notes from the night (Sat)

First off – I will post below my thoughts on my way to work and for awhile after I got to work. But understand in posting them that no, I’m not trying to whine or boast or anything other than what I say. I wasn’t sad. I was “thoughtful”. ponderous. Me. lol
was thinking some about my history.

notes from my night –

Definitely a conspiracy – the cafeteria has only DIET Mt Dew. They have all regular of other drinks (Pepsi, Coke, Dr Pepper) but only  5 rows of DIET Mt Dew. That’s crap.

I remember back in 10th grade my English teacher made us keep this Journal. Sometimes she would give us subjects which we were supposed to write about but we would also get bonus points for our own composition of some sort in the journal. The subjects she generally gave us to write about had something to do with school sports or spirit of which I had nothing to say. I literally remember one question was “How do you feel about our school football team?” and my supposed to be 3-paragraph answer was “I don’t care.”. That was all I could muster to say – completely blank otherwise. Perhaps, after the few college semesters I’ve had, I could bullshit may way through 3 paragraphs of `not interested’ but I’m still skeptical.

I would have failed that whole project, a quarter of our grade by semester end, if it hadn’t been for the bonus composition points. The shy and quiet and troubled me, had in desperation knowing I had no paragraph answers for her on her questions…mustered the strength to write some poetry in the journal. Share my writing. She was impressed enough she actually *questioned* whether it was mine ! I remember in red ink the “Yours?” written on the corner. A similar note on another piece. She did give me points for it and I responded to each journal question with a Yes – not sure if I should be offended or not. At semesters end there was to be this big “talent” display and she pressed me to read my poetry. I would not. Then she got with some other teachers and they set up that those who could not read their works, their writing could be displayed on the walls, like a museum. Oddly enough, I cannot remember what happened with that – whether or not I did that or not. All I remember all these years later was how much that teacher liked my words. Someone was offering me encouragement, instead of discouragement.
I don’t really remember what I wrote in that journal, other than one of the poems was a scolding letter from Mother Nature to mankind. Even then, before it was hip, I was disgusted at the way we treat our planet. But I digress…

I remember that teacher wanted me to send it in to the newspaper. I remember that teacher had talked to my mother about my writing.

By my junior year, the teachers had convinced my mother I could at least write poetry. The news from my 10th grade teacher had spread and some bowling partner of my mothers requested I write a poem for her wedding. Me? Write something for someone else specifically for their occasion? It was bizarre. Uncomfortable. Someone I didn’t even know. But I was too nice and too flattered to say no. I would have been mortified to be considered rude. I did not go to that wedding but am aware that whatever I wrote for them was read to the crowd during their vows. My senior year, my mother got married again and had me do the same. This time I had to be there, but it was a small ceremony and I remember the poem was read for the crowd in our Living Room! I think we were too poor to rent anyplace to have the wedding. I tried desperately to hide behind the corner to the kitchen.

Somehow in all this, Mother still never got the message that her youngest daughter could do more. Could Be more. And so that was the deflated message she always sent to me. I remember when I was 16 and at the grocery store with her, she insisted on teaching me to properly bag groceries, and I quote “so that when you’re a grocery checker you’ll be trained already”. I called her on it right then and there with a snide “Oh thanks Mom” and she glanced sheepishly at our checker and they both knew she had slipped. Let out of her mouth her great expectations of me. And I caught it.

Then the school counselors started talking about this word “college” that I had no idea what it actually was or meant. And every time I asked mom about it her response was this: “College isn’t for people like us.”. If pressed for what that meant she’d explain that my siblings got their “smarts” from their Father (whom we don’t share). She meant to be putting herself down but was putting me down as well. Then she’d make reference to “the rich people” and how that’s something that rich and smart people do. It’s not for us. The two times I asked my school counselors about it, as we were *supposed* to be having meetings with them to talk about College – both times my counselor swiftly pushed aside the foreign word and tried to bully me into the National Guard. At this late point in my life, I’m sure they must get kickbacks of some sort – he was just so aggressive about it. I remember even saying, at the last meeting, something to the effect of “what part of `No’ is confusing?!”. I left High School still with no concept even of what college was other than the information that it `wasn’t for people like us‘. I wasn’t in the Smart or Rich class of people.

My mind just jumped further back. I remember Mr. 5th grade teacher…my favorite teacher. A good man who really cared about his students (and the next year became the Vice Principle at the junior high I would be attending). Mr Sanchez held meetings about me because, at varying moments, he thought I was “gifted” or possibly “epileptic” but not sure which. Odd? Gifted because I could always spell Big words but not Small words. I could spell things like “conscientious” but not most 3 or 4 lettered words. Seriously. Epileptic in some way because I would completely space out in class and he’d be calling my name and they’d all be trying to get my attention and I was far away in some distant galaxy on an adventure. Or mostly asleep and in slumber. Sleep disorder was really that prevalent even in my youth but such things were never recognized in those days. I remember so many sleepless nights. And I later found out I was also anemic and had been all through youth (mom apparently knew, but did nothing). Mr Sanchez was the second teacher to take me aside and care. He noticed I wasn’t stupid, despite “odd” results on tests and he also noticed something was wrong.

I remember the other kids at that school always mistook me for someone ‘smart’ and would try to get me to do their homework. Which I always thought was funny. I was like ‘if *I* do your math you will be worse off!’. I never understood why they thought I was smart and always thought it was funny. I did not do well on tests, generally.”D” (ish) student and that’s when I didn’t throw away the homework on my way home. The TV and Blue Sky were more interesting.
Although I spoke…true that when I spoke, I spoke like an Adult and this always garnered me some embarrassed attention. People would point out, in front of me, to my mom that her young child sounded like a mature adult, they thought it was so cute. I was always so embarrassed. I was always more comfortable sitting at the adult table though than the child’s table..could never really relate to most children (other than my best friend Cindy). They were greedy and violent and talked weird, were hard to understand. I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just form a sentence. I just aged backward, really.
This is sort of funny because my best friend Cindy was the QUEEN of greedy and violent – she was the school bully! LOL. All the boys were terrified of her. But she and I had an understanding.

The first teacher to notice me and care was actually briefly my 2nd grade teacher. What was her name? Mrs Eun- something or other. I feel bad that I can’t remember her name. But she got in trouble for trying to help me. I was deathly deathly shy at the time and would only speak to my best friend Cindy. Mrs E~ noted I was neglected and pulled me aside after class to read to me. It was a simple thing. A kind thing. Nothing bad. But the other teachers needed drama in their lives and got all scandalized about a teacher showing attention to one kid. I remember them asking me about it and trying to phrase it in a way that made it sound Terrible…our reading sessions… but even at that age I was shy but headstrong and confused why a kind woman simply trying to open up a kid a little more…she’d offer me encouragement and get me to read, and read with me…what their issue was. There was nothing ever inappropriate at all. But people do need drama, so she got in trouble and had to leave. No teacher should spend time reading with a student after class! Times have changed a little now, but even so it’s still dependant upon who needs what kind of drama in the atmosphere and who makes everything into a scandal. People just thrive on that. That was my first scar from it.
I remember that teacher, once she got me to speak to her and read (shy and quiet…), she would ask questions about my home and the attention I received there…this intelligent woman had picked up that something was wrong. That I was invicible. No one read to me, my sister just older than me was the only one to teach me to write my name and the alphabet. I have been grateful to her my whole life for that little bit of attention. My sister was the only one and she was only a few years older than I. Mom was always at work or exhausted from it. Dad was at work, then came home and passed out in his chair. No one ever talked to me. This, that teacher picked up on. And promptly got in trouble for trying to be advocate for a child. It wasn’t considered OK at all in those days.

Halfway through my work night, 3AM, and the “I’m SO tired” exhaustion sets in .. :'(

Someone’s first name is “Waltraud”?? Was Walter just not interesting enough for them?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: