The Nest

 "The Nest"
by Anthony P. Vasko 

            I can’t lie.  I stole the nest concept from the movie Old School, that crazy comedy about early 30’s guys forming a non-sanctioned fraternity.  Amidst the debauchery, Frank goes to therapy with his wife in an attempt to save their marriage.

            “This is a safe place,” the therapist begins.  “It’s a place where we can feel free sharing our feelings.  Think of my office as a nest, in a tree of trust and understanding.  You can say anything here.”

            With a look of skepticism Frank says, “Anything?”

            “It’s okay honey,” his wife says.  “It’s why we came.”

            Frank goes on to tell an embarrassing story about his wandering eyes during their date night at Olive Garden.  It’s an honest admission that upsets his wife.  It’s something he probably should have shared with another audience.

            “What?  I thought we were in the trust tree with the nest?  We’re not?”

            My friends and I have talked about this scene many times, usually while throwing back a few cold ones and laughing off life’s worries.  I never thought I’d take that scene, that nest, and bring it into a classroom.  I guess the brain has a funny way of making connections in mysterious ways that I’ll never understand.

            I’m not sure if it was the first class of the semester, but I know the nest was introduced very early on.  In my attempts to show them voice, authorship, and topic freedom I shared some of my writings.  Short stories I’ve published.  Short stories I’ve never had the courage to publish.  Memoir clips from my travels.  Journal entries from some of my lowest times.  The one thing I made sure all of these readings had was raw and unashamed honesty.  If they were going to trust me, I had to trust them.

            “This is a nest,” I said as I opened a journal.  “It’s a nest in a trust tree.  Everything we share in here stays in here.  We keep it in the nest.”

            They looked at me the way a roomful of 18-year-olds have always looked at the authority figure who’s trying to win them over, who’s trying to coax them into self-incrimination.  And then I read.

            Before I knew it, 12:05 had come around and not one of them was antsy to go.  “I can’t make you guys stay here any later,” I said.  Not one of them moved.  “But I’ll try to finish this in the next five minutes if you want to stay.”

            When I finished reading my very personal tale of debauchery, a tale from when I was trying a little too hard to emulate Hunter S. Thompson, I was worried I had gone too far.  They’re college kids, I thought.  They’re adults.  They can go to war for heaven’s sake.  They’ve heard stories worse than this.  Or my career as a teacher is coming to an abrupt end in its first week.

            Mike was the last of the students to make his way towards the door.

            “Was it too much?” I asked.

            He shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  But I do think you should close the door from now on.”

            The nest was born.