Memoir (Grade Four)

I remember very clearly fourth grade--sitting with Dan Sass and Cory Rinow, who would not, would not, listen in science class. (Dan Sass would grow to become my frenemy. Years later, in seventh grade, I cultivated a crush on my fellow clarinetist, Ashley Churder, maybe as a way of hiding my budding homosexuality. I think I didn't really want to kiss Ashley Churder, with her floral tops and her generous smile; I think I just wanted to *be* Ashley Churder. Anyway, I went around whispering the news of my crush, and Dan Sass actually relayed the news directly to Ashley, in the middle of Mrs. Carnduff's intro to algebra. Dan Sass. "Sass"--you couldn't make this stuff up. Stranger than fiction. He was weirdly tall--around nine feet, in my memory--and maybe his height made him feel entitled to act as a bully. The fact that he shared my first name makes me think of him as a bizarro version of myself--my malicious doppelganger, my Mr. Hyde. Ashley didn't mind that I had a crush. She took the news--as she took everything--in stride. We went along on field trips to Toronto, to see "Phantom of the Opera" and "Showboat." There was no greater thrill in the world.)

Back to grade four. We had to absorb many, many facts about electricity--an intimidating, daunting subject. Anodes. Cathodes. Closed and open circuits. Conductors and insulators. "Electromagnetic"--an adjective that, even today, makes my blood pressure climb. Our teacher was a revered local figure and he was in his early eighties, but maybe he wasn't as great as everyone said. Or maybe his energy was flagging. In any case, he couldn't hold my attention; he couldn't grab Dan Sass or Cory Rinow. While he'd yap about fuse switches, the three of us would giggle. There had been a commercial for a touring production of "A Chorus Line," recently, and we changed the words. We would sing quietly, feverishly: "One! Singular Sensation! One! MUCHO MASTURBATION!" I doubt any one of the three of us knew what "masturbation" was, but we knew it was silly and filthy, and so we just laughed and laughed at our own cleverness.

(I *do* recall--vividly--discovering what masturbation was, sometime in mid-eighth grade. We had an ambitious English teacher who really, really wanted us to understand everything about the Holocaust, so we spent a great deal of time on the Broadway adaptation of Anne Frank's diary, and on searching for light/shadow imagery in Elie Wiesel's "Night." One evening, back home, I rubbed myself to distraction--and I thought, this is so wonderful, it must obviously be very, very wrong. And I vowed to do it only on Wednesdays--a rule that never actually stayed in place. What a guilt-ridden, self-flagellating, self-deluded fool I was! I wonder how much I have really changed.)

The results from the electricity test came back. My teacher used an idiosyncratic grading system--this was part of the legend that surrounded him--and so a great performance was "FR" (first-rate), while a shitty effort merited a bitchy, passive-aggressive "F" (fair). I scored an F-, and sometimes, these days, when my hair isn't behaving, I think of Mr. Scholl and imagine that I'm having an F- day. The grade did not motivate me to learn new facts about electricity. I still get tense when you come at me with questions about ions. I learned nothing from my failure and my shame, but I remember that fourth grade wasn't entirely bad. We dressed as tin soldiers and belted out a barbershop-quartet number during Advent--fabulous! And at some point, we toured a local bread factory to see how pita was made. And so, buffeted by winds of change, we went about our lives.

I've lost touch with Dan and Cory, but: Hello to you two, wherever you are. You weren't always very nice to me. When would I snap out of it? When would I learn?

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

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