Creation Myths, Part Two
So there I was again: the office with the frosted glass window on the door that read “DR. RICHARD SIX–PRINCIPAL.”
Dr. Six glared at me, no doubt trying to develop a coping strategy for my potential delinquency. First a pervert, now an upstart know it all? Who did I think I was–the Italian Prime Minister?
This time my father was coming. I couldn’t decide if this was a good thing. My father was the gentlest soul I have ever known, but he was working two jobs: managing a drive-in theatre at night, and driving a taxi cab during the day (bonus: when the black and white cab was parked in the driveway, neighborhood kids thought my dad was a cop. I got a welcome respite from bullying.) If he was on his way, he was interrupted from his only four-hour window of sleep. What would that mean for me?
I discovered shortly after he was escorted into the office. He looked exhausted–flushed skin, bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair. I instantly felt guilty, and sank further into my seat. And near as I can recall, what follows was the exchange between the principal and my father.
Dr. Six began. “Kevin was sent to my office for being rude and disruptive in class.”
My father eyed Dr. Six with confusion, then turned to me just as baffled. “He was?” I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Yes,” Dr. Six continued. “He interrupted Mrs. Rathbun during her lesson–”
“Who the hell is Mrs. Rathbun?”
Dr. Six was taken aback. He was clearly not used to being spoken to this way. My eyes perked up a little, because I had never heard my father express impatience with anybody. Dr. Six cleared his throat.
“That’s Kevin’s teacher.”
“Rathbun? Her name is Rathbun?” Wait a minute. Dad’s making fun of Mrs. Rathbun’s name? We always made fun of her name behind her back. I suddenly started to feel better–like my father was protecting me.
Dr. Six plodded along. “”Yes. Kevin corrected her during a science lesson.” For a second, although I cannot be certain, my father looked like he tried to suppress a smile. He then turned to me and said, “Tell me what happened.”
Dr. Six rose from his chair. “Look, Mr. Brodie, I really don’t think–”
“Yes. I’ve noticed.” The principal stood dumbfounded, his mouth agape. “I’d very much like to hear what my son has to say.” My father turned back to me, clearly uninterested whether Dr. Six approved.
I always found it easier to speak to my father, because he waited for me to finish, and never showed the slightest irritation with my stammer. I took a breath: “S-s-she s-s-said dinosaurs ex-existed at the s-s-same t-t-ime as cavemen.”
My father nodded, patted me on my shoulder. He turned back to Dr. Six. “Is that true?”
“Well, that’s not really the point–”
“Oh, I think it is.
“Mr. Brodie, try to understand–”
“You’re an idiot!”
What? What? Oh my god–did my father just call the principal an idiot? To his face? Not only that, his voice did something else I had never heard it do before: it rose!
“And that Mrs. Ratbomb–or whatever the hell her name is–is also an idiot! You’ve got a teacher doing science lessons with second graders telling them that dinosaurs and early humans overlapped! And in your wisdom decide the real problem is the fact that my seven-year-old son had the nerve to know more than she does? You don’t need to wake me up after working twenty hours and waste my time with goddamn foolishness! You need to get Mrs. Ratsass in here and explain to her what the hell science is!”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. Who was this angry man who looked like my father? Had he been possessed by a demon? Was he really the Hulk? (“Dad smash!”) In spite of my disbelief, I was beginning to grow confident that I wasn’t going to be in trouble. I was starting to worry that Dr. Six might be, though.
My father continued his rant. “What are you trying to teach him? That he shouldn’t be right? That he should just shut up and listen, even if he’s taught something false? Is that your theory of education? Where the hell did you learn to run a school? Madrid?”
“Mr. Brodie, I think that’s–”
“Shut up!” He turned and extended his hand to me. “Come on, son” his voice instantly reverting to normal. “Let’s go home.”
He led me into the foyer, and it was then that I realized that my father’s tirade and drawn a crowd. All of the office staff, several teachers and students had gathered to see what the ruckus was. My father turned and stared down Dr. Six one last time. He then slammed the door with such fury I actually jumped.
I looked back at it just long enough to see the words “DR. RICHARD SIX–PRINCIPAL” disappear, and the floor cover with shattered glass. Framed by the empty window that once held his name and title was Dr. Six’ horrified face, his eyes the size of salad plates.
Oh, man. That’s it. We are so in trouble now.
My father, though, simply took a step forward, and got in one last dig: “Serves you right, you bloody fascist.” Then we walked out, all of the gathered staff staring at us like catatonic mental patients.
After that, Mrs. Rathbun never said a word to me, and Dr. Six was transferred to another school. My father was never billed for the door.
Postscript: Later, I learned that those who espouse the belief in Creationism include the perspective that dinosaurs and early humans coexisted, given that the universe is no more than 10,000 years old. This is likely what Mrs. Rathbun believed. You know–science.
Creation Myths, Part One
You may be happy to discover that I made it through all of first grade without being sent to the principal’s office, and was off to a good start in the second grade. I likely would have made it the entire year if my teacher hadn’t been Mrs. Rathbun (like the infamous Dr. Six, this is a name I am not fabricating).
Like many second grade boys, I was obsessed with dinosaurs. Giant, near-mythological reptiles, terrifying yet fascinating—how could a boy resist? I think what really got me hooked was a visit to the San Diego Zoo when I got to ride a giant Galapagos tortoise. I had seen tortoises before, but never one so big you could ride it! (This was also before it would have occurred to me to be troubled by a noble endangered creature being turned into a sideshow freak for profit.) Mind you, we didn’t go very far or very quickly, but just the idea that a small reptile could also come in such a huge form fired my imagination.
After that, I wanted to learn everything I could about dinosaurs, and I found myself a teacher—Roy Chapman Andrews. Long before Indiana Jones (or, to a lesser extent, Ross Geller) made archeology cool, there was Professor Andrews. He spent his life digging up dinosaur bones in the Gobi Desert and running the American Museum of Natural History, but he also wrote books for elementary school kids who wanted to learn more about Triceratops. I devoured all of his books at the local library, and got to the point where I could list all of the known dinosaur species, in what part of the world they lived, in what period they emerged and disappeared. I could tell you that, but I didn’t because of my stammer. That was all right, though—why talk to someone when you could just read another Andrews book?
I was never tempted to speak up in class until one rainy afternoon when Mrs. Rathbun began discussing dinosaurs. Suddenly, she had my attention, if not my participation. She asked the class:
“What were the names of the giant reptiles that lived in the past?”
Maria Gonzales raised her hand. “Dinosaurs!”
“Yes, that’s right, Maria! Dinosaurs!” Yes, she was right, but it hardly merited that much excitement. Who wouldn’t know that? Mrs. Rathbun asked a follow-up.
“And who else lived with the dinosaurs?”
I was pleasantly surprised that she would ask about the various plant and insect life from that period, but she then made the mistake of calling on Tony Nobiensky. In seven years of elementary school, Tony never got a single question right—including “What’s the name of our school?” It was Thomas Jefferson elementary, but Tony answered “George Jefferson.” And his answer to this question:
“Cavemen!”
I snickered under my breath. Cavemen! First of all, that’s a totally inaccurate and oversimplified description of our human ancestors. (Probably not my exact thoughts at the time, but still.) Go ahead Mrs. Rathbun, be gentle. Our Tony knows not what he does.
“That’s right, Tony. Cavemen!”
What? What? WHAT???? I did not just hear her say that. Tony smiled, smugly, believing himself to be correct, and not a single one of my classmates raised an objection. They were all going to accept Mrs. Rathbun’s answer. I didn’t understand how she could tell the class this, when everyone knew that humans came millions of years after the dinosaurs went extinct. It didn’t surprise me that Tony thought “The Flintstones” was real, but my teacher? I found myself trembling, trying desperately to spit words out. Mrs. Rathbun noticed, and called on me, no doubt wondering what my problem was. I so desperately wanted to explain myself with the eloquence and factual documentation of Professor Andrews, but unfortunately the only words that would come out were these:
“Y-y-y-you’re…wr-wr-wrong!”
And then I was back in the principal’s office. What occurred after I arrived will be next time.
Stranded
I am a nervous person. This is not news to anyone who knows me. My neurologist is convinced the reasons are purely physical, and perhaps she’s right. I don’t know if what happened to me on the first day of kindergarten is connected with my public unease, but it probably didn’t help. All I know is that there are times in social situations I lack composure and style. And there are also times I could only describe as embarrassing disasters.
I have every confidence when I met Valerie (to whom I am happily married), I made a fool out of myself during our first conversation. I remember loving the sound of her voice. I also remember being enthralled by her gorgeous looks and irresistible smile. I also recall feeling entranced by her humor and intelligence, and how much I didn’t want our time together to end. But I don’t remember a single thing that I said to her. My brain, in a heroic gesture of compassion, deleted that part of the memory from my mental core. I once asked Valerie, in spite of how I must have sounded that first meeting, why she still wanted to see me again. She smiled kindly, patted my hand, and said “I just knew you’re the one.” That is perhaps the sweetest way imaginable to be told, “Yes, you did you make a fool out of yourself, but it was okay with me.”
There is, though, a story from a few years B.V (Before Valerie) that still causes me to shrink and tremble every time I think about it. So, naturally, I’m going to share it with you.
I was at the Strand Bookstore in New York City, one of my favorite places on earth. Fifteen miles of books, and I could spend months exploring every inch of the place. Just seeing the street sign from Union Square puts me in a good mood. When I die, and my ancestors welcome me to the afterlife, I’m afraid I am going to march right past grandma and the sweet scent of her rhubarb pie to the guy in the red shirt with two toned hair and a nose ring directing me to the table of new arrivals. That’s right—The Strand is heaven.
Although one night, it pretty much turned into hell.
I was there on a crisp March evening, and I did what I usually do at the Strand—I closed the place down. It was a few minutes before ten, so I headed over to the cashier’s line and waited my turn. Miraculously, I was leaving with only five books. Pretty good for me.
I heard the shout of “Next,” and approached the till. A friendly voice offered a warm “Good evening,” as I dropped the books on the counter. I smiled and my eyes shot up to the cashier, ready to say a polite “Good evening” back.
But then I saw her.
Outside of Valerie, she was the single most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was luminous. I think it was probably the track lighting, but I swear there was a halo shining down upon her. She had lustrous shoulder length black hair, perfect olive skin, one eye colored gentle hazel, and the other colored a soft blue-green. When she smiled at me to ask if I had found what I was looking for, I actually gasped.
Surprised and concerned, she narrowed her eyes at me. No doubt she was wondering if I was having some sort of asthmatic attack. Had I been smooth, I probably would have just coughed, and pretended allergies were getting to me. If I had a bit more poise, I would have just simply said “sorry,” and proceeded with the transaction. We could both pretend it wasn’t awkward, and get on with our lives. But instead, I followed up the gasp with:
“Oh my God! You are stunningly beautiful!”
This time, her eyes widened in shock and confusion. In spite of her looks, she actually had the good grace to be humble. Had I had just the slightest amount of social skill, I would have proceeded with the transaction in an uncomfortable silence. Then I could slink out, and neither of us would ever discuss this again with anyone we knew (at least I wouldn’t). At this point, that would have been the best of all possible outcomes.
But I couldn’t believe what I had just said, so I panicked. I gazed straight down at the floor, no longer able to look her in the eye. If there was a part of my brain shouting “STOP TALKING! JUST STOP TALKING!” I couldn’t hear it. Instead, I tried to explain myself:
“I’m sorry I mean I’m not sorry you’re stunningly beautiful I’m sorry I said that to you I mean I’m not really because it’s true and someone should say that to you but it probably shouldn’t be me since I’m a total stranger but I don’t know maybe it’s nice to hear it from total strangers but I guess it can be kind of annoying how much is it?”
Still studying the floor tiles, I handed her a large bill from my wallet. I then grabbed my books and raced out of the store. I have a vague recollection of her shouting about my change, but there was no way I was going back. I sprinted towards the Union Square subway station, wanting the earth to literally swallow me up.
Postscript: A couple of years ago, I told a group of 12th grade girls this story, and asked them to rate my behavior on the Creepy Scale: 1) being awkward and harmless and 10) being I’m reaching for the mace can in my purse. They all agreed on “2”, because I was embarrassed and apologetic and clearly not trying to hit on the woman. I felt a bit better after that, but I still sometimes wish my neurologist had a pill I could take.
The First Day of the Rest of My Life, Part Two
My teacher, Mrs. Lazaro, raced over to Lori, at whom I stared dumbfounded. Why was she screaming? No woman ever screamed at Humphrey Bogart.
Mrs. Lazaro asked Lori what could possibly be wrong. Lori raised an accusatory finger at me and shouted “HE KISSED ME! ON THE LIPS!”
Mrs. Lazaro turned to me, horrified. The girls in the class all let out a collective gasp, and wrinkled their faces. Some actually looked away, unable to gaze upon the episode of human tragedy unfolding before them. The boys, though, just shook their heads in disappointment. You kissed a girl? Girls are horrible, disgusting, filled with cooties. You’re not supposed to even talk to them, much less kiss them. In fact, the only excuse for ever interacting with a girl was to torment her with the small animal corpse you found in the street. I’m afraid, Kevin, you have left us no choice but to make your life a living hell this year.
I looked around the room, holding my hands out in confusion. You have to understand! I thought she wanted me to kiss her! My silent plea was to no avail. Mrs. Lazaro guided a now sobbing Lori away, and narrowed her eyes at me as if to say “you’ll get yours, young man. Just you wait.”
I didn’t have to wait long. A dark shadow appeared in the doorway, blocking all of the fluorescent lighting from the hallway. I looked over to see a giant of a man–basically a wall with a head. His face was smothered by a massive gray beard, so much so that a Hasidic or Amish man might look upon him and remark “That’s a little much, don’t you think?” His voice thundered so loudly everyone, including Mrs. Lazaro, jumped.
“KEVIN BRODIE? COME WITH ME!”
I gulped, and glanced over at Lori again. Her face was hidden in Mrs. Lazaro’s skirt. Mrs. Lazaro nodded in satisfaction, confident that I was going to receive the justice I deserved. All of the other students turned away. Happily, none of them saw fit to shout “Dead Man Walking!” I put my head down, and wandered over to the my executioner.
He slammed shut the classroom door and lowered his head down to mine. I can still recall the stench of Old Spice and Folgers that radiated from his face. “I am your principal. My name is Dr. Six!” (Note: this name is not a pseudonym.) Really, Dr. Six? My principal has a bad super villain name? Is he the arch nemesis of Prime Number Man? Or, are school principalships passed down through heredity? He’ll be principal for life and then when he dies his son, Doctor Seven, becomes principal?
Of course, I wasn’t actually thinking that at the time. I was far too terrified. I followed Dr. Six to his office at the end of the hall. He yanked open the door, nearlly ripping off its hinges, then pointed at a lime green plastic chair in the corner.
“Sit here!” He then disappeared behind a frosted glass that had the word PRINCIPAL engraved upon it. I looked around the room. No other students awaited Dr. Six’s wrath. The only other person in there was a woman about the age of my grandmother perched behind a desk and a 1950s Royal typewriter. Her grey eyes peered down at me while her mouth “tsked, tsked” a few times, as if to say “They start so young these days.”
After what felt like several days, Dr. Six swung the door open, and shouted my name. I entered, half expecting to find instruments of torture attached to the walls, perhaps even a collection of trophy body parts on the desk. Instead, what I saw was a ping-pong paddle. I looked around the room. There was no table, and Dr. Six didn’t seem like the type to play ping-pong, much less engage in any activities that one could construe as “fun.”
He showed me the paddle, and asked if I knew what spanking was. Oh god! Is that what was going to happen? If he tries to spank me with those arms of his, he’s going to send me torpedo-like through the wall. I nodded, and he outlined how this was the sort of punishment worthy of misguided boys who make the sorts of decisions I do. At that time, it was no longer legal for school officials to mete out corporal punishment–but it was still legal to threaten students with it. Being largely unaware of the nuances of California child protection law, I trembled in fear.
It was then that my mother entered the office and sat down. I tried a few times to make eye contact with her, but she wouldn’t even look at me. Instead, she and Dr. Six were engaged in the gravest conversation I had ever in my young life overheard. Was I going off to war? I don’t really recall most of what was said, and likely there was much I didn’t understand, but I do remember the general tone of the conversation was that I was on an irrevocable road to perversion and sexual deviance, and it had to be stopped now.
Finally, my mother turned to me, her face etched with repulsion, and asked “Why did you do that to that poor girl?”
My entire body quivered in frustration, as tears began to pour from my eyes. I struggled for words as my mother sighed with impatience. Dr. Six stared at me without blinking, licking his lips like a hunter who had just discovered a new species of woodland creature he’d like to kill. Finally, I stammered out a sentence:
“I….I….I….j-j-j-just th-th-thought s-s-she w-w-was…p-p-pretty…!”
My mother, Mrs. Lazaro, and Dr. Six all got their wish. I never spoke to Lori again–in fact, I don’t think I spoke to another girl until the tenth grade. The boys would make kissing sounds at me, if they weren’t heaving rocks in my general direction. The girls just screamed and ran from me like an escaped carnival freak. My mother became obsessed with the notion that I was up to perpetual no good in my room, and would frequently summon me to sit with her in the living room, where no doubt my deviant behavior could be more closely monitored.
Years later, I asked my father if he remembered the episode. He told me that my mother waited up for him until 2am to return from work so she could tell him the entire sordid tale. My father’s response?
“Well, at least we know he’s not gay!”
The First Day of the Rest of My Life, Part One
Many people in their life have been sent to the principal’s office. Those that haven’t likely know someone who has. Virtually every teacher has sent a student there. It is very rare, however, to find someone who was sent to the principal’s office in kindergarten. Indeed, I am the only person I have ever known who was sent to the principal’s office on the first day of kindergarten.
Anyone that knows me now would likely be surprised to discover I was a quiet, shy child who rarely spoke. This is not unusual for a five year old, but I also suffered from a dreadful stammer. I learned very early on that few people were interested in patiently tolerating a stutterer, and many would express that intolerance with cruelty. Thus, on the first day of school, with no incentive whatsoever to draw attention to myself, I did my best to blend into the wallpaper.
And I have to say, kindergarten was kind of fun. We played games, we chased each other on tiny bicycles in the courtyard, we learned about animals, and we took a nap! I remember that the night before my sister had succeeded in frightening me with the news that I would be in school for the next thirteen years. I don’t know what she was all worked up about. I could so do this for thirteen years.
Before that reality check would arrive on day one of the first grade (Desks? Math? No nap time? Have I been sent to a Gulag?) , I had another one waiting for me. Being the early seventies, the California education system had embraced a theory called “essentialism.” Essentialism was the view that there were no inherent behavioral differences between boys and girls, that gender roles were 100% socially constructed, and that both sexes were “essentially” the same. All we had to do was educate our children in an enlightened way, and these sexist and oppressive gender assumptions would be gone in a generation. A Utopian idea (that would eventually require its own reality check), but what it meant for me was that boys and girls would be partnered up and working together at an activity normally associated with a specific gender role. Today, we would be cooking something in the kitchen, and I was partnered with Lori Saunders.
I don’t remember what it was we were supposed to cook (with an EZ Bake Oven, no doubt to allay safety concerns), but I remember Lori vividly. She had pig tails and wore a blue polka dot dress–the kind of thing mothers and aunts and grandmothers would see at Osh Kosh, and react with a deafening chorus of cooing. Lori introduced herself–and shook my hand! She instantly learned my name! Oh my God, she was talking to me! To be honest, she pretty much talked nonstop. She clearly required no conversational input from me, and I was happy to oblige. Unlike my constantly talking sister, though, Lori’s chatter wasn’t as irritating as a swarm of gnats on a humid summer night. If it was possible to be smitten at age five, then I was smitten.
Clearly an expert on the EZ Bake Oven, I listened transfixed as she explained to me the device’s many mechanical nuances, a litany of what she had baked with the help of the amazing sixty watt light bulb, and who in her family had enjoyed these treats the most. Then, there was a pause–she probably needed to breathe–and she fell silent. Lori stared at me a moment, clearly expecting me to pick up my cue and begin speaking. Uh-oh. I didn’t want to talk and have her hear my stammer. What if she laughed? What if she made fun of me? Or worse–what if she looked at me with pity?
Her mouth curled into a kind smile, and I knew instantly what I had to do. Most five year old boys, I suspect, didn’t know moments like this existed, but most five year old boys didn’t spend Sunday mornings with their fathers watching old black and white movies they didn’t fully understand. But I understood enough to realize that Lori Saunders, just like all those equally beautiful movie starlets, wanted me to kiss her.
So I did. Not a gentle peck on the cheek, but a full-on lip smack. No tongue, of course–I didn’t know that was a thing yet–but I knew from the movies that when a girl wanted to be kissed, you kissed her on the lips. Perfect! Who needs to talk when you can just kiss?
I don’t really know how I thought Lori would react. Would she say something pithy and Lauren Bacall-like: “It’s even better when you help?” Maybe, like Rita Hayworth, she’d sigh and yank me back into her arms for another. I do know that I wasn’t expecting the color to completely drain from her face and for her to scream. Not just any scream–a long, blood-curdling shriek, like a coyote with its foot caught in a bear trap. It was at that moment I realized I may have done something wrong.
And what happened after that? For next time.
Questions from My Students
Tomorrow will be the fifteenth consecutive graduation I have attended. To mark this occasion, I have decided to assemble a list of questions my students have asked me over the years–many of which I still get on a regular basis. None of these are fabricated, and have all been asked of me over the last decade and a half. I am sure there are others that have slipped down the memory hole, but these have stayed with me. I decided to present these in the form of poem. I hope you enjoy it.
Questions from My Students
Am I in this class?
Is Socrates still dead?
England’s on an island?
When did that happen?
Is that clock right?
What country is Africa in?
What country was Martin Luther King of?
Can I go to the bathroom real quick?
Is this going to be on the test?*
Wasn’t Columbus on the Mayflower?
Isn’t the pope Jewish?
That’s not due today, is it?
Did they have rivers and oceans in the 1830s?
Aren’t Iran and Iraq the same country?
Should I be writing this down?
Japanese people aren’t from China?
Isn’t President Obama a Muslim?
New Mexico isn’t in Mexico?
Alaska isn’t off the coast of Florida?
Then why did they put it there on the map?
Do we have to answer all of these questions?
*Asked during a test review
You might be happy to know I am preparing a follow-up entitled “Sarcastic Responses I Give My Students.” That will be for another time.
And for those of you expecting a new story, they will continue next time.
A Pregnant Pause, Part Three
Without Mark and Angela’s money, Darlene had to settle for what I can only describe as the hospital’s “economy birth” package. She was not allowed to give birth in the maternity ward, and instead had to share a room with a comatose 70-year-old man, whom I can only assume was waiting for Oliver Sacks to arrive with a Walkman. Most importantly, Darlene had no access to a new and expensive treatment called an “epidural.” She was going to have this baby as God intended—even a Caesarian section was only being contemplated as a last resort, given the cost of the procedure.
As she laid in the gurney, I tried to mentally calculate the size of her baby, and the approximate size I imagined it had to pass through to enter this world. There was no way, I thought, this was going to happen without a c-section. Darlene’s huge belly and tiny hips were simply not compatible. In order for this birth to happen naturally, it was going to have to violate the laws of physics. However, I shelved my doubts and trusted the medical professionals. My job was not to make that decision—my job was Lamaze coach. I had a certificate to prove it.
I held Darlene’s hand. I said positive words. I reminded her she wasn’t alone. I helped guide her through her breathing. And all of that worked splendidly—until the first strong contraction. Carol Burnett famously described labor pain as “grab your bottom lip and pull it over your head.” A friend of mine who has had two sons chose “try to imagine pushing a basketball out of your ass.” I suspect both of those metaphors are accurate, because I couldn’t imagine the strength in which Darlene suddenly squeezed my hand. My metaphor for how hard she was squeezing my hand? A mining truck filled with iron ore just parked on it.
I didn’t know what to do. The last thing I wanted was to let go of her hand—and given how strongly she was squeezing it, I doubt that was a genuine option. So, I turned away, bit my bottom lip, and tried to keep my eyes from watering. I wisely chose not to complain to Darlene that she was holding my hand “a little too tightly.” In spite of the fact that she was no doubt enduring the most excruciating pain she had ever encountered, this remarkable woman still had the presence of mind to turn to me and say “I’m sorry. Am I squeezing your hand too hard?” Chagrined, I lied: “Not at all. Squeeze it as much as you need to.” I’ve got another one.
Darlene squeezed, breathed, wailed, and pushed a while longer. I don’t recall exactly how long the labor was—but I have no doubt it felt much longer to Darlene. Pale, covered in perspiration, most of the color seemingly drained from all of her flesh, she wept and begged the doctor to do a c-section. Mary begged for him to do a c-section. The doctor looked as if he was about to agree, and then his eyes lit up: “Nope. This baby is coming. Now. Push!”
Darlene protested that she couldn’t push anymore, but I urged her, as kindly as I could, to continue. She gazed at the wall a moment, turned to Mary, and then finally back at me. She closed her eyes, and quivered with laughter. She shouted, “Whose stupid idea was this?” She giggled another few seconds, and we all exchanged looks of concern. She then somehow found the strength to keep pushing.
As the baby started to come, Darlene screamed, wept, and pushed all at the same time. Her voice hoarse with exhaustion, she turned to me and muttered. “Make sure its okay.” I nodded, trying to appear more confident than I actually was. Without relinquishing Darlene’s hand, I rose, and leaned to get a look at this new life entering the world. I gasped, not so much at the sight of this miracle, but the sight of how parts of Darlene’s anatomy were…stretching. I mean really, really stretching. Oh my God! What the–? How–? That’s not possible! I quickly shrank back into my seat, and patted her hand.
“How does it look?” Her voice was softer than a whisper.
“Fine. Fine! It looks fine! Perfectly normal!” Certainly nothing happening that violates the laws of physics. “Push!” I’m still not sure if I was trying to persuade myself or Darlene, but there was one thing I was certain of: women are far and away the strongest gender. I don’t know a single man who’d be able to endure that much pain. Yes, passing a kidney stone is tough—but a kidney stone doesn’t weigh nine pounds. What else do men have to deal with? Pulling out nostril hairs? I don’t think so.
Finally, Darlene’s new son arrived. She named him Jacob. And I have to say, like many new-born babies, he was…well, hideous. As time passed, though, he became much cuter. Mary, Darlene and Jacob eventually moved to Idaho, and after a few years, I lost touch with them. I have googled and Facebooked Darlene in an attempt to find her, but I never have. I do think about them occasionally, and wonder how their lives turned out. I hope Darlene has finally found the peace and happiness she richly deserves, and that Jacob grew into a fine young man. And I sincerely hope he never shows up at my doorstep wanting to know “Are you my father?”
Nope. I’m just the Lamaze coach who used to sell dead fish with your mom. I don’t think Hallmark has a section for that.
A Pregnant Pause, Part Two
So there I was in a Lamaze class with a woman I hardly knew, pregnant with a child that was not my own. We worked on breathing, calming techniques, and even massage therapies. We had extensive discussions about her cervix. We watched startlingly graphic videos of childbirth. I had seen many of these type in high school health class, but when you are holding the hand of someone about to go through this, it suddenly becomes far less abstract. As you can imagine, there were many awkward moments, many about how to address me:
“Here, your husband can turn you over like this—“
“I’m not her husband.”
“Oh. Well, your boyfriend can—“
“I’m not her boyfriend.”
“Well, you are the father, right?”
“No, we don’t know where he is.”
It reached the point where it got far too difficult to explain my presence, so if someone referred to me as boyfriend, husband, or father, we just shrugged and went along with it. The path of least resistance is not to be despised this deep into a pregnancy. I also found something happening that I absolutely did not expect: I really began to enjoy the classes. Even though I couldn’t understand why Darlene trusted me so much, I was glad that she did. The truth was I really enjoyed being needed. I was also impressed by Darlene’s strength. By then, the fetus appeared to be about ten percent of her body weight, and she was clearly uncomfortable most of the time. In spite of this, she never lost her ability to laugh and smile, and not once had a cross word for me (some of the other chaps in the class were far less fortunate with their partners). I was in awe of her.
After we had finished the course, Darlene got a call from her Aunt Mary. Mary had decided that the family boycott of Darlene was absurd and hurtful, and announced she would no longer observe it. Mary told Darlene that she would be there to help her in any way she needed. I liked Mary—she was smart and no nonsense, and Darlene was clearly relieved to have her aunt back. Mary seemed to like me as well, but I don’t think she ever understood why I was bothering to help Darlene. I would sometimes catch Mary gazing at me as if she were trying to suss out my agenda. My only agenda was that I had come to care a great deal about her niece.
Mark and Angie, however, were far less excited about Mary’s presence. They must have perceived her as a threat to the level of control they felt they had over Darlene. One evening, they sat her down and told her that Mary could not be involved in her life—not until the baby was born, and Darlene had moved out. They claimed that Mary gave off “wicked energy”, and were worried about how her presence would affect their baby. Mark also wanted to remind Darlene that she was an “immoral sinner whose only path to redemption was giving them her child.” When Mary found out what they had said to her niece, she made Darlene an offer she couldn’t refuse: keep your baby, move in with me, and I will help you raise it. Mary knew this would lead to her being ostracized from her own family, but to her credit decided she had had enough of intolerance and judgment.
A week later, I was moving Darlene’s stuff out of Mark and Angie’s house. Mark decided he would follow me around and loom over my shoulder. I decided that I would move suddenly and bump into him—a little harder each time. If Mark warned me something was valuable, I made very sure to collide with it. Heading for the door with the last of Darlene’s belongings, Mark called out to me and said, “I’d like you to give Darlene a message. Tell her we are very disappointed, and hope that God will forgive her.”
He just stared at me, daring me to respond. I trembled with rage, and glanced around the room looking for some valuable he warned me about I could kick over. I also contemplated bringing my knee up into his groin. The man I am today would have said something along the lines of “I’d like to give you a message from Charles Darwin. He is not the least bit disappointed to tell you that it’s really good for humanity that you are unable to pass on your hateful and bigoted genes to the next generation.” But I was not yet who I am today, so I went with:
“Go fuck yourself.”
In Darlene’s new room, I unpacked her belongings as she directed me from a rocking chair. When the unpacking was finished, she turned to me and said, “So…my due date is the 14th.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll come by after work.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “You’re not taking the day off?”
The whole day? Why? “Oh. Well, I suppose I could. Do you think you’ll need me?”
She looked at me like I just answered her in Urdu. “You’re my Lamaze coach. I’m going to need you there the whole time.”
Um…what? “You mean in the delivery room? When you give birth?”
She stared at me like I was someone who couldn’t tell you in which year the War of 1812 occurred. “I told you I didn’t want to do this alone.”
Yes, but I didn’t know this is what you meant. “Well,” I said with a desperate whine. “Mary will be in there.”
“Yes, but she didn’t take the class with me. You did.”
To this day, I don’t why that didn’t occur to me. Whether it was because I was nineteen, or thick as a concrete wall, or just in denial, I was honestly surprised by this expectation. One thing was now abundantly clear: I was going to be in the delivery room to help Darlene deliver her baby.
And how did that go? You will discover next time.
A Pregnant Pause
Many of my friends and students for years have told me that I should begin collecting my stories and writing them down. Not my short stories—things that have actually happened to me. After some thought, I decided I would try it, and that I would use this blog as a conduit for doing so. I don’t know where these stories will lead—if they will lead anywhere—but this seems like an idea worth exploring. Please let me know what you think. Here we go…
My first job out of high school was at a southern California theme park that I’ll call “Ocean Experience.” One of the less appealing tasks we were assigned was at the Dolphin and Whale Feeding Pool. Two employees were shoved into a stall that would make a Massachusetts Turnpike toll booth seem “roomy” by comparison. There were two cashier windows, and in between us: a huge bucket filled with dead fish to sell to tourists who wished to feed the cetaceans. It seemed always busy, so the shift would go by very quickly; on the downside, you would end the day smelling like, well, smelt. At least no one wanted to sit next to you on the bus ride home.
I noticed one fall that I seemed to have a rather frequent stall mate. Her name was Darlene. My father would have described her as a “wee thing”—five feet tall, 95 pounds soaking wet. A cute brunette, she was extremely shy, and rarely looked you in the eye when she spoke. Oh, she had one other distinguishing characteristic: she was nearly six months pregnant.
I worked this shift with Darlene at least three times a week. As you can imagine, she got fatigued rather easily, so I made sure she didn’t move any more than she wanted or had to. I would direct the customers to my window when she needed a breather, and every chance I had, I would sneak off to find her ice cream, fudge, or churros to feed her cravings. Eventually, she started to overcome her shyness, and began to tell me The Story.
Her boyfriend Todd promised he’d marry her and help her raise their child, and then the next day climbed into his VW van and was never heard from again. Her religiously conservative family chucked her out and refused to even speak to her. She was no longer welcomed in her church. She was now living with a couple (Mark and Angie) who were going to adopt her child, and they were nice enough, but there was something about them that gave her the creeps, just a little, but they were nice enough, and they’d be good parents. Abandoned by everyone else, I think she needed someone to talk to. Why not the guy you were stuck with in a little booth hawking sushi for dolphins?
Then, about a week later, I finally got a sense of how much she had come to trust me. During a very rare slow period, she turned to me and said: “So…Mark and Angie have enrolled me in a Lamaze class.”
Being nineteen and male, I was very good at not really listening and making the conversation about what I wanted to discuss: “Did you ever see Bill Cosby’s routine about that. It’s so hilarious!” I then began making exaggerated breathing noises, and laughing, blissfully unaware of the fact that while Mr. Cosby was funny, I actually was not.
Darlene sighed heavily, and tried again. “I was thinking…I really don’t want to do it alone.”
“No,” I replied while scooping up some herring. “I wouldn’t think so.”
Bless her, she tried subtlety one last time. “Maybe someone that I work with. You know, who has his own car.”
“Yes, that would make the most sense.”
I realized after a moment that Darlene had said nothing else. When I looked over at her, I jumped—I had never seen such a furious glare. I peered over my shoulder, wondering who it was she might have been looking at with such anger. What’s going on?
Realizing I was not, as they used to say “picking up what she was laying down,” she finally resorted to the direct approach. “Would you take the class with me?”
Oh. You want me to do it? Wow, didn’t see that coming. Without giving it any real thought, I shrugged, and said “okay.” It was only later that I would realize the consequences of that answer.
And you will discover just what those consequences were next time.
A Loss for Words
Sorry I have been away for a while.
I had plans to update this blog between Christmas and New Year’s, and try to return to my monthly (or semi-monthly) schedule. In spite of the fact that Allison, our eldest dog, needed an operation on Christmas Eve, my wife Valerie and I were both looking forward to a relaxing vacation together. After Val left teaching last year, we have had very little joint time off, and our disparate work schedules only allow us to spend a total of 4-6 hours together Monday through Thursday. Thus, to say that we were looking forward to the pause would be like saying Rita Hayworth had “pleasant features”–something of a understatement.
So there we were on December 26th (Boxing Day to those of you in the current/former bits of the UK). We had just watched Terence Malik’s “The Tree of Life”–an impressionistic and challenging film about making sense of death in a world that might lack existential meaning. The film had ended, and Valerie and I were discussing it, trying to make sense of it, to decide if we actually liked it. Before we could finish our conversation, the phone rang. I noticed on the caller ID that it was Val’s mother. We both found it odd that she would call at 9:45 at night. After Val picked up the phone, the meaning fo the call became clear: it was not Val’s mother, it was her Aunt calling to say that Val’s mother Ruth had passed away that evening.
As if often the case when one loses someone close, our lives became consumed with her death. There is, of course, an exhausting amount of emotional duress and grief, but what makes so much of it frustrating is life’s insistence that it move forward, in spite of the fact that you feel like a huge tear has been ripped into your soul. How can everything just go on? Doesn’t everyone realize that Ruth Heck just died? Why hasn’t the world stopped to acknowledge that fact?
The truth of it is, the world does not stop when someone dies. Even when Gandhi was assassinated, and much of India and other parts of the world ground to a halt, most of the world continued on. And we know deep in our bones that it must–that’s cold comfort, though, when we are grieving.
So the world marches on, and we must learn to march with it. The vacation ended, and we did not get to have our joyous, relaxing week. We returned to work exhausted, still managing our grief, splitting our energy between our jobs and the seemingly endless tasks one must perform when someone dies. The constant email and phone communication with the lawyer. More phone calls to banks, insurance companies, tedious visits to the DMV. The sort of difficult and trying tasks that call for focus and undivided attention, right when we are at a moment in our lives when we can muster neither.
The other night, Valerie asked me what I missed about Ruth. I thought for a moment, and mentioned a few of the things most people who knew Ruth would miss: her kind heart, her devilish sense of humor, her smiling eyes. I think the thing I will miss most, though, is how much she meant to Val. She was a huge part of her life. They had contact every day, and while Ruth sometimes drove Val crazy (as parents are wont to do), there was no denying the love they had for each other. The daily joy and comfort Ruth brought Val is really the thing I will miss the most.
If I have one regret–outside of the obvious fact that Ruth is no longer here–it’s that I wish I was able to tell Ruth how grateful I am for her daughter. How happy I am that she brought Valerie into the world so I could share everything with her. That I will spend the rest of my life finding ways to tell and show Val how much I love her. That the “furthest star is too close, compared to the time I need. ” (John Trudell).
That Valerie will always be the most important branch on my Tree of Life.
Postscript: If you haven’t seen it yet, here is a link to Ruth’s obituary from the Davis (CA) Enterprise. It gives some insight into how remarkable a woman she was.
Danger Is My Business 