Oh, what to talk about today??? My friends, I’m skipping class right now, and I should NOT be working on this. I SHOULD be in class. Or working on my play. I MUST get this play done. I can’t postpone it any longer or I’ll end up with a notebook full of notes tantalizing me all through Spring Break when I’m in L.A., nowhere near a computer of any sort. However, at the moment, I want to write here.
The radio is playing commercials and I have no intention of sticking in a tape; the only handy one is Peter’s mix tape, which is rewound to “Children Will Listen,” from “Into The Woods.” And the thoughts that song provokes aren’t yet appropriate to be aired: not here, not my paper journal, not even a Big Long Letter to Jayden. It’s only 8.30 in the morning, and how much inspiration CAN one draw from the gahd-damn ugly New Mexico sunrise?
I was going to use this entry as my disclaimer entry. You know, the one where I point out all the reasons I’m not a space cadet, a SuperWhore, a junkie, or a lesbian… But I guess it just sounded stupid and defensive. I realize that throughout my journal, I tend to sound more than a little dreamy (and I don’t mean “dreamy” in a Richie Cunningham sort of way…), and more than a little promiscuous. And since everybody else seems to think I’m a junkie or a lesbian, it just seems right to clarify… But fuck it. I’m not jusitifying myself to anybody. Take me, leave me, or watch me from afar, but I’m not lowering my integrity to prove I match anybody’s standards. I’ve been doing that all my life; I’m not going to do it here.
I think I will write about teachers. No particular reason. I just think I’ll write about teachers…
First, of course, to boost his ego, there was Mr. Beck, my music teacher all through high school. He made me and he broke me. He taught me to sing, he taught me to dance, (well, sort of – not really… I’m still a hopeless klutz, but at least he tried…), and he taught me to love music. Oh, not all of it was great. There was me having to leave the show choir because I was the only one who couldn’t get the choreography right and I was too ashamed to continue. There were the constant “let’s-do-it-again’s,” which eventually became less and less positive and became more drill-like, more frustrated. Mr. Beck changed. He did. He disappeared for a year while he went to get his Masters, and when he returned, he was no longer the same person. Pre-Masters, I remember a relatively happy choir eagerly sinking their claws into a piece called “Hodie.” I remember the looks of joy on the faces of the sopranos when they sang their part, and the hearty booming sound of the baritones. I remember finally singing that song in concert, feeling an amazing rush as Mr. Beck smiled joyfully at us and we gave it our all. And I will never forget that last note, held for-freaking-ever and cut off perfectly at the end. Our faces red, we looked around, stunned at what we’d done. The audience leapt to their feet – the first standing ovation for the Chamber Singers ever. And, in a state of near-bliss, the choir members hugged each other. Tears streamed from a few eyes at the beauty of that song, and of finally reaching Mr. Beck’s expectations. Post-Master’s, I remember long hours of rehearsing the musical, nearly crying when I heard that voice calling out in frustration, “Paul, get your act together and DO IT AGAIN.” “No, that wasn’t good enough.” “No, basses, that was LOUSY.” “Becky, put a little more chest into it.” “Helena, it’s LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT. NO, NOT LIKE THAT!” Disillusioned with the man who’d been so inspirational and uplifting, I skipped my final exam in music and didn’t try out for the musical my senior year, even though I knew I would get a lead part. Who says education is everything? Obviously they never knew Andrew S. Beck.
Mrs. Kakusian, math, 9th grade. She’s the only teacher I’ve ever had who I actively despise, even thousands of miles away and several years later. She taught me basic algebra, she taught me some actual applications for basic algebra, she taught me truth tables, and she humiliated me publically. Okay, here’s the thing: I never did my homework. Ever. Doing math homework caused me physical pain. Once, when I was in danger of failing, my parents forced me to stay in my room until I’d finished a three-problem assignment. In absolute agony and frustration, I tore the bedsheets, threw some books at the closet, and destroyed my notebook. Basically, math homework was the bane of my existence. So, one day, as I walked into class, dreading it as I would dread a gas chamber, Mrs. Kakusian accosted me. “Did you do your homework, Helena?” “No,” I said in a soft mumble, staring at my feet. “Helena didn’t do her homework again,” my teacher announced to the class. “What were you doing instead, Helena?” she taunted. “Writing your BOOK?” Instinctively, I became defensive and clutched my books – including a rough copy of the chapter I was working on – to my chest. I couldn’t speak. Everyone was staring at me. I felt like the kid who drops his entire lunch tray on the floor in the cafeteria. “Helena’s gonna write a book,” Mrs. Kakusian explained. “She fancies herself a writer.” ( “So the laddie fancies himself a poet! Get back, Jack, keep your hands off of my stack?” –The Wall, 1982 ). “You a writer, Helena?” “Yes,” I whispered. “And what are you going to write about?” Mrs. Kakusian baited me. “My life,” I whispered. “I’m going to write about my life and my friends.” She shrugged. “You know, Helena,” she said, still addressing the whole class, which was now full of smirking faces, “I’ve been working on writing my book for seven years. I haven’t completed it yet. I don’t know how you’re ever going to accomplish anything like that when you can’t even do your math homework.” At that point, the laughter broke from behind all those smirking faces. Mrs. Kakusian was a relatively attractive and witty person, and commanded a great deal of respect from those who respected attractiveness and wittiness. I held my papers and books to my chest more tightly, feeling tears prick the backs of my eyes. I had one sympathizer: Paul, the boy who sat next to me, who didn’t tell on me the time he saw a pot leaf fall out of my notebook (I found it on the side of the road and picked it and pressed it… that’s all…), Paul, who never did his homework correctly and got teased by Mrs. Kakusian for that, Paul, who didn’t sit there laughing at me fancying myself a writer. I stayed in class for a grand total of ten minutes. Then I politely asked for a bathroom pass and spent the rest of the period crying in one of the stalls.
There are reasons why I loved Carrie White so damn much. Later this week, I plan to write a special letter to Mrs. Kakusian, enclosing my grades from last semester, some excerpts from my writing, and a note telling her that she can shove her math homework.
There was Professor Bank last semester. I loved that guy. He never answered a question directly. Ever. It was frustrating as all hell trying to decipher Montesquieu’s “Persian Letters,” when he wouldn’t even answer simple questions. After all, he was the teacher, and really should have known a few more of the answers, right? He had long hair and a long beard so all you could see were his brown eyes framed by big glasses. And I learned more in that class than I’ve ever learned in any other class. I never spoke much – I never speak much in any class after what Mrs. Kakusian did to me – but I was quite obviously the teacher’s pet. I got an “A” in the class, and all my papers came back marked up with, “I wish you’d explored this more, you have a great analytical mind,” and “good point!” I imagined Professor Bank as characters in each book we read: Roxana in “Persian Letters,” leading a silent revolt with her dead body as her protest sign; Pirsig in “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” an intellectual analytical madman, obsesed with figuring out the world, and too damn smart to pull the “ignorance is bliss,” bit; Karl Marx from Marx’s writings, shouting inspirational words to the working class, standing on rooftops to scream, “workingmen UNITE!” and watching with joy as the Communist symbol was erected, not in glory of Marx, but to the glory of employee integrity. I liked him best as Karl Marx. I kind of doubt Karl Marx had a beard like Professor Bank (whom everyone else calls Richard, but I had too much respect for him to call him anything other than “Professor,” and “sir.” I would have called him “Your Majesty,” but I was afriad he’d think I was being sarcastic…), but what the hell – Professor Bank could have convinced ME that Communism worked.
I guess I’ve been rambling for awhile, and I’d better go get something accomplished other than this journal entry.
Love,
Helena*
“‘So you understand that when we increase the number of variables the axioms themselves never change. For example-’
Mrs Underwood looked up alertly, pushing her harlequin glasses up her nose. ‘Do you have an office pass, Mr. Decker?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and took the pistol out of my belt. I wasn’t even sure it was loaded until it went off. I shot her in the head. Mrs Underwood never knew what hit her, I’m sure. She fell sideways onto her desk, and then rolled onto the floor, and that expectant expression never left her face.”
-- Chapter 9 of “Rage,” by Richard Bachman