McBeth.
There was a time, and it wasn't so long ago, that I could be very quiet. I kept most of my thoughts to myself, I stepped outside of critical conversation, I ducked. Afraid, I suppose. I'm not certain what my fear was about though. I remember my very young years in school, lining up to walk sing-file to the gymnasium or the lunchroom or on the occasional field trip.
Most of my teachers kept order in the classroom by using the "You're Special!" laminated name tags on a weekly chart, giving multiple children opportunities to shine by getting to be the leader of tasks. I have a feeling Pat Purcell (the nose-picker and otherwise most twitchy kid in the class) was a special special person so he frequently showed up as leader of one category or another, but otherwise my teachers used some arbitrary system to pick line-leader, milk passer-outer, office go-fer, chair pusher-iner.
What seems odd to me - now - is that I felt most comfortable at the end of the single-file line. It seems curious to me that even in my earliest years I was certain that I would be an incapable chair pusher-iner, resolutely accepting that Renee Bailey (the know-it-all) or Christine (the pretty girl, even when she was minus a tooth or two) or for chrissake even Danny and David Shirley (the dressed-alike twins who mugged like identical apes for class pictures) would be deserving of laminated placard tasks.
Given the benefit of hindsight I think it makes perfect sense - both in terms of plot and character development. What I can't understand is how a teacher - how a string of teachers - didn't recognize that kid at the back of the line as much by what she wasn't saying than by what she WAS saying. There's a part of me who like to talk with those teachers know what I do now. I attended Mrs. Carlson's funeral when I was in first grade - if the kindergarten teacher left that early. chances are slim that many more of them are still living and, aside from everything else, I'm not so sure HOW I'd begin finding that trail of educators now. But I do fantasize what a meeting might be like...
The fantasy begins with them each being individually delighted that I've looked them up because they've been thinking about me over all these years. I then show them a picture of my child, proudly cluck about what a fantastic kid he is, what an affable bright sweet man he is becoming. Then I tell them that he's a quiet one, my son ... in fact, so NOT troublesome, so kind and gentle he is that I've had discussions with HIS teachers, pleading with them to please encourage him, please pay attention to him - please SEE him. And I would segue from what I have done as a parent for my no-fuss son into asking what my parents asked them to do for me during those semi-annual parent/teacher conferences.
Part of their response would come as truth and fact -
"Oh, well we agreed that your skill were more advanced than those of your ape-faced, nose-picking peers. And that you definitely had a streak of Something Special so we accelerated your learning to keep up with your advanced skills by sending you to older children's' classes."
Part of their response is left for my own flight of finding- and making-peace-with-myself fancy -
"Your parents stopped in regularly, you know. Yes! They both wanted to know about your grades, of course, and the asked me to clarify what I meant by 'Is a joy to have in class'. But the truly telling reflection of your parents' affection for you was the unusual questions they asked me, such as 'Is she happy? Does she talk to you about her interests? Can you tell when she's not? How do you help her through those times? Does she have friends? How can WE help her to feel loved and Most Important? Should we encourage her to invite schoolmates over to our home?'".
Usually by this time in the fantasy conversation I begin to feel beleaguered by the amount of shit I'm slinging and call it quits somewhere in the list of 'help us help her' questions. I have a quiet moment within the still-running fantasy though - truly a magical moment where, if it was a made-for-TV movie, a blue glowing light would appear just above my head, where the music would turn tender, maybe a lone acoustical guitar perched out on a veranda at sunset in the Blue Ridge Mountains ... I have a tired but thankful posture. I say to my former instructor "I never knew they cared so much about me. And what's more, I never realized that you all saw me so clearly, even in my youngest years. I was so silly to have doubted any of you, even for a moment. I'm flabbergast at the ridiculous amount of time I've whittled away simply fussing over my doubts. Thank you. Thank you SO much for paying attention to the little quiet nice girl at the end of the single-file line."
In the fantasy I embrace my childhood teachers warmly as though we are the dearest of friends, inviting them to spend a week at my country cabin as soon as they can make time in their schedules for quiet and good wine and cheeses.
I then ask them each to bring their favorite hat along on our together-vacation so I can photograph them wearing it.
