnerships and additional resources. Practical things are needed like: increased
funding for CAS and social services to lighten case loads; the attraction of more clinicians with a specialty in adolescent
mental health; providing school boards with increased funding for additional support personnel and training; reinstating
funding for effective student success programs; and facilitating partnerships with a view to providing resources for youth
such as emergency housing and wraparound care. I hope this small book contributes, in some way, to such important
dialogues.

…

Lucy Black worked as a corporate trainer and as an educator for much of her working life.  Her writing life is about
bearing witness to stories and people that she believes are significant.  When she’s not reading or writing, Lucy loves
spending time in the kitchen and in her garden.  She is the author of The Marzipan Fruit Basket, Eleanor
Courtown, Stella’s Carpet, and The Brickworks.  Her new short story collection, Class Lessons: Stories of Vulnerable
Youth will be released October 2024.  Lucy’s short stories have been published in Britain, Ireland, USA and Canada in
literary journals and magazines.  She lives in Port Perry, Ontario, the traditional territory of the Mississaugas of Scugog
Island, First Nations.