Day 5 - Something I Will Never Forget..

Since I was about 20, everyone I know that has read my cards, blogs, scribbles, and listened to my speeches has said I should write a book.

And I have.

Actually, I have written several.  I have about 30 yellow legal pads full of not-entirely-fleshed-out-novels.

In addition, I have 3 out of the 4 stories I want written for a horror anthology, based on the remote, but gorgeous, region I grew up in.  AND, I have a 'chick-lit' type book that I am working on daily - it's all about 2 sisters dealing with their mother's death, and the cross-country road trip (because of the younger sister's refusal to fly) they take to get home to her.

I say all of this, not to brag, but to let you know that writing a something a little more substantial than this blog is a hyooooge deal to me, and I work on it daily.

Once I am published, something I am absolutely sure will happen in the next 5 years (and no self-publishing, but  legit offer from Ballantine, Bantam, or similar), I will have a very special dedication.

CLEARLY, I will recognize and celebrate my friends, family, and teachers that made an impact in my life.

However, the most important dedication will be to my 8th grade teacher, RH.

RH was my teacher at a rural 2-room schoolhouse that I attended between 3-5th grades.  He was passionate about rock-climbing, he housed our entire class at his in-laws on our field trip to San Francisco, and he steered me in the right direction about hygiene when I had no idea what that word even meant.

He called me "mary-looking-for-a-husband" (how prophetic!!), based on a gimmick shirt I wore to school, I called him Mr. Strawberry Nose, based on my clever BFF's observation.

When I left that school for a slightly larger school, RH popped up as our 8th grade teacher. 

He was my new BFF's dad, and he was a difficult taskmaster.

However, he was also an  amazing teacher.

Long before sushi was fashionable, he treated our class to oysters, mussels, shrimp, and octopus tentacle to celebrate our completion of the invertebrate section of our science books.

He drove a VW Bus, and owned more than one -- including the one with the tent that popped out of the roof!!

He wore round wire-rims like John Lennon.

He was so cool.

Until...

We were assigned The Red Badge of Courage. 

I hated that book.  Not only did I find the writing pedantic and boring, it also gave me nightmares.

My childhood WAS a nightmare, so having schoolwork contribute to the pot was not fun.

When I was writing the book report for that book, I had a very hard time.  I LOATHED the book, hated the protagonist for stirring up my own fears, and did not feel it was a good book at all.

In order to adequately convey my feelings, I busted out my step-father's thesaurus to help me explain how I felt about the book.

I turned in my book report and forgot about it.

Then, RH called me into the classroom at recess.  He asked me where I got my book report. 

?????

Umm... I wrote it? 

No, no, he said, who wrote this for you, or where did you copy this from??

My ears were hot, as if I had been caught doing something shameful--which I wasn't!!

Where did I copy this --- WHAT??

Mind you, this was pre-internet, and we lived in an area where the nearest public library was a 45 minute ride into and out of a river canyon, and only happened twice a month.

Where did I copy it from?? Nowhere...how could you copy a book report when you were so poor your family only even visited that library twice a year because town visits were for laundry, groceries, and gas???

Who did I copy it from??  Ummmmm...no offense, but he knew my family.  Too well.  When you live in a rural area where there are about 300 people total on the mountain, and he had taught both my older sister and brother and knew my mother...

(I don't exactly feel like a shit about what I am gonna write here, but I recognize that I probably should.)

WHO THE FUCK WOULD HAVE WRITTEN THIS FOR ME, BRO????

He had taught my sibs, knew my mom from the TWO --that's right, TWO -- stores, plus the gas station in our area.

He knew damn well no one in my family was capable of the literary genius of that paper (sorry, kids, #TRUTH).

I laid all that out for him, like, WTF, mate???  For real?

Nevertheless, he persisted.

"Define 'foreboding'", he said.

I frantically cast my mind back to the dusty pages of the thesaurus I had used to augment my paper.

"Ummm......something bad.  Like, you think something bad is gonna happen?", I ask, plaintively.

"Define 'despotic'", he said, flintily.

"Ummmmm.....uhhhhh...*trying desperately to recall when and why I had used it*, 'I don't know', I admitted, shamefaced.

"I knew it.  You didn't write this.  I am giving you and 'F'."

I literally saw stars.  Okay, maybe not stars, but black spots took over my vision, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

I walked out of the classroom, into the sunlight where my friends were playing tether ball, 4square, gossiping, and generally enjoying themselves.

I was dazed.

Punchy.

Wasn't too sure what had happened, just knew I was on the receiving end of an ass kicking I did not deserve.

Since that was a monthly occurrence in my home life, I was kinda pissed it happened at my refuge -- at school. 

I sat down on the cement edge of the sidewalk that went down to where my friends were playing a particularly vicious round of 4Square.

An F??

Because he thought I was a cheater?  A plagiarist? A forger?

Shame is an emotion I was very familiar with in  my 12 years.

In  2nd grade, a boy called me "IT" (way before the book or miniseries was a thing) for no other reason than I was ugly and poor.  Everyone picked up on it, and that's who I was...IT.

In 3rd grade, I was molested by my mom's boyfriend, and she made me change schools (to that 2-room school) so no one would know about it.

In 6th grade, I left my small 2-room school for the larger district school and had no friends.  I made friends -- GREAT FRIENDS -- right away, but the shame never left me.

I was ugly (lazy eye, stringy hair, K-Mart clothes), poor, and often dirty.....so why should I be surprised that my teacher felt my brilliant essay did not originate with me?

Except.....

WAITAFUCKINGMINUTE!!!

I wrote something (yes, I used a thesaurus to flesh it out) that someone I respected and admired thought was copied out of a FUCKING BOOK, or possibly written by someone else (realistically there was no 'someone else' in my life capable of that literary genius...yes I said it --I will fucking own my shit!!).

That was my "A-Ha" moment.

I was a motherfucking writer.

If RH, who was a frickin' TEACHER -- a great one, by the way, thought that what I wrote was beyond an 8th grade girl.....that meant something.

I am a motherfucking writer.

It was earth-shattering.

I may be ugly and poor and garbage, but I can write like a motherfucker and trick someone that graduated from college into thinking I forged this.

FUCK YES.

Of course, that didn't solve the dilemma of the "F", or the accusation of plagiarism or forgery.

It took the intercession of my 7th grade teacher, the AMAZING GH, and a school administrator (BS, who was the only Republican on the staff, and drove me to school from 'town' when we moved halfway through my 8th grade year so I didn't have to switch to a town school, where I surely would have been eaten alive as Ridge Girls were not treated well by Town Girls [that actually turned out to be a fiction]) to make RH reconsider his first analysis of my paper.

Both GH and BS were adamant that they were well aware of my verbal prowess. and the fact that I forgot 'despotic' was more likely nerves and not proof I was a liar, a plagiarist, or a forger.

I got a B on that paper because I had turned it in late in the first place.

I didn't even care.

GH and BS had stood up for me, two adults to whom I was probably just another face, had stood up for me and made someone take a second look at who and what I was.

RH had revised his first opinion of me, based on the advice of his colleagues.

And I got a 'B' instead of an 'F'.

More importantly, I got this:

He never would have questioned that paper if  I was pedantic or boring or adequate.

He questioned it because of 2 vocabulary words and an amazing fucking arrangement of words (call me cocky, but I have 30 years of hindsight and a memory of that ugly, ashamed little girl to say the praise is worth it), and I will always remember and love him for that.

His skepticism and disbelief made me realize I have a gift.....and there is no way I EVER would have understood that until he questioned the legitimacy of my words (okay, and 2 of Merriam Webster's), and I can honestly say I will always be grateful he did that.

So, yes, when I eventually publish my book, I will credit many of my teachers --Kenneth Harris, Ginny Hillsman, Irene Frazier, Mr. Cartan, Nancy N, Tony M, Clyde L, and always and forever RH.

He challenged me, and questioned me, and made me realize that I am a writer.

And I will always be grateful for that.

Always.