I remember a lady who taught me at Creswell Elementary School. Fourth grade, I think. And I'm pretty sure that she was my introduction to learning a new language. If I remember correctly, it was French. Mrs. Caldwell. She was rather notorious at the school for being a little harder and a little bit more of a bitch than some of the other teachers. From what I remember, she also had a somewhat scary kind of look about her. Nothing at all like the school librarian, Mrs. Shuttleworth, who was the lady I really wished I could spend all my days with (because, even then, I spent as much of my time around books as possible - she inspired me to read all the books that were listed as ever having won Newberry Awards, and some of the books on that list [On My Honor, The Westing Game, and A Wrinkle in Time , the Susan Cooper books that began with Over Sea, Under Stone <<"When the Dark comes rising, six shall turn it back; three from the Circle, three from the track; wood, bronze, iron, water, fire, stone; five shall return and one go alone" - I have no idea how I remember that, or even if it's totally accurate, but it's close - this is a credit to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Tolson, who helped the class memorize poems every week from The Random House Book of Poetry - to this day, I can recite "A Visit from Saint Nicholaus" by Samuel Clemmons >> among many others] will probably remain forever in my heart as some of the greatest stories ever written). Mrs. Shuttleworth took an interest in me early on, from first grade on. I was allowed to check out a greater than the maximum number of books for weekends and holidays, and I worked in the library all the way through my grammar school experience.
Mrs. Caldwell, though, she was different. From what I remember, she didn't care for me much. I was a smart kid, not necessarily smarter than the others, but definitely more focused. Straight A's (and straight C's in conduct, year after year - but that's another story), winner of all sorts of annual awards at the school, basically an all-around teacher's pet. Not Mrs. Caldwell's, though. And I'm pretty sure that she sought out every available opportunity to chastise me and point out any and all flaws that I ever exhibited. I wasn't perfect and Mrs. Caldwell (was it really "Mrs." Caldwell or was it "Ms." Caldwell? ...dunno, my memory's not nearly as eidetic as it was at that time although it's definitely much more so than many people in my life - both a blessing and a curse, remember some things with such incredible and explicit detail) loved to point out that fact: my imperfection.
I think fourth grade was the first time that I ever realized I wasn't necessarily the smartest kid my age, that I wasn't necessarily destined to be valedictorian of my senior class at Magnet High School, which was my goal from the moment I attended my sister's graduation there and made the decision that I would one day follow and surpass her footsteps (all the way to Yale, not Harvard - to be a neurosurgeon, a best selling writer, and to become pals with the poet Shel Silverstein). No matter how dispassionately I can look back and remember some of the people in my life, I can always find some degree of merit in the character of even the most malicious individuals. I learned to do that from Whoopi Goldberg when she did her Broadway show waaaayyyy back in the 80's, something I remember watching over and over again on HBO because, in those days, HBO was the only channel that showed the greatest stuff on tv (besides MTV, which showed only videos at the time, and the USA network, which showed horror movies all weekend, culminating in the totally extraordinary "Saturday Nightmares" double feature). I remember Whoopi having a point of one of the sketches in her show where she discussed a memorable quote, which went something like "despite everything, I still can't help but to believe that people are basically good at heart." I'm sure the wording is totally erroneous, but the point of the message remains. I remember that I liked the quote, but it was what Whoopi said next that really gave me chills. The quote was from Anne Frank's diary, and she wrote the words in the attic. From that point on, I decided that I'd always try to find something good in everyone, no matter how detestable they may be on the surface of themselves. The best things I could find in Mrs. Caldwell (besides remembering that I never hated her in the way some of the other students proclaimed to hate her; instead, I felt sorry for her, believing that she was probably the way she was because her life was perhaps extremely unpleasant and nobody liked her - I remember thinking that was something very sad, it wasn't the first time I ever felt that way, and it would not be the last) were two stories that she told us at some point during those months in one of the new "T" buildings that never seemed to have regulated temperatures in the frigid months and sank to unbelievably icy depths when coming in from the sweat and sun of the playground recesses in the warmest heat of August.
The first story she told us was one with a moral. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think that she ever actually told us the story, just told us that there was a Japanese story, this is what happens in it, and the point is this. Two men pass each other on a street. One man looks to the other and says simply, "Villain." As if that is the most concrete and offensive thing that he might possibly have called him. The point was that we shouldn't call each other "stupid" or "retarded" or anything equally negligible and non-productive and downright mean (keep in mind that this is waaaayyyy before fourth graders were having babies and calling each other "fuckers" and pulling out guns to settle the after school squabbles). Every time I ever settle in my chair to create a story, I'm always drawn into the setting first and foremost. The setting usually begets the hero, the good guy or good girl, the protagonist, the one I want my readers to like. Upon the creation of those two very crucial elements, I immediately begin to create the third in the holy trinity of inventing comedy and/or drama -the element that I consider the most interesting, the most important, and the most fun to describe: the villain. When I'm making that girl or that guy or that presence or that symbol as evil as I possibly can, I always think back to Mrs. Caldwell, and I try to make the snake as close to making the other characters nearly beyond better words than the simple "villain" when describing or discussing.
The other story I remember from Mrs. Caldwell, the real point of all my circumstantial, tangential, and overly stream-of-conscious creative meanderings tonight, is also not really a story now that I think about it. Rather, Mrs. Caldwell was telling us that a story existed (was it Japanese again? why do I associate her with telling us Japanese morality tales? not sure, but I do know that there's a reason. maybe she lived or traveled to Japan... I cannot, at the moment, recall) and the point of the story was that one person can put the greatest curse on someone else by simply wishing them this hope: "May you live in very interesting times." For me, this was quite significant because "interesting" does not necessarily imply that the times be interesting in a positive way.
The past few days have been interesting for me. Hell, so have the past several weeks and months. I cannot really say that any one event has been the icing on the cake or the culmination of some fresh, private hell, but one thing I do know for certain: I just can't quite seem to catch a break when it comes to good luck. I feel as if I'm a static-producing lightning rod that just weathers the thunderstorms of life and attracts stressor after stressor after stressor. I feel as if the stress-harbinger just doesn't seem to want to let me fall by the wayside. Maybe I passed the God of stress at some point and decidedly called Him or Her "Villain," and she or he or it took offense and said, "oh, really? Then I shall hope that you, sir, live in very interesting times for a great deal of time to come." If that's the case, I take back the slanderous term and revoke any and all interest in ever using a pejorative word to describe anyone or anything until I've walked a mile in their Sketchers.
Wednesday night, on my way out the door, I got the call from Mimi that someone needed to come right away. Mom flew to her house and minutes later, they were en route to the ER at Highland. She's been admitted ever since, but has stabilized tremendously from the respiratory distress and possible hemoptysis. The solution: taking her off the Coumadin that she's been taking for far too long and replacing it with Baby Aspirin - same outcome, far fewer and lesser potentially negative consequences.
This morning, it was Mom. We spent the morning in the same ER, and I honestly believed that she was in the beginning stages of myocardial infarction. I was terrified; however, like my grandmother, Mom stabilized (but she was discharged instead of admitted) and came home without having found any knowledge of the exact cause or definitively beneficial treatment.
Does it sound selfish to say that I'm not entirely sure that I can take very much more? I mean, I'm not really the sick one. The pain I deal with is something that I sometimes feel I could be hypnotized to eliminate. I wonder whether or not I ought to put off my surgery again until the people in my life are in better spots to help me heal once the hurly burly's done (and the battle is fought and won). But I have put it off before. Because someone else needed something, and I have to go back to those words from the doc, that I'll reach a point where I'll not be able to get out of bed because the pain will incapacitate me to the point of almost complete debilitation.
I just wish that I were in a better spot financially. I wish that my potential caregivers were in better spots in their lives as well. I wish I could worry about me without worrying about how my worry is going to take the worry off where it ought to be directed. I really need to stop being so compassionate (read that right, guys: people-pleasing... I know). I just can't help feeling that there's something selfish about me worrying over myself when I ought to be taking care of everyone else in my life, but when does that end? When does it become okay to really focus on yourself and know that everyone and everything is going to be just fine without you there to fix it? The whole thing makes me angry. Other people don't think about things like this, do they?
This post is rapidly decompensating into free-flowing negativity, so I'm going to end it here. Besides, I have an appointment with my razor and shower to get cleaned up and fresh for the arrival of Tyler once he finally clocks out from his shift and heads over for our much-needed night together. Although I'm incredibly beat, I really hope I'll be able to keep my eyes open for a movie and some time together. I've been looking forward to this (as well as spending tomorrow in pajamas and reading a book) time with him all week. We get so little opportunity to be together, and when we do, the time passes entirely too quickly. It would be nice to freeze it for a bit, to just hit the pause button and click "resume" once we're ready for the world to proceed.
Yeah... if only...
Eleven days until the beach. Fifteen days until I take the fifty/fifty shot and either get fixed or have to consider some other route.
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