the_sapling ovenbird This book by Marc Bendavid is not fiction or memoir or autobiography, but occupies the liminal space of autofiction, in which there is no way at all to separate truth from imagination. This upsets people. They want to know what is TRUE, but I would argue that objective truth is elusive at best. And, in the end, I don’t care how this book is categorized. It shook me. It’s a story that explores a “chimerical” love and so the structural framework that has the head of a memoir and the body of a novel is exactly the right thing to carry it. The book explores a relationship between an eleven year old boy, Marc, (ostensibly the author) and his forty-four year old teacher, a married mother, named Klara. It doesn’t at all go in the direction you might expect. This isn’t a story of trauma. There is no physical relationship between Marc and Klara. What does arise is a platonic friendship that reverberates through his entire life. One of the central questions is whether or not a profound connection between a child and an adult who are not family is automatically a transgression. Marc and Klara share a love of the natural world, a fascination with art and deep feeling, a sense of humour. We never learn anything concrete about how Klara experienced this relationship, but Marc finds a home in the heart of this woman who was four times his age when they met. For the two years she is his teacher they share an intimacy that extends beyond school. They see each other in other contexts, they talk on the phone, they write each other letters. Their contact diminishes once he goes to high school, but for the rest of Klara’s life she occupies a space in Marc’s life. He is shaped by her and by the closeness they share. The book asks, is this wrong? And in doing so it opens the door to examining all the ways we are allowed to love and not allowed to. The story struck me, in no small part, because I developed a close relationship with a teacher at the exact same age. In the sixth grade I was an awkward social misfit who would rather read than go out for recess. My teacher that year saw me as a real person. She SAW me, and she gave me the courage to continue being myself in a world that kept insisting I should be anything but. We are still friends to this day. We write letters twice a year. I visit whenever I’m back in Ontario. Sometimes we exchange emails and talk on the phone. Is this life-long intergenerational friendship that began when I was a child somehow wrong? I’ve never thought of it that way, but a quick look at the slew of reviews for The Sapling on Goodreads reveal deeply divided opinions. While some see Bendavid’s book as a beautiful example of love’s diverse and unexpected forms, others are adamant that the relationship between Marc and his teacher is creepy, inappropriate, and a blatant misuse of a power dynamic between a teacher and student. I found the story beautiful, complex, and nuanced. And it left me contemplating the severe limitations we place on love and its expression. I can think of multiple examples in my own life of love that might be deemed “wrong,” depending on the perspective of the person considering it. There are so many rules when it comes to love, and so many ways in which our hearts are not free to explore the extent of their ability to love and be in relationship with others. Klara gave Marc space to question social norms and the legitimacy of their shackles. I was struck by the following passage: — You were the first teacher to treat me like an adult: not like a person you might one day enjoy spending time with, but a person you already did enjoy spending time with. Our friendship, in all the ways it manifested, all the conversations and excursions and activities, said nothing more clearly than: Why not? What a potent message that was! Under your tutelage, every rule that shaped how I thought a person should be–every obstruction and hobble and behavioural norm that are the inheritance of every child–was subjected to a version of the same earnest question: Are you sure that’s a rule you want to follow? — I have asked myself this question. I continue to ask it. I let myself be transformed by the answer. 260406 what's it to you? who go blather from