(no subject)
Okay, so I've neglected this again. Right now I'm wating for TFR, otherwise known as the Fucking Ride. It's paratransit that's supposed to pick you up and take you places (i.e.) work, but they never come on time. Work is pretty exciting, because this project we're working on is a challenge, but my boss DOES NOTknow how to give instructions and is not good with details. Maybe that's why this project is moving sooooo sloooowly. W'ere in the research phase right now.
I can't make up my mind about how I feel about not being at Smith now. I reeeallly miss everyone, but it is nice to be home. But where the hell is the nice weather?
Lastly, as per usual, I am posting a piece of writing. It's the only one I really like from creative writing class. If you choose to read it, enjoy. Maybe this is close to I will ever come to writing a short story.
Though it’s been a year since I’ve last seen you, I still haven’t forgotten your voice. I can hear it now as I write this, praising me, mocking me. You had two voices really. There was your normal speaking voice, the one you used to lecture us on colons and dependent clauses or to chastise one of your unfortunate reporters. It sounded like broken glass must feel, with shards flying helter-skelter, cutting anyone who happened to be nearby. And then there was your second voice, the one you tried unsuccessfully to hide from the rest of the world. But on the few occasions when it escaped unbidden, and you spoke of Gatsby or Hamlet or Heathcliff, your voice was a wool blanket, the kind my grandmother crochets on winter afternoons, and all I wanted to do was take that blanket and wrap it tightly around me. Of course if I ever said such a thing to your face, you would probably burst into harsh laughter. “That wins the overly-sappy-description award,” you would say. You never were one for sentimentality.
I really did like you, Helen. In fact, I liked you very much. Maybe that was half my problem. I placed you on a pedestal. I wanted so much from you-nurturance, validation, even love---more than any student could reasonably ask of her teacher. But my expectations of myself were even more impossible: I wanted to make you happy. I believed that you hid your sadness in the same dark place where you hid your second voice. I thought I saw it there on the third day of class, when our numbers had dwindled from seventeen to twelve.
“It really is a shame that so many people have switched out,” you had said. “I know it sounds like a lot of work, but I’m not trying to make things difficult for you, and I have some great plans for the year.”
It all hit me then; your vulnerability, your rejection, and the self-centered superficiality of the other students. I wanted to get up from my seat, to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I’ll stay, Mrs. Smith,” I would have said to you. “I understand.”
And I really thought I did understand. I thought I saw myself in your eyes, that we shared the same sensitivity, the same fragility, the same loneliness. I had the naïve notion that if only someone would choose to look beyond your façade of jagged edges and flippant remarks, the corners of your mouth would become less defined, your brow less furrowed. Maybe you’d free your hair from its oppressive, untidy knot. Maybe you’d stop buttoning your collar all the way to the top. And maybe you’d stop biting your nails down to the quick, or shredding bits of paper when you thought no one was looking. I wanted, more than anything, to be that someone.
It all sounds so silly and irrational in retrospect, but reason easily gives in to compassion, so I engaged in my futile mission. I know you didn’t notice, but there was a smile in my tones when I greeted you each day. I would thank you profusely for emailing me the notes from class. When you called yourself a horse’s ass for giving me something late, I would repeatedly reassure you to the contrary. And even when you decided to no longer suppress your emotions, and you thrust your bitterness and pessimism in my face, I would shrug it all off with a laugh. This went on and on and on, until I finally realized that subtlety wasn’t working.
I’m sure you remember that day in March. It was the end of class, and I was standing tentatively at your desk, while you spoke to one of your former reporters.
“Hey, Dave,” you were saying, your cheer as false as badly applied makeup. “It’s so good to see you. Sorry I can’t stay and shoot the shit for awhile.” Then you turned to me.
“What do you want?”
I began with the trivialities. “I won’t be able to finish All the King’s Men in time,” I said. “The tape only came in the mail yesterday. So, do you think I could possibly have an extension until Wednesday?”
“Chill out, Tasha,” you said, in that dismissive way of yours. “I think you can handle it. It’s really not a big deal. Is that all?”
At this point, I knew that reasoning with you about the extension was dangerous, that you could explode at any moment, so I drew the tissue-paper package out of my backpack.
“I wanted to thank you,” I began cautiously, “for writing me the recommendation for Smith.”
“Is that for me?” you said, indicating the package.
“Yes,” I answered, handing her the bread platter I had slaved over for hours in pottery class.
“Oh, this is nice,” you had said breezily. “I will enjoy putting my flowers in this. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. When I turned to go, as if still sensing my apprehension about the assignment, you said, “Remember, Tasha. Helen Smith understands you.”
My steps were dejected as I left your classroom that day. I hadn’t yet realized that no amount of praise or empathy or gifts could ever make you happy, could ever sweeten your outlook on life. It was a painful realization, for none of us wants to accept the fact that we cannot be responsible for the happiness of others, or ever hope to change them. To accept this fact is to accept our own powerlessness, our own existential aloneness. I’ve always wondered what caused you to be so mistrustful of other people, how when I told you that you had been the inspiration for my college essay and asked if you would like to read it, you had chosen to jump to the conclusion that it would be “bitchy,” when you easily could have found great joy in the knowledge that you had moved one of your students so profoundly. Perhaps it was a friendless childhood or an unloving mother. Perhaps no one took the time to tell you what a wonderful person and writer you are. Or perhaps I have failed to understand you just as completely as you have failed to understand me.
I can't make up my mind about how I feel about not being at Smith now. I reeeallly miss everyone, but it is nice to be home. But where the hell is the nice weather?
Lastly, as per usual, I am posting a piece of writing. It's the only one I really like from creative writing class. If you choose to read it, enjoy. Maybe this is close to I will ever come to writing a short story.
Though it’s been a year since I’ve last seen you, I still haven’t forgotten your voice. I can hear it now as I write this, praising me, mocking me. You had two voices really. There was your normal speaking voice, the one you used to lecture us on colons and dependent clauses or to chastise one of your unfortunate reporters. It sounded like broken glass must feel, with shards flying helter-skelter, cutting anyone who happened to be nearby. And then there was your second voice, the one you tried unsuccessfully to hide from the rest of the world. But on the few occasions when it escaped unbidden, and you spoke of Gatsby or Hamlet or Heathcliff, your voice was a wool blanket, the kind my grandmother crochets on winter afternoons, and all I wanted to do was take that blanket and wrap it tightly around me. Of course if I ever said such a thing to your face, you would probably burst into harsh laughter. “That wins the overly-sappy-description award,” you would say. You never were one for sentimentality.
I really did like you, Helen. In fact, I liked you very much. Maybe that was half my problem. I placed you on a pedestal. I wanted so much from you-nurturance, validation, even love---more than any student could reasonably ask of her teacher. But my expectations of myself were even more impossible: I wanted to make you happy. I believed that you hid your sadness in the same dark place where you hid your second voice. I thought I saw it there on the third day of class, when our numbers had dwindled from seventeen to twelve.
“It really is a shame that so many people have switched out,” you had said. “I know it sounds like a lot of work, but I’m not trying to make things difficult for you, and I have some great plans for the year.”
It all hit me then; your vulnerability, your rejection, and the self-centered superficiality of the other students. I wanted to get up from my seat, to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I’ll stay, Mrs. Smith,” I would have said to you. “I understand.”
And I really thought I did understand. I thought I saw myself in your eyes, that we shared the same sensitivity, the same fragility, the same loneliness. I had the naïve notion that if only someone would choose to look beyond your façade of jagged edges and flippant remarks, the corners of your mouth would become less defined, your brow less furrowed. Maybe you’d free your hair from its oppressive, untidy knot. Maybe you’d stop buttoning your collar all the way to the top. And maybe you’d stop biting your nails down to the quick, or shredding bits of paper when you thought no one was looking. I wanted, more than anything, to be that someone.
It all sounds so silly and irrational in retrospect, but reason easily gives in to compassion, so I engaged in my futile mission. I know you didn’t notice, but there was a smile in my tones when I greeted you each day. I would thank you profusely for emailing me the notes from class. When you called yourself a horse’s ass for giving me something late, I would repeatedly reassure you to the contrary. And even when you decided to no longer suppress your emotions, and you thrust your bitterness and pessimism in my face, I would shrug it all off with a laugh. This went on and on and on, until I finally realized that subtlety wasn’t working.
I’m sure you remember that day in March. It was the end of class, and I was standing tentatively at your desk, while you spoke to one of your former reporters.
“Hey, Dave,” you were saying, your cheer as false as badly applied makeup. “It’s so good to see you. Sorry I can’t stay and shoot the shit for awhile.” Then you turned to me.
“What do you want?”
I began with the trivialities. “I won’t be able to finish All the King’s Men in time,” I said. “The tape only came in the mail yesterday. So, do you think I could possibly have an extension until Wednesday?”
“Chill out, Tasha,” you said, in that dismissive way of yours. “I think you can handle it. It’s really not a big deal. Is that all?”
At this point, I knew that reasoning with you about the extension was dangerous, that you could explode at any moment, so I drew the tissue-paper package out of my backpack.
“I wanted to thank you,” I began cautiously, “for writing me the recommendation for Smith.”
“Is that for me?” you said, indicating the package.
“Yes,” I answered, handing her the bread platter I had slaved over for hours in pottery class.
“Oh, this is nice,” you had said breezily. “I will enjoy putting my flowers in this. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. When I turned to go, as if still sensing my apprehension about the assignment, you said, “Remember, Tasha. Helen Smith understands you.”
My steps were dejected as I left your classroom that day. I hadn’t yet realized that no amount of praise or empathy or gifts could ever make you happy, could ever sweeten your outlook on life. It was a painful realization, for none of us wants to accept the fact that we cannot be responsible for the happiness of others, or ever hope to change them. To accept this fact is to accept our own powerlessness, our own existential aloneness. I’ve always wondered what caused you to be so mistrustful of other people, how when I told you that you had been the inspiration for my college essay and asked if you would like to read it, you had chosen to jump to the conclusion that it would be “bitchy,” when you easily could have found great joy in the knowledge that you had moved one of your students so profoundly. Perhaps it was a friendless childhood or an unloving mother. Perhaps no one took the time to tell you what a wonderful person and writer you are. Or perhaps I have failed to understand you just as completely as you have failed to understand me.