Skip to main content

Memoir (Pre-K)

My first run-in with the law: pre-Kindergarten. Not the "law," but the teacher. I was talking when I was not meant to. I was sent to the "balance beam," which was like the "time-out corner." The other culprit joined me.

What's especially galling: I'm certain I wasn't the one doing the yapping. I'm certain it was slow-witted Jonathan, and I felt I had to engage him; I had to be nice. I should have stepped on his toes and hissed, "Listen, motherfucker: You'll get us in trouble." But: no. 

Otherwise, pre-K was not a challenging year. Mainly, I remember attaching popsicle sticks to a photo of myself. The sticks formed a kind of Depression-era picture frame, and then you'd smear shit around the perimeter. Glitter glue. Cotton balls. Finger paint. My teacher was a nervous, bird-like woman; her sorrow was written on her face. It was a small town, so, if you were the weirdo child I was, you'd quickly apprehend that your teacher's daughter had a life-threatening eating disorder, and her cancer-addled husband continuously--continuously!--found himself charged with DWI. This lady had problems. Now and then, she needed to send some undeserving kid to the balance beam. She was a friend of my mother's, and once she became anxious and over-zealous in her car; she kept honking and honking at us. My mother--not seeing the other driver--asked, "What is that person's problem?" and began waving her middle finger in the air. Then: mystery solved. Hilarity ensued.

Anyway, you can see the mess I was in. Chatty Kathy on one side; my nail-biting, unthinking teacher on the other. I guess, if I could revisit my early childhood years, I would opt to wear a kind of Frances McDormand mask on all occasions. I would be like Taylor Swift: "smarter and harder in the nick of time." If I had put Jonathan in his place, early on, he maybe would not have fucked with me down the road. One trick I've learned at work, to deter needy people I don't want to talk to, is to feign preoccupation. You can learn this on WikiHow. If a colleague approaches, and you'd rather not dive in, you just lower your eyes to your keyboard and type, type away. Type furiously. Do not look up. "What was that? I'll see what I can do." Stunned by your seriousness of purpose, the vagabond will wander away. It's astonishing how well this works, morning after morning after morning.

It took me only thirty-five years to learn the trick. And again I find myself thinking of Ms. Swift. "Life!" she has said. "It's just a classroom."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more