The following week there was a luxury charter bus idling in front of the Space and Fred and Simon ushering us into it. When we settled in, Fred stood in the front of the bus and said, “We are going to have a special class tonight—it’s a class outside of class. Remember, everything in School is for learning.”
We drove about an hour to northern Westchester County until we arrived at what appeared to be an old lodge hall, hidden down a long unpaved driveway, deep in the woods. It was dark and the leaves were already gone, giving the property a spooky feeling with moonlight streaming between the naked branches. The air was chillier there. We pulled up to the front door. Fred said, “You have all earned this class, and it will help us ‘cross an interval.’”
We exited the bus in a single file and walked straight into the lodge. A live band struck up, playing loud and fast country western music. We received a hero’s welcome from our sustainers (about twenty-five of them were there) who grabbed us to join them in a square dance. The entire lodge was decorated in a western theme. The sustainers were decked out in cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and bandannas. Extra bandannas were handed out to us. We square danced and afterward we mingled and had drinks. After months of being in the formal settings of a class, it was strange, wonderful to be socializing with each other, especially in such a festive way. We sat down for a feast of home-cooked BBQ, all prepared by our sustainers.5 This was a celebration of School, the Work, and mostly the deep friendships we were developing. Incredibly, it was a party that I couldn’t talk about with anyone not there. During dinner, Fred stood to speak. He said that it was a glorious evening, and he wanted us to “remember” the evening and feel “gratitude for what brings us together.”
After about six hours of partying, well past midnight, we were back on the bus, this time with many of our sustainers, and returned to the city. I woke up the next morning satisfied, light, happy, and easy; it was one the best nights I’d ever had with some of the most amazing people around.
But I sensed the pattern. One class could be inspiring, mesmerizing, glorious, and then the next one could be harsh, tumultuous, chaotic. The teachers could be warm, funny, and loving or testy and truculent. There was no telling what kind of class we were walking into, so we got used to walking on eggshells. The switch could happen within one class, on a dime. This was keeping us on our toes. Morton had explained it earlier—the Work and classes involve struggle. I came to see it this way. We all did. Struggle was a necessary part of this process of evolution and awakening. Additionally, harsh things could be said to someone, but it was almost always followed up by softer treatment, even praise or love—a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. And if you couldn’t take this way of learning, then School was not for you.
Struggle was part of it, and I accepted it, even began to embrace it. I was free to leave at any time. Nobody pressured me to stay in School. I wanted to be there.
That year’s Christmas Class was planned as a party in the Space, and we were to decorate it and prepare some hors d’oeuvres and drinks for the teachers and just our class. I volunteered to be the DJ. We met after class ended. Hazel asked me to show her the song list. When she saw “Over the Rainbow,” she turned to me and said accusingly, “That song shouldn’t have been included, Spencer. Fred told you it was a silly, sentimental song.” Up to now, Hazel had only spoken to me with respect and kindness. But she was making this up and I had no idea why. Fred never said a word to me about any songs. Her face twisted up as I explained her mistake. She lost it. She shrieked, stopping the sixty people in the room, “You’re lying, Spencer.” I stood there dumbfounded, speechless. I was pissed, but I’d seen this movie and knew how it ended. I wasn’t gonna win this. My thoughts raced back and forth. I racked my brain to try to remember when Fred said this—he hadn’t. But I wanted Hazel’s fit to stop more than I wanted to be right. But again, maybe she was right—her vehemence only seemed to buttress that possibility in my mind. And then there was her position of authority and her ability to “see me.” I couldn’t afford to anger her anymore, afraid of unknown repercussions. Then again, maybe I was lying to Hazel. I couldn’t think straight. Sixty people were silently watching.
So, I said it: “You’re right, Hazel. I remember now. I must have been asleep.” She relented. It was over. Hazel turned and hugged me. She congratulated me for “the breakthrough” to see what a liar “Spencer Schneider” is. (We referred to our given name to distinguish between our false self and our nameless real self.) So, it had become fact: I had lied. I thanked her again. But at the same time, a part of me was seething that I had made this false confession. The conflict was heightened by the fact that my classmates admired “my brave work” and they showered me with praise.
A few months later, in the spring of 1990, we were greeted on the street in front of the Space by a dozen sustainers. They walked us to the subway station on Canal and Broadway. We boarded a train, got out at the Sheepshead Bay stop, walked to the docks, boarded a chartered fishing boat, and spent the night fishing about ten miles out in the Atlantic Ocean. When the sun started to rise over the Atlantic Ocean, with the lit-up New York skyline in the north, we went up to the deck where speakers were set up blasting the Blue Danube waltz by Strauss. We took partners and waltzed for an hour until we docked. The gulls flying above, the smell of the water, the swaying of the boat, the waltzing, the best friends you could ever have, melding into one giant lovefest. This was another memorable and lovely evening, buried in the early years of my involvement with School.
5 A note about sustainers: they were students who had been in School longer (i.e., “older students”). Their class met on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and my class met on Monday and Wednesdays, although later we switched nights with them. Their class also had about sixty students, though not everyone in that class was a sustainer. The classes never mingled, and there were many students in School whom I never met. Teachers never discussed or even acknowledged the existence of the other classes even though it became clear after a couple of years that they existed. Including the Boston branch––which I learned of later in my tenure and which had about one hundred students–– there were approximately 250 students in School at any given time. Over the decades, there were probably a few thousand people who attended classes.