You know bullshit.
Of course, any observer could guess this from your recline in the desk, like Jimi Hendrix on a sofa at an intimate house party (your lidded gaze and smirk suggest similar indulgences). Your beauty has no effort–wild hair, untamed brows, a bit of extra hip weight. No effort to your uniform of concert t-shirts and thick soled boots. You had style, like Hendrix, didn’t try too hard either.
You wrestled with compliance in my class, that’s for sure. I saw it in your first practice test about windmills. You began to answer so strikingly beautiful, so correct. Then your response stopped. You stamped a footnote on the test: *ran out of time.
Liar. Your retreated answer had nothing to do with time constraints. You began to harness your gift. You released it for a moment, but then you capped it off. Because if you and I are honest, tests about the validity of turbines means nothing to someone who can pencil craft in a margin.
After the windmill practice test, I asked all of my students to record thoughts about their performance. You wrote, I didn’t care enough to finish. I wanted to shake you, do you know that? I wanted to shake you and scream, “You have talent! Put in effort!” I wanted to shake you another time. I asked if you were planning to turn in the unit project. You peered at me, shrugged, “Probably not.”
At parent teacher conferences, after apologies, your mother perked up and asked if I knew about your audition. Mom rummaged through her purse, listing accolades of the music school you recently applied to. “Listen!” she beamed, extending the phone. I half expected to see you as a church-robed Christmas-caroler, so the video of you dripping in beads felt alarming.
“Concert solo next week,” mom gushed.
You wore no make-up in the audition video. Your hair floated like smoke curls. Your voice resonated like light through stained cathedral windows. Now, the audition wasn’t flawless. You clearly lacked experience in heels. But I didn’t know someone that young could garner such power in song.
I returned the phone to your mother with an affirmation of your equal talent with windmills and clipped, “Let’s just hope your daughter can put some of that energy into this class too!
Your senior year didn’t look great; you barely graduated. I notice you found little relevance or interest in my particular subject. Mostly, you slouched and doodled on post-its. I found an abandoned yellow square after class one day. On it, a scrawled message.
Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
“You dropped this yesterday,” I handed the abandoned post-it back to you. “You know, I read The Catcher in the Rye in high school. That same sentence is the first sentence I ever underlined in a book. Well, that and the sentence with the one bad word.”
“Oh yeah?” you brushed away a dipped strand of hair and grinned at me. “It’s my favorite story. Well, that and The Great Gatsby. Gatsby’s obsessed with recapturing history.” You reached into your bag and presented a poem scribbled in a worksheet margin.
I still think about that poem today.
****
Once in the Spring of 2020, I discovered my daughter painting shoes instead of participating in remote learning. On the screen a PE teacher shouted, “Toss them! Catch them!” and a grid of homebound students reached for plastic bags floating in the air.
“Look!” my daughter beamed, hovering a smothered brush too near the carpet.
With paper towels and scotch-tape, my daughter had moulded shoes on both feet and stood poised to paint them red. I opened my mouth to scold her back to virtual class, but praised her creativity, praised her shoes, and threatened her life if paint got on the carpet instead. In my head I thought, Catch a garbage bag for PE? That’s bullshit.
I always believed success comes with obedience to law and predetermined order. I answer “path to success?” with a straight back, hard stomp, and school-grades-career-don’t be late-never take sick days recital. Yet, you are different. You arch a brow and turn an eye toward anything that smells puerile, inauthentic, or dogmatic. Doesn’t matter if it came from a trusted friend, feared superior, or (as in my daughter’s case) your own mother.
The truth is, I would be thrilled if my daughter grew to be as creative, soulful, and sharp as you, but can I handle a string of D’s? Do I high five my daughter for recognizing bullshit, or tell her to respect authority? Do I let go of control and let her to veer one of two ways–doing drugs/alcohol behind a convenient store or becoming the next great big thing?
Kidding. I never worried about drugs/alcohol in a parking lot. I knew you’d become great beyond imagination. It already happened, inevitably.
love
your teacher
PS. This could be a co-worker’s daughter.
No Real Balance 