In sixth grade I was considered dumb. In fact, I was considered dumb throughout my school years, starting in grade school when I was placed in a program for slow kids dubbed, “chapter one.” Then, while not in school, I was re-hashing times tables with Hooked on Phonics, sounding out s-i-l-e-n-t with the overseer of a disappointed mother. Her disappointment didn’t run deep though because she had my brother, who, with a mere nod, could recite all fifty states and every American president, alphabetically. When he was four. I never forgot my brother’s intellectual feats or my mother’s gleaming eyes when she would say, “he could be on jeopardy, he really could!” Hence my brother was declared to have book smarts and I, street smarts. Years later I found out having street smarts meant being a C student. Which, by the time I finished fifth grade, was exactly what I was.
I like to think the first time I entered West Middle was, in turn, my entry into the restive world of adolescence. It was in this school I met Mrs. Abbot, one of my sixth grade teachers and architect of my worst memory. She had a thick, blocklike frame made not less or more obvious by her billowing muumuus of calico print, polka dots, and gold sequins. Now, she reminds me of one of those birds on Animal Planet with a beautiful coat of feathers used to lure bedazzled prey. I won’t say I was bedazzled by her, but the prey part is definitely right, because it was in her class, my class, history, that I became her score keeper.
It was ritual that the day before a test we would review. This re-examination happened to come in the form of an interactive game of historical jeopardy. The irony. The game wasn’t horrible, and sometimes I even knew some answers. However this day was different. In the beginning of class when students were still animatedly chatting with one another, Mrs. Abbot walked over to me and posed a question that would, inexorably, change my life forever.
“Lacey, do you want to be score keeper?” I recall my body heating up at the thought, my fear taking root and growing as quickly as I uttered my answer.
“Okay.” Looking back I’m sure I could have said no, but at twelve, it was so instinctual to do what my teacher, or any adult asked, and although it was a question, I knew I was expected to say “yes.” Everyone wanted to be score keeper; it meant you got a piece of candy when the game ended, along with the table of winners. But being score keeper also meant standing in front of the class for the entire period, erasing numbers, and keeping a tally of points for each table. The idea of being in the limelight choked me with panic. It was the responsibility of the task that was so horrifying, and I mean that. I was horrified.
I walked to the board, and took a marker and began writing: group one, group two and so on. The class gradually hushed, a decrescendo that turned into silence. All that could be heard, at least for me, were the staccato squeaks of my marker and the subtle whines and groans of the chairs as students fidgeted. Then, Mrs. Abbot spoke. She assigned groups, and told table one to begin. I knew I had to turn around. So I did.
Today, I really have to wonder if my classmates could see the terror etched on my face, and my quivering hands. If there was ever a moment in my life deemed worthy enough to utter Conrad’s “the horror, the horror,” this would have been it. The class was a mix of colors and familiar faces, people I saw almost everyday, but at that moment they could have been monsters. I looked to Mrs. Abbot and back to group one and realized this was the part where I erase 200. My body shook and I erased the wrong number. I shook more and erased the right number. I can’t recollect all my blunders, they seem to merge together in a great mosaic of terror and error. I know I mixed the group numbers up, assigned points to the wrong team, erased numbers in the wrong categories and dropped the marker enough times to warrant a response from Mrs. Abbot. Although most of the forty five minutes of historical jeopardy passed in a blurry haze of humiliation, I remember what happened next so clearly, that I’m in awe it happened over eight years ago.
“Lacey, what’s wrong with you?”
Her words were shouted, and I was dimly aware, no pun intended, that this was one of those unanswerable questions people asked in either wonder, or to make a point. I had heard this question before, heard it for different reasons and in different tones, but the meaning was the same, and just as accusatory. What’s wrong with you?
I stood, marker in hand, staring at Mrs. Abbot and the rest of my class that had fallen silent. The silence was unpunctuated with even a whisper, and all the faces were blank, a wall of complete submissiveness. They were all waiting for what Mrs. Abbot would do, just like me. They weren’t monsters after all.
Mrs. Abbot went on to describe how I should have the tables memorized by now, because there were only five, and being score keeper really wasn’t that hard. I stayed quiet while she went on, and when she was done I continued my duty, moving as if I were running the mile and on the last lap, trudging along to the finish line, imagining the bliss of just stopping. She told me to count the points, and I was surprised because that was something she usually did, but not that day. I don’t think I want to know why. I, of course, messed it up, then fixed it, and quite suddenly, was done. I was finished. A winner was declared and they received their candy. The classroom was noisy again.
I sat down and smiled at anyone I happened to look at, as if to show I was unaffected, even agreeing with Mrs. Abbot’s sentiments that I was indeed, stupid. Then, to my surprise and immediate fear, Mrs. Abbot walked over to me, much like she did in the beginning of class, but this time she held out a piece of candy. She seemed hesitant to give it, and looked at me with dark brown eyes.
“Here,” she said, and I took the candy. I looked into her eyes, unsure, and smiled, saying thank you before she walked away. Maybe the years have added cynicism to this moment, but I’m sure it was contempt I saw in her face. I stared at my chocolate treat, and the guilt came. The truth was that I felt I didn’t deserve my small reward and when I swallowed my miniature almond Hershey bar, I swallowed my shame as well.
To accent that point, a boy walked over to me while students left for the next class, and stopped in front of my desk. It was a popular boy, so of course I was immediately alert and impressed. He looked down on me as I sat gazing up into his tentative face, and then said in a fairly matter of fact way, “You were pretty bad. You don’t really deserve your candy.”
I paused, heat filling me like I’d received a shot of radiation and I said, “I know.” He walked away, as if he had performed an obligation, exercised a responsibility, and left the room. I looked at my reflection in the glossy surface of the black table and two things happened.
1. I never liked that boy again despite how much others did (although everyone ended up calling him a douchebag in high school), and
2. I became angry.
Mrs. Abbot’s question played over in my mind and I knew that it wasn’t right. What she did. What the boy did. Since I was twelve I lacked the ability to realize that I wasn’t stupid, just shy and nervous. I could never foresee either how well I would remember this event. Not that most people usually know which things will stick while they’re still happening. They don’t know until they’re older, when they’re beginning to realize that life passes by like an Amtrack.
I don’t know all the American presidents and frankly I think I speak for quite a few, and I still can’t list all the states, and definitely not in alphabetical order. I will say I can count to twelve flawlessly. But that’s really not the point, the point is that whenever someone asked what was wrong with me, it was because I made a mistake or wasn’t measuring up to a standard people set, and you can’t. You can’t measure up in everything, and there’s a lot I couldn’t do, still can’t do today. Yet if you add up all those wrong things, my errors, faults and memories of their outcomes, something happens. Something I never could have guessed at twelve, but was so essential to growing up: I became me. Sounds a little hokey, but it’s true. I can’t imagine my life without Mrs. Abbott. So honestly, and I have to say this, I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful, so completely grateful, to have something wrong with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment