The Critical Reception to My Bean-Ridden Western
Professor Reginald McKnight’s Understandable Disdain for the Absurd
I remember sitting down at the large table that occupied three fourths of the Park Hall room and looking around at my new classmates. It was the first day of the second semester of my junior year of college, and I didn’t know a soul in this class. I didn’t expect to know anyone, though. I didn’t want to know anyone. The class was creative writing, and I figured I was better off if I didn’t care about the opinions of my classmates.
I remember Professor Reginald McKnight walking through the door on that first day, looking dishevelled as he removed his headphones and put his folder full of disorganized, loose paper on the lectern. His voice seemed to flow from his mouth in a smooth current, and in listening to him I realized that he sounded so confident that he bordered upon sounding completely arrogant, but he was always careful never to cross that line. In his opening speech to his 20-something students that were sitting around this single, giant rectangle, he displayed his deep well of writing and life experience and his passion for fiction as he supplied us with the syllabus. On the first day, he explained that we had a week to write our first of three short stories that we would be submitting during the semester and two weeks later, we would begin our class-wide discussion of each student’s story.
I remember being excited to sit down and create a story for the first time. If I had done it before, I couldn’t recall it. In my head, this next week was going to be an incredible journey of creativity and self-discovery, which was not the case for many of the loads of schoolwork I was responsible for in college. This was my chance — a class full of people who I didn’t know and didn’t care to ever see again and a professor who was passionate but also possibly a little insane — to push my own boundaries. Writing a story in a week’s time would be challenging, and opening myself up to a table read immediately afterwards might be brutal, but I was hellbent on making this experience worthwhile for my growth as a writer. So that’s what I did.
I can say with complete honesty that I do not remember exactly where the idea for my first story came from, but I have a general idea. I know that the notion was derived from the fact that my roommates and I thought jokes about beans were funny, but I don’t remember if there was a single moment where I heard someone say something and then I suddenly looked off into the distance as a lightbulb that was hovering above my head inexplicably illuminated. No, I don’t remember anything like that. What I do recall, however, is sitting across from Noah in the library and doing extensive research on the political movements and economic trends of America in the late 19th century. I remember taking notes on famous outlaws and mapping out the structure of a fictional town that I named after my street in Athens. Once I had the idea — no matter how I found it — I was off.
I wrote more than 10 pages. There were satirical ideas and heartfelt sacrifices, four different sections and a silly and educational preface, sacks of beans and fields of corn. As far as I was concerned, it had everything. It was perfect. I don’t even remember proofreading it.
I won’t bore you with the entire premise of the story, nor will I spoil the ending, but I will provide the preface. It should at least give you the general idea and showcase the level of unbridled absurdity of my creation:
In 1873, the failure of the bank Jay Cooke and Company prompted the post-Civil War speculative bubble to burst, igniting the “Panic of 1873.” This eventually gave way to an economic depression, creatively entitled “The Long Depression,” which itself would eventually cause the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 because of labor turmoil. While the strike would only last around 45 days, one small town in Kansas refused to budge on its railroad labor wages and eventually found a way to live without the transcontinental technology. The tiny farming town of Barnett, Kansas, collectively chose to abandon the unstable American economic system and instead used the beans that the citizens grew as currency. Of course, we now know that this idea is incredibly flawed, and it was eventually discovered by the federal government and restored to traditional order. However, for a few months in Barnett, Kansas, during 1877, the bean was king.
The next Monday, I walked into the bottom floor of Park Hall and entered the room with the enormous wooden table. I passed out copies of my *perfect* story, collected copies of everyone else’s stories, and then left the building for the next week knowing that we would be discussing my work, “The Harvest That Saved Barnett,” the next time we were all together. I didn’t care about these people (as I’ve been sure to mention), but somehow I was still nervous. It finally hit me that I would momentarily be the focus of the 20-something other students and my weird, enigmatic professor as they each discussed the unlikely successes and foreseeable failures of my hard work regarding the bean-driven Western tale of triumph and sacrifice. The big table seemed even bigger as I thought of everyone sitting around it, ripping my story to shreds.
The next week came and went quickly, which was the opposite of how the typical weeks during my collegiate career always seemed to move. I read the other work from my classmates, stories which included serious and artful depictions of love and loss, addiction and self discovery, and the cruelty and suspense of societal expectations versus reality. Some authors wrote largely autobiographical stories about their triumphs over depression or their struggles to fight each new day as it arrives. And there I was, the author of this tale that followed a comically-incompetent mayor and his idea for a bean-centric economy.
Before I knew it, I was sitting at the far corner of the large table in that Park Hall classroom with my back facing the window, mentally preparing to explain myself to this classroom of serious writers. Professor McKnight (He asked to be called “Reg,” but no one called him “Reg”), walked in about five minutes after the beginning of class, as was his routine, and he called on the first person to read a selection from their story before we talked about what we liked and didn’t like about the work as a whole. We were going alphabetically, and the first person we critiqued happened to be sitting next to me.
Compared to mine, her story was … different. In every way. She took a more autobiographical approach to the assignment, and she wrote something based on her own brother, who lives with a mental disability. She wrote about his unwavering optimism despite his circumstances as well as the way the world sees him and treats him. It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. She cried as she read an excerpt, and then we all talked about how brave she was and how well-written her story was. How powerful. How important.
“OK, great. That was wonderful. Now, let’s keep it moving,” Professor McKnight said. “Next we have a story from Mr. Boyd.”
I submit that there has never been a more drastic, naturally-occurring transition than the one my professor had just made. I sat there, dumbfounded by the unfortunate circumstances I found myself in as we all tried to shift from our sympathies and appreciation for my classmate and instead enter the conversation about my bean story with a fresh mindset. I took a deep breath as a chorus of shuffling papers filled the tiny room, then my professor looked at me.
“Why don’t you read the first half of section three?” he asked. “The part where Johnny Beans rides into town and delivers his speech before trying to steal everyone’s beans.”
The story was undeniably stupid, but this description made it sound infinitely more so.
I gulped.
Then, realizing I had nothing to lose but my dignity and the respect of these strangers, I read the excerpt aloud with passion and confidence. I did voices and I paused dramatically. I looked up every now and again in order to be engaging, and I raised and lowered my voice with the rhythm of my prose. When I finished, I put my copy down on the table and looked up.
There were 40-something eyes staring back at me.
When we read our work , Professor McKnight always made the class deliver their own critiques first before he chimed in with his own professional thoughts and opinions. Hearing the conclusions from my classmates before hearing my professor felt like feeling the first drops of rain hit your head and noticing a large, ominous dark cloud bellowing overhead. Sure, you feel the water and wipe your forehead, but you know that there’s much more on the way.
With that idea in mind, I listened as my classmates discussed my fictitious western about a bean economy with the seriousness of a legislative deliberation. They were nice as they talked about my story’s ability to paint a picture with descriptive language and funny asides, and they were honest as they expressed concerns about how convoluted some of the character introductions were. One girl who had a lisp and spent the entirety of the semester with her nose planted in a Stephen King novel appreciated the way I set my scenes. One guy who was undeniably smarter than all of us — who unsurprisingly and unironically wore a tweed flat cap during the colder months — said that he really got what I was doing here. Most of them were quiet.
When I had been sufficiently humbled by a large table of my peers, Professor McKnight decided it was his turn to speak. He had been nodding his head and offering affirmation to some of the critiques thus far, but this was his chance to talk directly to me, uninhibited by the thoughts of my classmates.
Before we continue, it’s worth noting that Reginald McKnight has quite the extensive resume, and it would be a disservice to you — the reader — if I didn’t share it with you now before I shared his thoughts on my bean story:
Born in Fürstenfeldbruck, Germany, he earned his masters at the University of Denver and then taught English at five different universities before ultimately landing at Georgia in 2002 (Including Maryland and Michigan). He also had two extended stays in Africa where he wrote intensely for hours each day. The grey-haired, 60-something year-old black man with the confusing, velvety voice has written short stories and novels that have gone on to be published, and he won the O. Henry award (for short stories of exceptional merit), the 1988 Drue Heinz Literature Prize and the 1995 Whiting Award (given annually to 10 emerging writers in fiction, nonfiction, poetry and plays). When it comes to fiction and story structure and the general idea of life experience, Reginald McKnight is an authority.
So, given his background, let me now escort you back to the small, fluorescent-lit classroom on the bottom floor of Park Hall where Professor McKnight took the time to deliver his unabridged feedback on my 18-page short story about beans, a corn farmer, and a bean-stealing bandit.
While I don’t remember his notes verbatim, I remember the gist of what he said to me that day. Predictably, he mentioned the problem with the absurdity of the premise. He questioned the lack of law enforcement in my made-up town and wondered why no one else tried to stop the villain, Johnny Beans, as he stole everyone’s beans. He verbalized his concerns about my story’s success in its attempt to establish the rules of its environment, and delivered a soliloquy about the difficulty of writing for humor with multiple examples of my shortcomings. He asked me what inspired the story, to which I had no better answer than, “My friends and I think beans are funny,” which, looking back, probably prompted more questions than it provided answers. Finally, after dissecting each individual page about my fictional town and their obsession with beans, he said it was a good start and that I had several strengths to build off of in the future.
He handed back his copy of my story and I worked to decipher his feedback, which was written in sloppy cursive. The literary award winner had this to say, in part:
“But the hard part, for you, begins with convincing me the premise. The whole affair, the bean-driven economy, a bad guy who wants to steal beans … well, I just don’t buy it. Even the absurd must somehow be based on the plausible.”
For a long time, that was the end of the critical reception to my short story about beans. I put his notes in my backpack, then I put them somewhere in my disorganized bedroom with other loose paper and schoolwork, then I forgot about it. I went on to write two more short stories during the duration of the class, and we never got around to talking about either of them as a group.
My beans story would be mentioned to me on two more occasions, though, and each was validation that I had created something worthwhile.
The first came during another meeting of that same creative writing class. We were going over another guy’s second short story — a Western train robbery with a twist ending — when Professor McKnight asked him to elaborate on why he chose to write what he did. He talked about his interest in writing dialogue for villains and his inclination toward action stories. Then, with a nod to me, he said that my Western about beans inspired him.
I have never been prouder.
The second occasion was much more surprising. I was downtown one night during the next semester, as a group of my friends and I were drinking and talking on the second floor of a bar named Magnolia’s. Music was blaring and NBA basketball was playing on every oversized television, and I walked up to the bar to order another gin and tonic.
After picking up my drink and tipping the bartender handsomely, I was about to return to my friends when someone said something to me. It was a high-pitched voice, and I recognized it instantly despite the circus of noise surrounding us. It was a girl with large glasses and brown, curly hair that always sat in the same corner seat at that comically large table in Professor McKnight’s class.
“Hey!” she said. “You’re the one that wrote the story about beans, right?”
Now look — I know we can’t all live the rockstar life. Drowning in drinks, surrounded by loud music and bright lights as we’re recognized for our life’s achievements. That’s a lifestyle that only a select few of us will ever experience, and that’s fine. We should all earn our own celebrity. On that night, as I nodded to this girl whose name I didn’t know and took a sip of my drink as I walked away, I knew I was crossing over to that world of fame and fortune. I knew my life would be separated as the time before my bean story and the time that’s elapsed since. I knew there was no returning from the fame and recognition I had amassed, despite the initial and founded criticisms from my professor.
And I haven’t looked back since.
Dr. McKnight’s full feedback:
