{"id":258,"date":"2017-06-02T12:51:37","date_gmt":"2017-06-02T12:51:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.eckerd.space\/wiesel\/?p=258"},"modified":"2017-06-02T12:51:37","modified_gmt":"2017-06-02T12:51:37","slug":"liz-argento-12","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.eckerd.edu\/wiesel\/2017\/06\/02\/liz-argento-12\/","title":{"rendered":"Liz Argento \u201912"},"content":{"rendered":"[vc_row type=”in_container” full_screen_row_position=”middle” scene_position=”center” text_color=”dark” text_align=”left” overlay_strength=”0.3″][vc_column column_padding=”no-extra-padding” column_padding_position=”all” background_color_opacity=”1″ background_hover_color_opacity=”1″ column_shadow=”none” width=”1\/1″ tablet_text_alignment=”default” phone_text_alignment=”default” column_border_width=”none” column_border_style=”solid”][vc_column_text]\n

The Witness
\n<\/strong>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0For Elie Wiesel<\/em><\/strong><\/h4>\n

He wanted us to know and he wanted us to never know. He told us, his students, that by hearing a witness\u2019s account of injustice, we would become witnesses ourselves. We would then have a responsibility to speak out, to halt crimes against humanity. At the same time, he declared that there was no name for the event he experienced: the \u201cevent with a capital E,\u201d as he called it. We would never understand; we could not imagine it. We would never know it.<\/p>\n

I was a junior in college when I signed up for Elie Wiesel\u2019s course titled The Witness. I couldn\u2019t believe he was coming to my small college in St. Petersburg, Florida, to teach a January term. I was full of nervous energy. I was going to meet a Holocaust survivor, hear his story. I expected night terrors, persistent pessimism, panicked memories. It\u2019s always the anticipation that gets me. But there was also an excitement to it. I would get to study with a well-known author, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and a friend of both Toni Morrison and Oprah. I was going to study literature with a well-established writer. I just hoped it wouldn\u2019t be too upsetting, too easy to visualize. At the same time, I wanted him to tell me all of it: the memories, the horrors.<\/p>\n

On the first day, I found that he looked and sounded different than I had imagined. His gray hair always looked frazzled and uncombed, as if he\u2019d been caught in a windstorm that morning. His quiet voice made every memory feel like a whisper. Whenever someone was talking in the hallway, unzipping a backpack and discussing evening plans, all of us glared through the floor-length windows, willing them to shut up. We wanted to hear everything. I hadn\u2019t expected him to be that soft-spoken. When I had read his work, I\u2019d always imagined a thundering, assertive voice, the type you hear at public events. His books read like a powerful speech, both moving and motivating. His spoken voice was cautious. He never stumbled\u2014every word was careful and deliberate.<\/p>\n

He started the course by asking each of us to tell him our story. My chest stiffened as I tried to come up with something. One girl said she helped Katrina survivors rebuild their homes; another described how important friendship was to her. The guy across from me talked about coming out as a gay to his parents. When it was my turn, I told the class about the first day I called myself a writer. I was six, reading aloud a short story I wrote at an author\u2019s tea held by my first-grade class. It was a similar predicament: We had to give a biography statement before we started reading our work aloud. Those kids talked of liking cats, enjoying spaghetti dinners, watching cartoons. The little boy directly in front of me said he was going to be a writer. I remember thinking, Wow, that was a cool one. I stole it.<\/p>\n

I hoped my story was okay. I didn\u2019t know what he wanted me to say. When he looked right at me, my jaw stiffened, I\u2019d rub my hands together under the table, I\u2019d squeeze my wrists in my palms. I had to raise my hand more often. I had to participate.<\/p>\n

He smiled the entire time we spoke, telling us how much he loved stories. After we all finished, he started his own story by saying he attributed his survival to pure luck, because everything in the camps was based on chance. He told us that now he was very absent-minded, often getting lost on the way to his own home. When he would call his wife for directions, she would laugh and tell him she couldn\u2019t imagine how he survived. But he knew that in the camps, being sharp or strong or weak couldn\u2019t save you, nor would it damn you. Love, anger, hate, hope\u2014then, they all meant nothing. Hunger was all that mattered.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t ask me what I hoped for in the camps,\u201d he told us. \u201cI hoped for a potato peel in my soup.\u201d<\/p>\n

As part of the course, each student got two one-on-one meetings with Dr. Wiesel. On the walk over, I realized I had no idea what we were going to talk about. I didn\u2019t want to talk about me. Hopefully, he would just tell me more stories. I loved his stories. I waited for them every class and wrote down every word. When he called me into his office, I fully expected to hear more.<\/p>\n

Instead, he began: \u201cTell me, what is behind that smile?\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the last thing I thought he would ask me. I gave some flustered, awkward answer, explaining that I was somewhat of an upbeat person who had somewhat of a happy life. I explained nothing else, though I could feel how red my face was getting. He must know, I thought. I rattled off a verbal resume and I told him where I was from. I left feeling like I\u2019d made it all up.<\/p>\n

For our second one-on-one meeting, I came fully prepared. I would discuss my literature thesis; I would share my post-graduation plans. This time I would know what to say. I wouldn\u2019t get awkward and ruin the whole thing again. My hands wouldn\u2019t stop shaking\u2014would he notice if I sat on them? I hoped he had forgotten our last meeting.<\/p>\n

He started differently this time. \u201cYou perform very well in class, Liz.\u201d It made me smile, bigger than usual. I felt my shoulders lowering. \u201cSo what about your books. Tell me, what do you write?\u201d<\/p>\n

I told him I wanted to write memoir. I told him a few of my ideas, knowing I may or may not ever actually write them. I told him what I was currently working on: a piece on anxiety, on how it had immobilized me. He said he saw an opportunity for a how-to guide to help others. It was an idea I had never considered.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill you write bestsellers?\u201d<\/p>\n

I could feel my face heat up. \u201cI don\u2019t know. \u2026 Hopefully, I guess.\u201d I was hesitant to want such a thing.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not? We need them.\u201d He smiled. \u201cYou inspire me, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I had no idea where he was going with this. I wanted to ask why.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause you listen. The way you look at me, it makes me feel lucky.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t think of any response. I couldn\u2019t believe it. \u201cWell, you are the kind of writer who makes me want to stop reading and write, myself.\u201d I hoped it wasn\u2019t too weird to admit such a thing.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen from my books, there will be your books.\u201d Our eyes met. \u201cBooks, like people, have their own destinies.\u201d<\/p>\n

On the last day of class, as we all stood up to leave, he motioned for us to sit back down. He had one last lesson: \u201cI must admit I am pessimistic. The world hasn\u2019t changed. The world has not learned.\u201d His voice grew soft. \u201cAnd yet, we are still here.\u201d<\/p>\n

We all leaned in, pens furiously transcribing every word.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is so simple. I know that one of you\u2014at least one\u2014is going to have the same crazy idea that I have. One of you will try to bring humanity back. One of you will do great things, make time for the noblest of projects. \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t help but assume I would be the one. I wanted to be the one.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor this person, I teach.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2014Liz Argento \u201912 <\/strong><\/p>\n[\/vc_column_text][\/vc_column][\/vc_row][vc_row type=”in_container” full_screen_row_position=”middle” scene_position=”center” text_color=”dark” text_align=”left” overlay_strength=”0.3″][vc_column column_padding=”no-extra-padding” column_padding_position=”all” background_color_opacity=”1″ background_hover_color_opacity=”1″ column_shadow=”none” width=”1\/1″ tablet_text_alignment=”default” phone_text_alignment=”default” column_border_width=”none” column_border_style=”solid”][vc_column_text][\/vc_column_text][\/vc_column][\/vc_row]\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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He told us, his students,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-258","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-10-18"},"yoast_head":"\nLiz Argento \u201912 - Elie Wiesel | Eckerd College<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.eckerd.edu\/wiesel\/2017\/06\/02\/liz-argento-12\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Liz Argento \u201912\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"[vc_row type=”in_container” full_screen_row_position=”middle” scene_position=”center” text_color=”dark” text_align=”left” overlay_strength=”0.3″][vc_column column_padding=”no-extra-padding” column_padding_position=”all” background_color_opacity=”1″ background_hover_color_opacity=”1″ column_shadow=”none” width=”1\/1″ tablet_text_alignment=”default” phone_text_alignment=”default” column_border_width=”none” column_border_style=”solid”][vc_column_text] The Witness \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0For Elie Wiesel He wanted us to know and he wanted us to never know. 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