One of my favorite insults, ever.
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A little political levity.
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All posts by X Teri
A Few Words About Tom Cotton and Immigration
As you read these words, please remember that I’m a liberal, the kind that Tom Cotton would like to invite to Guantanamo Bay for an unplanned vacation.
Several days ago, I wrote about progressives failing to understand the fight about the Department of Education. Northwest Arkansas residents heard first-hand from Senator Tom Cotton last night that he still strongly desires to break the Dept. of Education. I’m certain that this will happen, absent a huge change in government in the next year.(Although, as one of my friends told Tom Cotton in the Town Hall last night, it’s difficult to trust the State of Arkansas to do the right thing, given we had to have the federal government come in with troops simply to integrate our schools.)
Today, I’d like to offer a few words about immigration, ones which will be music to conservative ears.
Tom Cotton has positioned himself to take over the work of Attorney General Jeff Sessions. Tom is staunchly conservative and will continue to carry the torch for conservatism in the senate. He has already sponsored immigration legislation under the Trump administration. I’m certain he will insist on strong immigration action in the next few years. He has connections in the military, congress, the intelligence community, and the new administration. He’s been clear about his views on almost all the immigration arguments. For him, they boil down to security and economy, which are two of the GOP’s most important themes.
Absent a miraculous bolt of lightning from the heavens, those who disagree with the GOP and Senator Cotton have a painful road of incremental losses ahead of them. Cotton wants to reduce legal immigration and to remove all undocumented foreigners, including Dreamers/DACA. He’s got a Harvard education and a head for logistics. He artfully argues away the statistics showing the benefits of a foreign workforce. In his mind, his views are justified and supported by his voters. Senator Cotton does not hold his views on immigration loosely or lightly – they define his worldview. Being reasonable won’t work to change his mind – but then again, neither will shouting at him.
I predict that some of the attempts to implement immigration action will be stymied by cost and the courts. Much of it, however, will pass scrutiny and occur to varying degrees. The courts will step out of the way once the administration sharpens its overly-broad attempts to shape policy.
Given that NWA has a large population of Latinos, I predict that Senator Cotton will use his pull in the administration to orchestrate one of the first waves of ICE sweeps in our corner of the state. It will not only serve his penchant for retribution for the ocean of protest he was handed last night, but it will be a cost-effective publicity-fueled way to kick off the effort.
In short, Senator Tom Cotton will use his considerable intelligence and pull to target the Springdale area first. Having observed him, I see that he knows trying to ease into such an effort will cause a greater resistance effort than simply striking hard and first where much of the resistance has grown.
As satisfying as it was last night to see Senator Cotton be told the harsh realities of those he disagrees with, I can see the coming backlash already forming.
We can’t rely on public sentiment to dissuade such an effort. The truth is that many citizens want absolute control of our borders and of who is allowed to stay here. We have underestimated the sentiment of branding undocumented foreigners as criminals who should suffer the consequences of being here without permission. Most will not join the shouts of protest as people we know are dragged away. It’s a hard thing to say, but I can see it coming.
Tom Cotton is going to be that firebrand who will not be afraid to step into the fight and deliver action. We can angrily thank Donald Trump for liberating people like Senator Cotton.
I can see all these things because although I disagree with much of Tom Cotton’s agenda, he has consistently held firm to his ideals as the country has shifted to meet him in the middle. Just as we looked away for a moment as the country elected Donald John Trump, I am certain that we’ve also looked away just long enough to miss the subtle change in commitment from the GOP to finally take decisive immigration action.
We are going to suffer and it is best if we prepare for it.
Pictures, Not Words
The Day the Dept. of Education Died…
One post of mine many Republicans will love reading:
For those of you who don’t follow other bubbles, it has long been the desire of many conservatives to abolish the Department of Education in entirety. If we continue on the trajectory of a Republican-controlled U.S. Congress and statehouses, the Dept. of Education will cease to exist. The abolition of the Dept. of Education doesn’t necessitate the adoption of a worse system – but it does hasten a total change in structure and attitude from everyone in the United States. It’s already started in earnest, whether we are paying attention in class or not. In Arkansas, most of us voted Republican. We gave them their voice and power. Those votes will continue to pay dividends toward their agenda. (I say ‘we,’ but please note that I’m a dirty, low-down, self-described degenerate liberal.)
I am not writing this because I agree with a state-centered system of education nor with the extinction of the Dept. of Education, as I think it’s the wrong course for our country. Unlike so many other progressives, though, I saw this fight coming from a long way off, and had already heard the bell indicating our defeat, even before the election of Trump.
I’m writing to tell you that it is inevitable.
We’ve abdicated our ability to continue with a progressive system we all know and handed that responsibility to the Republicans across the nation who had their eye on the goal longer and with greater zeal. The Republicans mobilized and by whatever means at their disposal, changed the games and the rules to achieve their goal, one of them being the eradication of the Dept. of Education. With control of most of the state legislatures, too, they are going to control the narrative of education for the foreseeable future. Because they control the House, they have a bigger say in funding. We’ll have vouchers and many of the things which educational experts howl into the night about.
We can fight and squabble, but the educational system to which we’ve become accustomed is going to morph into something else. What ‘that’ might be is dependent on a huge cascade of politics, money, and interests. Whatever emerges is going to be much more scaled. Those we elect to our state offices will have most of the say in what used to be a federally-supervised issue. That either elates or frightens you.
Betsy DeVos qualifications or lack thereof are almost a negligible concern for conservatives. Her appointment solidifies their cry toward a decentralized educational system. I’ve seen it coming, listening to the echoes of what once was the Tea Party. They’ve been consistent, whereas the progressives have not.
The Republicans did a better job at capitalizing on the system. Voting Republican yielded the intended result for Republicans. A decentralized educational system is just one of those important cornerstones, with Betsy Devos being a skirmish, rather than the actual fight.
A Passing Eulogy For the Day
A eulogy written in passing for the day: I dreamed of a time when snowfall carried no possible menace and the idea of depthless anger seemed like nothing more than a childhood fantasy. And now that I’m older, I see too often that it is me who contains both the menace and the ire and I wonder by what fundamental and incremental shift the world changed me. Few of us willingly opened the door to these visitors and yet many of us still sit by the fire with these uninvited guests, our faces false and without indication of our betrayal.
Insert Badly-Titled Title Here…
It’s easy to see who values the internal mechanisms of one’s life. On social media, I write many introspective or narrative pieces. They glide past the superficial and lay bare parts of me. The people who know me best and appreciate me for who I am invariably read or participate in those discussions. Yes, I know that some of my posts are lengthy – but so are conversations and shared experiences. I don’t expect people to clamor to show up at my house each Friday evening; likewise, I don’t anticipate each friend deliberately using his or her limited time to come find my posts and inhale them, either.
If I were to construct a Venn diagram of introspective narratives versus superficial posts, there is almost no overlap for several of my social media friends. It’s not a question of time involvement, either, as demonstrated by participation on other equally engaging timelines or interests. I’m obviously not including those without social media or those who never participate in time-intensive engagement.
This is a sign that I’m being monitored by some friends instead of appreciated.
This isn’t a call for “look at me;” rather, it is a reminder that social media provides a multitude of windows into our friend’s lives. Like our lives, the totality of interaction and value leaves a wake behind it. An observant person can’t help but to draw inferences from those signs. It’s true that some inferences are wrong, mainly because we jump to conclusions without direct connections based on the evidence. But we have our personal instincts which usually serve to point us in the right direction.
A sociologist who loves these trends and studies them tells me that this a trend which affects the frequency of people’s posts, as well as the depth of what they share of their personal life. It’s like the son who is gay who calls his mom and she chooses to discuss the banal stories about work instead of the son’s intense desire to adopt a child in opposition to social forces. Or if someone personally writes about his or her dislike of social policy and only those motivated by the desire to tell him how wrong he is opt to comment. If people are arguing with you about social policy, it tends to indicate they don’t agree with a lot you are doing or saying about your personal life, either, as obvious a statement as that might be. It’s a tough sell to get people to see this nuance about sharing and interacting.
If friends comment on your superficial posts but mostly ignore what you have to say when you’re sharing parts of yourself, they aren’t really interested or invested in you as a person. It is more likely that are self-validating, which is a very human reaction. It’s just each of us must decide to what degree we are comfortable with this. Even with this point, I have to make an exception for those who have larger followings of those interested in them solely for a specific topic.
It would never occur to me to comment or interact on superficial or political posts if I consistently ignore the personal ones. I’m doing a poor job explaining exactly why this seems indecorous to me, though.
My experience tells me that if you aren’t unilaterally participating with the range of my posts, you aren’t really that interested in me or my life.
There are exceptions to the above, of course, and always, I haven’t expertly fleshed out my argument.
Random Things
“Kiss My Rebuttal” was the initial design theme of this picture. Feverish inclinations sent me on a detour.
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Groundhog Day reminder!
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I made this picture for a friend, who discovered that a Facebook friend had passed away unbeknownst to anyone. People are important to us for a variety of reasons – and ideas often transcend the concrete and earth which separate us.
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I just did 6 blocks of cardio, too. The police officer picked a bad day to wear dress shoes. Edit: so the stereo was technically free.
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Moments of perplexity: entering a women’s health center/delivery center to see that “Deliverance” is the movie someone chose to play on the fiendishly large LCD tv directly inside the main entrance. I’m not sure what message they are sending but I prefer to avoid the role of Ned Beatty this morning.
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Trying to keep up with all the new memes is tough on an older person. The version I made, above, is for someone I know.
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Sometimes the best trips are imaginary – and result in the best memories.
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Posting for a friend: I’m going to market a car that comes off the assembly line with fake scratches and cracks on it. Hopefully, this will guarantee the absence of any further first-world-problem “My new car got a scratch!” posts. Because, really? We LOVE seeing pictures after your new vehicle rolled down the gulley into an a pit full of sharp iron spikes.
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Advisory: political humor…PBS announced a new program to combat the new administration’s assault on the funded arts. I sent this in as an example of the kind of programming content that I could contribute for the Math / Geometry department. Free of charge.
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I was one of the first to make a slew of images of Trump holding his executive orders up for the camera. But I’m the first the admit that the internet made hundreds that were more sublime than mine.
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A Lesson in “Taking Care”
Recently I briefly wrote about an English teacher who trusted me with his original novel. His name was Harold McDuffie, an unassuming-looking man with what I would call a policeman’s mustache. While his teaching style was dry, I could see that he appreciated literature. His love for words didn’t translate well, not in terms of enthusiasm or charisma. I think in part this might be because high school students weren’t his ideal audience. These opinions are all mine, of course. For all I know, he might have anticipated each day to interact with young people. Works by Melville or Faulkner, however, tended to be at the bottom of the playlist for the average high school student.
One day, without much fanfare, Mr. McDuffie stopped me and asked me if I would be interested in reading a novel he had written. He warned me that it had some mature content and that I needed to be careful with that aspect of it. I think he knew that my home life had exposed me to things beyond the contents of his novel, but he was smart enough to know that it was a risk, one that I would not expose him to. I was flabbergasted and honored. Reading the words someone chooses to put on paper inevitably lets us get to know them better and connects the mechanics of translating ideas to words and content.
After I wrote a lengthy interpretation of a book, Mr. McDuffie had asked me why I had not shortened my homework. I told him that I thought writing was easy. All one has to do is to put pen to paper and not stop. (Later, Steve Martin stole my idea for the New Yorker and one of his books.) “What about the mistakes?” Mr. McDuffie asked. “There aren’t any if you refuse to see them that way.” It turns out this is a common life theme for many of us.
Later, he brought in a printer’s box full of several hundred linen sheets of paper. I had never held an original unpublished work before, and the effect was mesmerizing. The title of the book was “Taking Care,” and the main character’s name was Budd Clevenger. The plot involved a drunk-driving death and the cycle of vengeance that followed. Drunk driving was a topic woven all through my childhood: my father had killed a cousin of mine while drunk, I had been in a few accidents involving alcohol, and my parents had each been rewarded with multiple DWIs. They were also involved in the DWI “fixing” scandal that sent a notable lawyer to prison.
As many things as I’ve forgotten, I will always remember the excitement of taking the novel home, opening the box, and starting on page one with the inside cover sheet. I had to carefully pick out each sheet, read it, and lay it face down on the other side of the box. Despite the book’s length, I read it in one evening. One thing about the novel that caught me was that it was one which took place in Northwest Arkansas, traversing places I might have known.
Even as a work of fiction, Mr. McDuffie did as so many authors had done before him: he secreted away little slices of himself into his novel. While I had no way to know which pieces might be fiction and which might be the truth, it opened my eyes to him as a real person struggling with the same life issues that everyone else had. He was a descriptive and gifted writer.
Over the years, I have done deep web searches to see if McDuffie’s novel ever made it to the shelves or to a screenplay adaptation. His book deserved such a chance. While it was no work by Faulkner, it was worthy of being shared and read; because it wasn’t Faulkner, though, it would have appealed to a broader range of interested readers.
That I remember the title of the book and so much about it should indicate the level of attention I gave to the novel. While I read many books in Mr. McDuffie’s class, I read those with a casual indifference granted to schoolwork; as for his original, unpublished novel, I gave it the reverence it deserved. It would have been sinful to have not shown appreciation for the gift of sharing that my English teacher granted me.
Beyond the act of sharing the book, he shared a moment with me. It turns out to be one which lingers. Thanks, Mr. McDuffie.
(PS: I also have some stories about good and strange times I had in his wife’s classes, too)
That’s Still Not My Name…
As you read this, give me the benefit of the doubt, just as I strive to do as often as possible. I’ve got the respiratory crud and my usual sweet temperament leans toward riotous today. The errors are all mine, as always, especially since I’m both increasingly blind and lazy about proofreading.
I’ve shared a volume of stories about my past, about my birth name, and about the process I used to change my name and I how I chose it. I hammered a large nail in the coffin of my previous life when I changed my name. I got a whole new set of documents to go with the rejection of my former life, including a new birth certificate, passport, driver’s license, and school records. (No, I wasn’t actually in Witness Protection, although I’ve told a lot of people that one.) I haven’t always handled well those who used my old name like a dagger; overall, however, I’m confident I gave most of them more benefit of the doubt than they deserved. Had I to do it all over again, I would’ve adopted the final season Walter White persona to deal with them. Much of the nastiness leveled against me made for great stories. I can’t have those stories without having been on the receiving end of the behavior – life provides stories most often when things don’t go well, as you know. Sharing those stories put the spotlight on those very people who hated being illuminated.
PS: (1) Due to the Malcolm X movie in 1992, I literally got a truckload of free merchandise with my new name on it: shoes, socks, shorts, gym bags and at least 50 t-shirts. (2) When the radio station 104.9 The X came online, I had a lot of fun, too, and another round of free stuff. (3) I landed on the no-fly list for a while, just as much for my crazy politics as my name. (4) For a couple of years, I lived in Apartment X, which confused EVERYONE who thought it was a joke. (The complex of 4-unit duplexes used letters in lieu of numbers on their units.) Changing my name resulted in several great stories, a more interesting life, and a better outlook for me. My name in and of itself announced to all to stop expecting someone normal to be the face associated with the name; many thought I was black or a member of the Nation of Islam. (If it made for good fun, I would encourage such erroneous conclusions). I’m sure that my name closed a few doors to me as well, to be honest, but those doors were not ones I was particularly interested in anyway.
At least I didn’t have a large leg/arm/neck/face tattoo to startle people. I guess I could have put a large “X” on my forehead like Charles Manson did. I embraced my weirdness and if I could repeat those steps, I’m afraid I would have embraced weirdness earlier and with much more aggressive creativity. Most of the truly happy people I know somehow learned to disconnect the fuse that connects their self-worth to the outside world and the judgment which accompanies it.
The common element that flows through it all is that my birth name was and is a symbol of abuse and ignorance. As young as I was when I opted to change my name, I waited too long. While I came to a place of acceptance about my dad, I never once enjoyed my birth name or the thought that I shared such a bond with a person who demonstrated such brutality. It’s not within my ability to convince you that it was the right thing for me to do; it was the only thing that got me past the lingering nonsense of my youth. Absent a childhood and story similar to mine, you can’t bridge that gap without losing something in translation.
If you can imagine having a name that you loathed, one that caused you to cringe or want to hide away in a dark corner each time you heard it, or one that causes actual pain, that’s the feeling elicited by the name my parents threw on me.
I’ve been X for way more than 1/2 of my life now. I rarely see my old name and hear it even less. And when I hear it, it’s because I am probably back in the cradle of the indifference and passive-aggressive hostility that spawned me. I alternate between irritation of those who ignorantly insist on using it and pity for the lack of understanding on their part. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. The decades that have shot by should have eradicated any reasonable attempt to use my old name.
It is obvious that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time explaining to people why I hated my name and that it is the equivalent of verbal ammunition when used against me. I can’t force people to be good, compassionate considerate people; only they can lead themselves to that course of action.
As for my family, time has marched past most of them, leaving me to fend off a few stragglers. As they age, their logic weakens and their actions belie the prejudice toward me that failed to conceal their contempt for me and my choices. I mostly chose the person I became, while they became victimized by their own pettiness. I suffer the infrequent flare-up of derision. Now, though, I am adept at using the tools in the family toolbox to hold a mirror to such ignorance. It is true that much of our shared time was wasted arguing about something that was not for them to decide. I tried to get them to see that but haughtiness and arrogance held them to their attitudes.
I also have a couple of people who lash out in my defense at those who still want to be asses about my name change. My wife is one of them. She knew me when I was young and still had my birth name. It angers her that people can be so petty. There are times when I almost fail to notice or worse, don’t have the energy to pick up the battle-ax and fight on a particular day.
Here’s a list of acceptable reasons to call me by my birth name. This list is one a friend objectively and half-jokingly wrote for me:
1) You don’t like me and using my old name is a means to backhandedly express it.
2) You haven’t seen me in forever and your brain used its old pathways. No harm!
3) You are writing my biography and your mind slipped for a second. No harm!
4) You don’t like my name and you think that using my old name somehow not only negates my life choices but also allows you to use it without coming off a little mean-spirited.
5) You just forgot accidentally, which can happen to anyone. No harm!
As always, though, the cardinal rule is this: if you are asked to stop doing it and don’t, it’s not a failure to communicate; rather, it is a failure to emancipate – to let everyone be who they are.
Regards, X
…Unfondly Remembered
A personal story. It’s not an accusation – it’s just a few words that I’ve had in outline form for a long time. I’m tired of seeing the draft go through various digital incarnations, from Lotus to Word.doc to Word.docx. I’m pushing it out the door, taking away its leftover power. The errors are all mine, embraced and sent out into the world.
I’m writing this, neither to spoil the legacy of someone who others hold dear, nor to complain about sunsets long past, but to remind people that sometimes we know different versions of the same person. Words of praise are deeply worthwhile; sometimes, though, words conveying truth that all might not embrace are equally important. My little story will have no lasting impact on anyone who had a different experience. People can say they had a different experience but not that they disagree with me, because the words herein are true and these experiences are mine to share.
After high school, I wrote letters to all the teachers who I thought were deserving of a kind note or word. There were many. Many of you who know me have read some of my individual words of praise. I’ve written a lot of them to the dear people in my life before they’ve passed, so that they can be warmed by knowing that someone remembers them and cherishes that part of our lives that overlapped.
For me, Mrs. Creighton was not someone I admired. I tried to like her, to look past her scowl and directness. After a few interactions, though, I discovered that I wasn’t imagining things and that she simply did not like me – and for no reason I could discern. I was mostly a quiet student, usually scared and frightened by life, and didn’t give her a reason to lash out at me. Maybe if I had known her when her teaching career was younger or if she had simply voiced aloud why she detested me immediately, maybe then I would have had an opportunity to understand her.
Before taking her class, I had heard the rumors. I had also heard all the larger-than-life stories about her, of her military background, of her personal eccentricities. I went in prepared to pay attention and stay off her radar. (Please note that I am paraphrasing words in my story. They aren’t exact quotes but the content and feelings elicited are accurate.)
After one of the first assignments in her class, one in which I poured myself and creativity into over 5 extra pages of writing, she responded with this: “C student. Some are not destined to extend their reach. Quantity doesn’t replace talent.” She had only red-lined two words out of the entire body of my assignment. The girl on the right of me had a paper that looked like a chicken has scratched it for an hour. She had a large “B” across the top of her paper, however. When Mrs. Creighton had announced the assignment, I was one of the few in class who didn’t dread it. Writing was easy for me. Maybe not grammar or syntax, but the act of writing was effortless and I tended to write something each day. I was stunned by the C grade, especially given the extra writing I had done. But the words justifying the grade punched me directly where I lived. They seemed irresponsible, almost hateful, coming from a teacher.
I reluctantly waited after class and asked her what I could do to not be on her bad side. She laughed a staccato burst as she so often did and said, “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do. Now run along,” waving her arm dismissively toward the door.
As quiet as I was, I told her that it was unacceptable for her to give me a “C,” and not just because I was afraid to get a lesser grade. I told her that if I couldn’t stop her from disliking me even though I had never interacted with her that I could object to her grading my assignments with an unequal eye compared to my classmates.
“I don’t take kindly to threats, young man, and if you persist you’ll find yourself in the principal’s office explaining your behavior.” She stood up from her desk as she said it.
To which I replied, “If I’m going to the principal’s office for some personal reason on your part, I might as well have him take a look at my work. And if you think you scare me, I’ll tell you stories about my dad.”
“The grade will not be modified. Now please leave.” She once again pointed to the door. I left, shaking my head at the idea I was going to endure a semester of that sort of treatment.
I should point out that I wasn’t afraid of getting a bad grade to make a point. While my final GPA was about 3.6 (when 4 was the highest possible), for example, I deliberately flunked trigonometry in my senior year, after getting over 100% in a previous semester in Geometry. My problem is that Mrs. Creighton needlessly used her words to squash me. Had she given me a “C” without comment, I would have been perplexed, but would have never said a word to her. My personal life had beaten into me the idiocy of expecting fairness; she was simply another example.
I was a voracious reader, writer, and loved the power of words. She gave me one assignment that I simply didn’t understand. I told her that I honestly just wasn’t getting it and needed guidance. With the iciest of looks, she told me, “I can’t make you understand. Read the instructions again.”
Toward the end of my term with Mrs. Creighton, my dad had punched me in the face after coming home drunk and finding me practicing my French horn for band. It always angered him that I loved band. He hadn’t warned me or said a word to me. He simply sat the bottle of whatever whiskey he was drinking on the table and punched me while I was playing. I dropped the horn, which was school-owned, and I fell to the floor. Luckily, my dad had drunkenly misjudged and his fist had hit me on the outside of my right eye. By the next morning, the black eye was mostly confined to that side of my eye, although my ear was still ringing and my face was sore. I got a pair of broken sunglasses that had belonged to my brother and wore them to school. I put them on in each class to cover the dark smudge on the side of my eye. I had never covered such bruising or signs before, not really. Dad was usually very careful to conceal his brutality, a habit I learned later that most abusers share in common.
When Mrs. Creighton came in to the classroom, I had forgotten to take the glasses off. She shrieked at me in front of the entire class. “Take those foolish glasses off now! You are no Tom Cruise by the stretch of anyone’s imagination!”
After class, I approached her desk to apologize.
“Don’t apologize to me. You know the rules.” I pointed at my eye and said, “My dad sucker-punched me when he came home drunk, Mrs. Creighton.” She held up a hand to stop me. “Perhaps if you’d behave your father wouldn’t see the need to discipline you.”
It was that moment when I knew that her heart was stone to me.
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I took being tardy seriously when I was in school. One day, I had walked back across campus to return a personal book a teacher had loaned me. Mrs. Creighton had semi-shouted from quite a distance down the hallway “Where do you think you are heading?” I heard her but didn’t turn, because I couldn’t imagine she was addressing me.
“Mister, I asked you where you are heading?” Something in her voice caught my attention.
I turned and politely said, “Back to the band hall.” I wasn’t being snarky, funny, or impolite. I was just answering her question. I kept walking.
“Stop!” Mrs. Creighton seemed miffed at this point. “Are you trying to be humorous? If so, you are failing.”
“Just answering your question. Another teacher loaned me a personal book of hers and I just returned it. I have no class now, so I’m not tardy, and am going to go practice in the band room.” I answered without any rancor, as I wasn’t in the mood to get into any trouble.
“Next time, don’t be in the halls after the bell rings.” It was a command.
“Thanks, the bell hasn’t sounded yet, though.” I said and turned to get away from her.
“Did you hear and understand what I said?” Mrs. Creighton had decided that I was being impertinent, if the icicles hanging in the air were any indication.
“I understand where you are coming from, yes.” She knew the deeper intent of what I had said.
I saluted her and walked off, putting her dislike of me out of my mind. I expected to be hit on the head by a thrown object or to hear a screaming demanding that I stop again.
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PS: The book I’m talking about in the scene in the hallway, that novel was loaned to me by the teacher who had written it. It was an unpublished novel with mature content. He had trusted me enough to want to share it with me, to see how much work goes into writing a well-crafted book. And I had read his book, turning the unbound printer’s copy of his book one sheet at a time as I read them. His goal was to always remind me that grammar could be learned but creativity and inspiration were things that had to be nurtured. He encouraged me to stop worrying so much about the process and instead develop the habit and love of reading and writing. I read his book at home, getting a glimpse of his mind, and of another world of possibilities. The example of my other teacher who had authored a book and shared it with me to encourage whatever hope or ambition I might have- his example is a testament to what a teacher can and should strive for. I was the same student, the same person in each teacher’s class. In one, I was a waste of time and nuisance. In the other teacher’s classroom, I was a nascent mind needing some guidance. (Sidenote: the subject of the teacher’s novel involved the consequences of a man drinking and driving, which is a strange coincidence when aligned with my life.) I remember Mrs. Creighton being so mean in the hallway precisely because I felt a little magical, being trusted enough to have the printer’s copy of an author’s book in my hands.
But, through the years, I read kind words offered by ex-students of Mrs. Creighton and think of her. I wish I could recall her brusqueness with warmth; instead, I picture the look of scorn on her face when she interacted with me. Whatever caused her to dislike me before she knew me was obviously something outside of my control. Perhaps she saw someone she once knew in my eyes or thought I was someone I was not. After her passing, I discovered that her anger wasn’t a secret, just as much as her wry sense of humor. I felt a little vindicated that others shared on the receiving end of her sharp tongue. Whatever demon that possessed Mrs. Creighton to be so angry toward me luckily was one she didn’t apply to many students. It lifted a little of my burden to know that I hadn’t been crazy – that she had disliked me without cause and the burden of ‘why’ was entirely on her shoulders.
You might ask, “But what good does it do to share criticism of her now?” Firstly, because I am still here and it’s my story to tell. Each of us navigates through life and leaves a history in our wake. Not all of it is to be admired and the stories might not be ones we’d like to be recalled after we’re gone.
That might be the point of it all, though. We are the sum total of our moments. There are so many I’ve forgotten, even important ones. Whatever my motivation, this story is mine to share, just as it is for those who had a different experience.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 