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Rio Hondo College is caught between a dump and a graveyard. That means something. Things like that aren't accidents.
If your boyfriend or husband is into Playboy, get down on your knees and thank them. There are much worse, horrifying sick things out there---like women being put through meat grinders. Playboy is so tame and safe. Years ago, I would go home from work at night and sit at my desk with a gun. I would try to think of a reason not to kill myself. Teaching was the only thing keeping me going. Every intelligent, creative person has contemplated suicide in their lives. If suicide is so wrong, why have some of the most intelligent, greatest minds have killed themselves. We praise Hemingway's writings and say he's a genius, but because he killed himself we dismiss it because we think it's wrong. He didn't think it was wrong. He thought it was the most intelligent thing to do. This is not me. What you see is a performance. In my office, I'm a different person. We all perform different roles. Be careful about mixing them up. Tom Robbins has written some amazing, beautiful novels about women, with an insight that most men don't have. And women would line up to fuck him because they assume he's just as empathetic and insightful as his novels. Never mix up the art work with the person. Tom Robbins could be a huge asshole. You don't know. He is not his novels.
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I took six semesters with John Hahn: four creative writing classes, Masterpieces of World Lit, The Short Story and an creative writing independent study in which I wrote a novella. It was called Cassidy Dante and his advice was, put it away for five years, and then see what you have. I did and didn't much care what I had by that point.
All his classes followed a basic formula. He had us all arrange the chairs in a circle: we had to face one another. (All facing one way, toward the front, helped isolate ourselves and forget we're around human beings---exactly why going to the movies is an absurd idea for a date). He would sit on a table at the front of the class. He always wore t-shirts and jeans and always had a mug of tea. My father said he would sit in the yoga position, or have everyone sit on the floor. He would start his lectures, sometimes it would be about the material we were to cover, sometimes he'd just start professing. I knew people who adored him, worshipped him and hated him. He had devoted students and students who complained about him. I believe that Rio brought in a second instructor to teach Creative Writing for people who wanted an alternative to Hahn. I had that instructor for a class---I gave her rebellious shit like a sixteen year old. I never knew him outside class. I never talked to him in his office about anything other than classwork. It was partly from fear and partly from a desire to make him into a colossus. I suppose if I had been closer, I would've stayed in contact all this time and had known more of the particulars about his death. I could've told him about all the professors I had and how they didn't know how to teach creativity, but were good at teaching formulas. About how many writers I knew were terrified of themselves and fell into cliches because they couldn't look at themselves. As Hahn would say, All we can write about is ourselves. If we write about serial killers or child molesters, we are writing about the killers and molesters within ourselves. All we know is ourselves, and since none of us really know anything about ourselves, most of what we know is wrong. Oddly, I prefer not knowing the personal details. I needed, and still need, the Colossus at Rio Hondo.  Between 1992 and 1996 I took Creative Writing and literature classes from John Hahn at Rio Hondo College in Whittier. My father, who had taken John's classes in the 80s, highly recommended I take the same classes.
John was one of the most effective professor I've ever had. Many things he taught me still remain with me---I quote something he said in our classes at least every day. I recently discovered that John died in October, 2006 of a heart attack, brought on by lung cancer. I have wanted to communicate with more people who had his class. I've put together this blog which, hopefully, will provide his former students with an opportunity to quote him, provide an anecdote, or offer negative criticism (which is equally important). In many ways, his classes were more like philosophical lectures which, inadvertently, taught me more about creativity than I've ever encountered. I'll start with a couple of things which come screaming to mind: "When a woman puts on lipstick, she's telling the world she's ready to fuck." If a book in a library or bookstore falls from a shelf in front of you, read it. Pray that you die from a long, painful death. |
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