Gene Wilder and my brain- yeah, this has got to be good
I cheated on a test once.
It was, I think, first grade, and it was a spelling test. We had the standard desks with the lid that lifted up to let you stow your books and stuff in a space underneath. For some reason no one ever figured out, there was a little metal bar that you could flip out from it's recessed space in the bottom closest edge of the lid, so that the lid would sit about a half inch above the top rim of the storage space. It was a small enough difference in the height of the lid that you couldn't really tell from a distance. I carefully stacked the books on one side of the storage space, almost, but not quite all the way up to the lid, well before the test. The teacher always gave us a little time immediately before the tests to review- it was easy to carefully place the list of words on top of the stack of books, and then flip out the little metal bar. The teacher walked up and down the rows of desks during the test, but she only ever walked down the row to the left side of my desk, and I'm right handed, so I could keep my arm over the edge to hide the gap between the lid and the storage space.
I got away with it, free and clear, no trouble.
I don't remember any of the words on the test. I'm not entirely sure it was the year I was in first grade. But I remember what it felt like to very carefully copy those words from the list onto the test. And I remember why I did it. I could have learned the words- actually I'm pretty sure at least half of them were ones I knew before the teacher handed out the list anyways. I didn't need to cheat in order to pass.
It was because of that stupid little metal bar-thing. I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why it was there. It didn't make it particularly easier to get stuff from your desk. It didn't improve the angle of the lid to make it easier to write. It was, as far as I could tell, entirely useless. Except that, if you slouched in your desk a little (or a lot, I was tall even then), you could see into your desk when the lid was propped open.
My grandfather was an engineer. Once I've latched onto a puzzle, there's really no stopping me. I had to see if I could get away with it. Also, I was six, and bored as hell.
I never cheated again. Well, once or twice I've made use of the fact that there are teachers stupid enough to write a test where one question gives you the answer to another question- but that's the teacher's fault. I didn't cheat again because I didn't have to, I knew what it felt like already. I remember what it felt like, copying those words. I remember what getting away with it felt like- I was, actually, stunned it had been so easy. And I'm pretty sure I was a little disappointed in the teacher for not being more observant.
I didn't tell anyone about it until, I'm pretty sure, after high school. Not because I was ashamed, or worried about consequences. Because I had forgotten about it. It was pivotal, it was a character-defining event, and for years, it was just entirely gone. I never cheated again, but I didn't consciously remember why. I always felt a little vaguely contemptuous of the academic system, but I was never really sure what that traced back to.
A lot of people have told me I have an excellent memory. And it's true- I can remember stories very well, and random bits of trivia. But my own life- that's a slightly different thing. When someone asks me if I've been somewhere obscure, I have to think about it a minute. When someone asks me if I've done something, or worse, wanted to do something- it takes me awhile to sort out the "wanted to"s from the "read about"s from the "did"s from the "heard someone talk about"s.
One of the (many, many) reasons why I sincerely doubted my own sanity for awhile in middle school was the startling frequency of times I had to make something up, when asked a fairly basic question, like "Have you ever eaten a buffalo burger?" The whole time, though, if you'd asked me about a novel I read, I could recite the plot and dialogue and discuss the characters, chapter and verse. They weren't more real to me than real life but I certainly wanted them to be.
My memory is better now. In that I know what I do and do not really remember, and while I am still the queen of repression, I do at least have an actual grasp on reality. I don't have the moments where I'm tempted to make something up in order to cover a hole in my memory nearly as often, now, and I've learned to quash the first instinct to lie and actually say, "maybe" now and then.
I remember, now, that I spent most of the rest of my years in that school re-imagining each room in Willy Wonka chocolate-room fashion, and humming "Pure Imagination" to myself. Which probably explains the otherwise-inexplicable loyalty to the Gene Wilder-Zero Mostel version of "The Producers", now that I think about it.
I was trying so hard, for so long, to not live in my life, to escape it somehow, any-how, that I didn't really live most of it. It got better in middle school, still better in high school, and college almost entirely fixed it (though seminary threw me for a hell of a loop). But it's the foundation of the reasons I still wear my high school class ring. I will never go there again.
I also really hate meeting people who are still there. Because it's almost impossible to help them.
It was, I think, first grade, and it was a spelling test. We had the standard desks with the lid that lifted up to let you stow your books and stuff in a space underneath. For some reason no one ever figured out, there was a little metal bar that you could flip out from it's recessed space in the bottom closest edge of the lid, so that the lid would sit about a half inch above the top rim of the storage space. It was a small enough difference in the height of the lid that you couldn't really tell from a distance. I carefully stacked the books on one side of the storage space, almost, but not quite all the way up to the lid, well before the test. The teacher always gave us a little time immediately before the tests to review- it was easy to carefully place the list of words on top of the stack of books, and then flip out the little metal bar. The teacher walked up and down the rows of desks during the test, but she only ever walked down the row to the left side of my desk, and I'm right handed, so I could keep my arm over the edge to hide the gap between the lid and the storage space.
I got away with it, free and clear, no trouble.
I don't remember any of the words on the test. I'm not entirely sure it was the year I was in first grade. But I remember what it felt like to very carefully copy those words from the list onto the test. And I remember why I did it. I could have learned the words- actually I'm pretty sure at least half of them were ones I knew before the teacher handed out the list anyways. I didn't need to cheat in order to pass.
It was because of that stupid little metal bar-thing. I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why it was there. It didn't make it particularly easier to get stuff from your desk. It didn't improve the angle of the lid to make it easier to write. It was, as far as I could tell, entirely useless. Except that, if you slouched in your desk a little (or a lot, I was tall even then), you could see into your desk when the lid was propped open.
My grandfather was an engineer. Once I've latched onto a puzzle, there's really no stopping me. I had to see if I could get away with it. Also, I was six, and bored as hell.
I never cheated again. Well, once or twice I've made use of the fact that there are teachers stupid enough to write a test where one question gives you the answer to another question- but that's the teacher's fault. I didn't cheat again because I didn't have to, I knew what it felt like already. I remember what it felt like, copying those words. I remember what getting away with it felt like- I was, actually, stunned it had been so easy. And I'm pretty sure I was a little disappointed in the teacher for not being more observant.
I didn't tell anyone about it until, I'm pretty sure, after high school. Not because I was ashamed, or worried about consequences. Because I had forgotten about it. It was pivotal, it was a character-defining event, and for years, it was just entirely gone. I never cheated again, but I didn't consciously remember why. I always felt a little vaguely contemptuous of the academic system, but I was never really sure what that traced back to.
A lot of people have told me I have an excellent memory. And it's true- I can remember stories very well, and random bits of trivia. But my own life- that's a slightly different thing. When someone asks me if I've been somewhere obscure, I have to think about it a minute. When someone asks me if I've done something, or worse, wanted to do something- it takes me awhile to sort out the "wanted to"s from the "read about"s from the "did"s from the "heard someone talk about"s.
One of the (many, many) reasons why I sincerely doubted my own sanity for awhile in middle school was the startling frequency of times I had to make something up, when asked a fairly basic question, like "Have you ever eaten a buffalo burger?" The whole time, though, if you'd asked me about a novel I read, I could recite the plot and dialogue and discuss the characters, chapter and verse. They weren't more real to me than real life but I certainly wanted them to be.
My memory is better now. In that I know what I do and do not really remember, and while I am still the queen of repression, I do at least have an actual grasp on reality. I don't have the moments where I'm tempted to make something up in order to cover a hole in my memory nearly as often, now, and I've learned to quash the first instinct to lie and actually say, "maybe" now and then.
I remember, now, that I spent most of the rest of my years in that school re-imagining each room in Willy Wonka chocolate-room fashion, and humming "Pure Imagination" to myself. Which probably explains the otherwise-inexplicable loyalty to the Gene Wilder-Zero Mostel version of "The Producers", now that I think about it.
I was trying so hard, for so long, to not live in my life, to escape it somehow, any-how, that I didn't really live most of it. It got better in middle school, still better in high school, and college almost entirely fixed it (though seminary threw me for a hell of a loop). But it's the foundation of the reasons I still wear my high school class ring. I will never go there again.
I also really hate meeting people who are still there. Because it's almost impossible to help them.