I tried, I really did. Once we were far away in different schools, I wanted her out of my life forever. It took several years until I was satisfied with my success. I was finally able to think of her without my blood boiling, and I rarely even thought of her at all. There was simply no reason to.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, someone came up to me and said, "You went to the same school as Her, right? Well, She just got married!" To which I said, of course, "Wow! Mazal tov!" while thinking, in fact, "Boy, I wonder what he could have done to deserve her!"
I thought I'd forgiven her.
I guess I was wrong.
Won't I ever be able to do anything right?
Davening at last
You've read that I became a habitual faker when it came to davening, to the point where I didn't even think twice about whether or not to do it or say I did. But one day it all became too much. When my mother called me to go daven, for the tenth time that day, I spoke the words I'd been ashamed to utter for the last five years: "I don't know how." They almost didn't want to come out of my mouth, which was just fine because she wasn't expecting to hear them anyway.
I did a little crying and felt thoroughly pathetic. Then I let her take me by the hand and show me exactly what to do. It was ridiculously simple. It was also written plainly in the Artscroll siddur I'd gotten for my bas mitzvah, so the beautiful leather book went into temporary retirement.
It sounds cliche, but a load rolled off my heart that day. I felt sheepish and embarrassed, but it was worth it. It was even worth becoming, all over again, the very slowest davener -- this time for real.
I did a little crying and felt thoroughly pathetic. Then I let her take me by the hand and show me exactly what to do. It was ridiculously simple. It was also written plainly in the Artscroll siddur I'd gotten for my bas mitzvah, so the beautiful leather book went into temporary retirement.
It sounds cliche, but a load rolled off my heart that day. I felt sheepish and embarrassed, but it was worth it. It was even worth becoming, all over again, the very slowest davener -- this time for real.
Davening: At Home
Considering how much fun school isn't, I live for vacations and weekends. I'd like to just sleep all day, escape into a world with no impossible demands...
But I can't. Because there's my mother at my bedroom door, calling for me to get up. I crawl out of bed and lounge around a bit longer, but she insists that it's time to daven, it will soon be too late. After I'm already thoroughly sick of her nagging, I slouch off to a chair, open my siddur, and promptly space out. I love the smell and feel of this siddur, a special gift from my favorite aunt. It's much too special to bring to school where it will get worn too quickly, so it waits at home for these days off. Its pages are brand new, smooth and clean. I run my fingers over them and inhale the scent of the leather cover, but I never even try to read any of its beautiful, rounded letters printed in pure black ink.
An unbearably long while later, I go on with my day, hoping everyone will assume I've done my duty. Of course, my mother doesn't -- she asks. There was a time when this would offend me terribly, but I've gotten used to the lie already.
Although the habit develops easily, it doesn't stop it from taking a small piece of my spirit every time...
But I can't. Because there's my mother at my bedroom door, calling for me to get up. I crawl out of bed and lounge around a bit longer, but she insists that it's time to daven, it will soon be too late. After I'm already thoroughly sick of her nagging, I slouch off to a chair, open my siddur, and promptly space out. I love the smell and feel of this siddur, a special gift from my favorite aunt. It's much too special to bring to school where it will get worn too quickly, so it waits at home for these days off. Its pages are brand new, smooth and clean. I run my fingers over them and inhale the scent of the leather cover, but I never even try to read any of its beautiful, rounded letters printed in pure black ink.
An unbearably long while later, I go on with my day, hoping everyone will assume I've done my duty. Of course, my mother doesn't -- she asks. There was a time when this would offend me terribly, but I've gotten used to the lie already.
Although the habit develops easily, it doesn't stop it from taking a small piece of my spirit every time...
Davening: At Camp
Different setting.
Same game.
... Different players.
"Look, she doesn't know how to daven," comes the whisper from behind.
They don't know, I tell myself. The game is still on.
"See, she's not standing straight. Her feet aren't together."
They are too! I squeeze them closer together.
"Nope, not together at all. Tsk..."
My sneakers rub together. The only space is between the arches. They won't meet.
"Ha, she moved. She's not concentrating. You shouldn't be listening to us."
"She's blushing. Look, she's not even saying anything."
This is not going well. I can't wait for the next activity to start.
... I forgot that I'm going to flop at the activities, too.
Same game.
... Different players.
"Look, she doesn't know how to daven," comes the whisper from behind.
They don't know, I tell myself. The game is still on.
"See, she's not standing straight. Her feet aren't together."
They are too! I squeeze them closer together.
"Nope, not together at all. Tsk..."
My sneakers rub together. The only space is between the arches. They won't meet.
"Ha, she moved. She's not concentrating. You shouldn't be listening to us."
"She's blushing. Look, she's not even saying anything."
This is not going well. I can't wait for the next activity to start.
... I forgot that I'm going to flop at the activities, too.
Davening: Grade 4
New years mean new chances, and the fourth grade teachers don't need to know that I'm a lousy davener. We're more mature now, so singing the whole davening out loud isn't so important anymore. Instead of singing everything out loud, we start adding some new parts to our davening routine, in between the old out loud parts. There are no more sticker contests or marker charts. What a relief.
The new davening is perfect. All the extra in-between stuff gives me just enough time to say what I've always been saying. It's all pretty quiet anyhow, so no one knows the difference as long as my head is bent over my siddur and my lips are moving busily. When I hear the rustle of movement, I stand with the rest. When they sit, I sit. When they daven shmoneh esrei, I stand just close enough diagonally behind another girl to see what she's doing. Since everyone already knows I'm slower, I pause before mimicking her motions. It becomes like a game as I try to time myself perfectly so as not to expose my farce.
She takes three steps back and then forward again. I follow immediately.
She bows. I bow.
She bows again thirty seconds later. I wait another ten before doing the same.
It's another minute before she bangs her chest. I wait a minute and a half.
She's already banged again, it was two seconds after the first. I do mine about five seconds apart.
I finish "davening" about four minutes after everyone else, which seems just about right for the slowest kid in the class.
Another davening done without embarrassing myself. I've won the game!
I do not realize that I'm the biggest loser of all.
The new davening is perfect. All the extra in-between stuff gives me just enough time to say what I've always been saying. It's all pretty quiet anyhow, so no one knows the difference as long as my head is bent over my siddur and my lips are moving busily. When I hear the rustle of movement, I stand with the rest. When they sit, I sit. When they daven shmoneh esrei, I stand just close enough diagonally behind another girl to see what she's doing. Since everyone already knows I'm slower, I pause before mimicking her motions. It becomes like a game as I try to time myself perfectly so as not to expose my farce.
She takes three steps back and then forward again. I follow immediately.
She bows. I bow.
She bows again thirty seconds later. I wait another ten before doing the same.
It's another minute before she bangs her chest. I wait a minute and a half.
She's already banged again, it was two seconds after the first. I do mine about five seconds apart.
I finish "davening" about four minutes after everyone else, which seems just about right for the slowest kid in the class.
Another davening done without embarrassing myself. I've won the game!
I do not realize that I'm the biggest loser of all.
Davening: Grade 3
In third grade davening gets even more exciting when Morah Bauman announces that we're going to start learning Shmoneh Esrei. This, I think, is where being a little kid ends. Or at least it's a step in the right direction.
Every day right after davening, Morah teaches us a little bit more about Shmoneh Esrei. Only I don't know what she's teaching exactly because I'm always still davening when it happens. They keep saying that the more you practice, the better you get at reading and following along, but it's not happening to me. I'm still mumbling my way through shema when the lesson starts. And the more I want to hear what's going on, the longer it takes for me to finish. It gets to a point where I can't do either, and yet I can't do both. It's terribly frustrating because the longer I try, the further behind I get.
Eventually it settles into a sort of routine. Instead of feeling like I should be doing something else and getting all upset when I'm not up to the right place, I've just become one who sits on the side during that time.
Finally, after months of distracting practice, everyone gets to say Shmoneh Esrei on their own. When I finish shema, the classroom is silent. I look around at my classmates - they're standing, walking back and forth, bowing, beating their chests, swaying... I realize with shame that I have no idea what to do.
Suddenly I begin to have more "kavana" than ever - I pay extra attention to every word, enunciating even more slowly than ever and not skipping a thing. For the rest of the year, I finish shema exactly in time for the end of davening...
Every day right after davening, Morah teaches us a little bit more about Shmoneh Esrei. Only I don't know what she's teaching exactly because I'm always still davening when it happens. They keep saying that the more you practice, the better you get at reading and following along, but it's not happening to me. I'm still mumbling my way through shema when the lesson starts. And the more I want to hear what's going on, the longer it takes for me to finish. It gets to a point where I can't do either, and yet I can't do both. It's terribly frustrating because the longer I try, the further behind I get.
Eventually it settles into a sort of routine. Instead of feeling like I should be doing something else and getting all upset when I'm not up to the right place, I've just become one who sits on the side during that time.
Finally, after months of distracting practice, everyone gets to say Shmoneh Esrei on their own. When I finish shema, the classroom is silent. I look around at my classmates - they're standing, walking back and forth, bowing, beating their chests, swaying... I realize with shame that I have no idea what to do.
Suddenly I begin to have more "kavana" than ever - I pay extra attention to every word, enunciating even more slowly than ever and not skipping a thing. For the rest of the year, I finish shema exactly in time for the end of davening...
Davening: Grade 2
Every day during davening, I wait for the marker to land on my desk. If you get a marker, that means you were davening nicely and after davening you get to color in a space on your chart. Every time you finish a chart, you get a prize. Leah already got her first prize, a siddur keychain with her name on it. It's so cute that it made me want to finish my chart more than ever.
I don't know why I almost never get markers. I try so hard. I look in my sidur and don't fool around. The teacher says I have to sing louder and together with the class, but when I try my lips stumble over the words and they come out all wrong. And the girls go so fast I can't keep up. I don't think they're even really saying the words, it's impossible. But when I ask them to slow down they look at me like I'm crazy and then I get in trouble for shouting out during davening.
So I start off every day trying to sing along, then end up mumbling trying to keep up, then lose my voice and the class completely. Sometimes I get a marker, but not very often, and I'm not sure what the difference is when I get it or not so I don't really know how to get more.
At the end of the year, some girls are finishing their second or third charts, and I am almost finished my first but not quite there yet. The teacher calls me to her desk after class and dangles a blue siddur keychain with my name in gold. I want it, I want it, I want it! She tells me she knows I've been trying and I can have this now. I look at my chart and the four empty spaces, and I know it isn't true. I throw the keychain back on her desk and leave the room. I never see her or such a pretty keychain again.
I don't know why I almost never get markers. I try so hard. I look in my sidur and don't fool around. The teacher says I have to sing louder and together with the class, but when I try my lips stumble over the words and they come out all wrong. And the girls go so fast I can't keep up. I don't think they're even really saying the words, it's impossible. But when I ask them to slow down they look at me like I'm crazy and then I get in trouble for shouting out during davening.
So I start off every day trying to sing along, then end up mumbling trying to keep up, then lose my voice and the class completely. Sometimes I get a marker, but not very often, and I'm not sure what the difference is when I get it or not so I don't really know how to get more.
At the end of the year, some girls are finishing their second or third charts, and I am almost finished my first but not quite there yet. The teacher calls me to her desk after class and dangles a blue siddur keychain with my name in gold. I want it, I want it, I want it! She tells me she knows I've been trying and I can have this now. I look at my chart and the four empty spaces, and I know it isn't true. I throw the keychain back on her desk and leave the room. I never see her or such a pretty keychain again.
Davening: Kindergarten
Davening is an essential fixture in every Bais Yaakov schedule, even before we learn to read. I basically enjoy it and sing along much of the time. My mother never forgets to pack some coins for tzedakah in my backpack, so I always have something to contribute. Overall, it's a rather relaxing routine and quite conducive to spacing out. As the repetitive rhythm of the prayers buzzes in my ears, in my mind I see an endless corridor with rhythmically spaced arches. The arches pass in time to the beat, their beauty magnified by subtle lighting effects. I have no idea what the words are to this song my class sings but it doesn't matter, my visualization is soothing and all mine. It is probably my earliest memory of creating art - though I could never draw the image, I will still be able to visualize it clearly over ten years later.
Welcome? Who, me?
I'm terrified of the high school entrance exams. I've heard of girls not getting accepted anywhere and I'm just positive that I will be one of them. They don't even need the exams; they can see from my report cards that I'm a flop. But I've been trying really hard lately and I really have no choice, so I put one foot in front of the other and stick really close to the other girls from my eighth-grade class.
When we finally reach the high school doors, it starts feeling more exciting than frightening. Girls dash purposefully to and fro everywhere, their uniforms so much more sophisticated than our elementary ones. Everything is different, new, maybe here I can finally start fresh, where no one knows me.
I sweat through pages and pages of test, blanking out a lot but writing things anyway. Guessing wherever there's a choice. Rambling on to fill up the essay page, how wrong could that be! Finally it's over and my mother's here to drive us home. She comes inside to offer my sister a ride home, but she's not ready to leave yet. Meanwhile I listen to my classmates comparing notes with mounting dread -- were we even taking the same test?!
As we head out, an important-looking fellow greets my mother with a huge smile.
"Well, what's this? Another daughter! What a pleasure, any daughter of yours is welcome here!" This man who will no doubt be my principal next year goes on for another few minutes (years?) about how great my sister is and how wonderful it will be to have another one of her. In fact, they're thinking of making her a chessed head next year because she's so nice and helpful besides for being such a fabulous student. And they're sure they can expect great things from me, too.
When we're finally released, the fear is gone. And so is the excitement of starting clean.
When we finally reach the high school doors, it starts feeling more exciting than frightening. Girls dash purposefully to and fro everywhere, their uniforms so much more sophisticated than our elementary ones. Everything is different, new, maybe here I can finally start fresh, where no one knows me.
I sweat through pages and pages of test, blanking out a lot but writing things anyway. Guessing wherever there's a choice. Rambling on to fill up the essay page, how wrong could that be! Finally it's over and my mother's here to drive us home. She comes inside to offer my sister a ride home, but she's not ready to leave yet. Meanwhile I listen to my classmates comparing notes with mounting dread -- were we even taking the same test?!
As we head out, an important-looking fellow greets my mother with a huge smile.
"Well, what's this? Another daughter! What a pleasure, any daughter of yours is welcome here!" This man who will no doubt be my principal next year goes on for another few minutes (years?) about how great my sister is and how wonderful it will be to have another one of her. In fact, they're thinking of making her a chessed head next year because she's so nice and helpful besides for being such a fabulous student. And they're sure they can expect great things from me, too.
When we're finally released, the fear is gone. And so is the excitement of starting clean.
The Choice
At fifteen, I consider going off the derech. I'm not particularly enjoying my lifestyle as it is, and I think I would fit in much better among the "cool" kids. I'm not outstanding at all right now, but maybe that would make them pay attention and start caring about me. At the very least it would show them how much I'm hurting, and maybe they'll learn a lesson. And besides, I really do wonder what it would be like to be someone different.
I do a little cost-to-benefit comparison and end up just about equally drawn in both directions. Then I ponder what would happen if I made the wrong decision:
If I stay frum and in five years I realize I've made a mistake and there's nothing here after all, I can stop right then. A few more years down the drain, but not such a big deal.
If I go off and in five years I realize I've made a mistake, I will have lost all my old friends, estranged my parents, and nobody will want to marry me. My name would be tainted forever.
On that basis, I decide to go with the program, at least until I can figure out what the best path for me really is. It feels like a solid decision, purely logical. I feel a surge of pride -- who would have expected this from the girl known for impulsivity and poor judgment?
It still isn't fun to be a nobody in the frum world, but my mind is at peace because I know I've made the smartest decision of my life so far.
I do a little cost-to-benefit comparison and end up just about equally drawn in both directions. Then I ponder what would happen if I made the wrong decision:
If I stay frum and in five years I realize I've made a mistake and there's nothing here after all, I can stop right then. A few more years down the drain, but not such a big deal.
If I go off and in five years I realize I've made a mistake, I will have lost all my old friends, estranged my parents, and nobody will want to marry me. My name would be tainted forever.
On that basis, I decide to go with the program, at least until I can figure out what the best path for me really is. It feels like a solid decision, purely logical. I feel a surge of pride -- who would have expected this from the girl known for impulsivity and poor judgment?
It still isn't fun to be a nobody in the frum world, but my mind is at peace because I know I've made the smartest decision of my life so far.
Tickle Torture
Fingers come at me from all sides, poking, jabbing everywhere. I scream at them to stop and inside I'm crying, but I can't get out the tears because my mouth is smiling, gasping, letting out shreiks of pain that sound like laughter. STOP! STOP! I yell as loud as I can but I can barely even hear my own voice and no one else seems to.
Along with the pokes come taunts. They tease me about being so ticklish. Am I really especially ticklish? Is there something wrong with me? I can't help it! Who can tell, they never really do this to anyone else. And these are not tickles anyway, tickles are soft and fluttery, not poking and hurting. I can feel my skin bruising under their jabbing fingers.
How long can this go on? It feels like every day but surely they must get bored of it sometimes... It's been months, I think. Maybe years. Maybe forever.
When they don't listen to my cries for peace, I finally break down and tell the teacher, begging her for help. She doesn't seem to believe me. Crying over tickling? In sixth grade?! Who ever heard of such a silly thing? She tells me things I've heard before, about how I should be less sensitive and stand up for myself. She doesn't understand that it's impossible. Why am I the one who has to change? They say big girls don't cry so much -- well I say big girls should keep their big hands off of other people.
But what I say doesn't matter. I can't control my laughter. I can't protect my body. My voice is not heard. My opinions don't exist. My wants mean nothing. Eventually the other girls grow up and the tickling stops, but this becomes me.
Brothers... sheesh.
I've always sort of wanted to join the cooler kids, and I finally get up the guts to just sit on the steps with them and join in. They're on one of their favorite topics -- things their older brothers do to drive them crazy. It's almost like a contest to prove whose brother is the most annoying.
I don't have an older brother to bug me, so I just sit on the periphery and listen for an opening. Chayala finishes her story about the dead frog that kept appearing among her various possessions over the course of a week last summer, and the girls supply the anticipated sounds of shock and sympathy. Chayala seems quite pleased at having won the annoying-brother-contest for now. I join the consensus with "Yeah, your brother sure is a real pest!"
Now she's angry at me. Why? I didn't think she liked him very much...
(Maybe I just shouldn't talk to them anymore. I don't think they like me, either.)
I don't have an older brother to bug me, so I just sit on the periphery and listen for an opening. Chayala finishes her story about the dead frog that kept appearing among her various possessions over the course of a week last summer, and the girls supply the anticipated sounds of shock and sympathy. Chayala seems quite pleased at having won the annoying-brother-contest for now. I join the consensus with "Yeah, your brother sure is a real pest!"
Now she's angry at me. Why? I didn't think she liked him very much...
(Maybe I just shouldn't talk to them anymore. I don't think they like me, either.)
The seventh grade puts on the school production every year. It is a Big Deal, and the most exciting thing about seventh grade after the last few bat mitzvahs are over. All the classes get together for most of the practices, which take tons of time from class (though maybe not quite enough).
The teachers start practice by lining us up in a formation by height. To my total dismay, I am told to stand right in front of Libby, who always picks on me in class. At my sides are girls I don't really know, from a different class.
Sure enough, as soon as the teachers go back to the front of the room to start teaching the song, I feel a jab in the small of my back. I try to ignore it, but a harder one comes. My back starts to throb. "Stoppit!" I hiss. The teacher turns and gives me a Look. I stand up a little straighter.
By the next practice, the unknown girl on my left catches on and joins in the teasing. She and Libby say things that make me feel squirmy and touch me in ways that make me uncomfortable. They are rough and some of their pokes and pulls really hurt, but as fiercely or pitifully as I ask them to stop they just grin at each other and giggle silently. They tease me about that too. I threaten to tell the teachers but I know from too much experience that the teachers won't do anything about it and Libby will really make my life miserable if she finds out.
Still, after each practice I ask the teachers in charge to please, please change my place. They brush me off as an annoying nudge and tell me seventh graders should be able to get along. I tell them that I'm trying and it's not my fault, but they say I have to be mature and take my place like everyone else. I knew this would happen. They never do anything.
I have no more personal space, I have nowhere to go, and I am too wimpy to fight back. In fact, they make fun of this too, pinching my arms and saying that they can't feel any muscle there. The black and blue marks from this will last for days but I can't make them stop. I leave my place in middle of practice and tell the teacher that she has to do something or I quit. She tells me to get back in my place because I'm disrupting practice. I leave the room instead.
I don't know what else to do, so I sit outside and try to conjure up some pitiful tears, in the hopes that this will garner some sympathy and maybe get the problem taken care of. Every time someone passes by I hope they will save me, and I am disappointed when they walk on like they didn't see me.
Finally, someone comes straight towards me. Unfortunately, this is the Evil Math Teacher. Instead of the tender concern I was hoping for, I get a verbal beating about how I'm supposed to be at practice, as if I seem unsure about that. I try to get a word in edgewise but there are no buts to be had. I am informed that I will lose my part in the production and sent to the classroom to do unbelievable amounts of boring busywork, practicing math that I already knew perfectly. After another feeble attempt at self-defense, I trudge off to meet my fate, utterly beaten.
Having never been a major fan of the performing arts, I don't really mind being docked from the production. But before the next practice I am told that despite losing my solo, I must still participate in the choir. In the same place. And now I'm a "crybaby" too.
You know, I never really wanted my solo in the first place. It was just a few words and not really a singing part, the kind they give someone with no talent because everyone had to get a part. At the time I had made fun of this tradition, thinking that getting a part is not such a compliment at all if everyone has to get one anyway.
But being the only person in the entire seventh grade without a solo is pretty embarrassing, after all.
The teachers start practice by lining us up in a formation by height. To my total dismay, I am told to stand right in front of Libby, who always picks on me in class. At my sides are girls I don't really know, from a different class.
Sure enough, as soon as the teachers go back to the front of the room to start teaching the song, I feel a jab in the small of my back. I try to ignore it, but a harder one comes. My back starts to throb. "Stoppit!" I hiss. The teacher turns and gives me a Look. I stand up a little straighter.
By the next practice, the unknown girl on my left catches on and joins in the teasing. She and Libby say things that make me feel squirmy and touch me in ways that make me uncomfortable. They are rough and some of their pokes and pulls really hurt, but as fiercely or pitifully as I ask them to stop they just grin at each other and giggle silently. They tease me about that too. I threaten to tell the teachers but I know from too much experience that the teachers won't do anything about it and Libby will really make my life miserable if she finds out.
Still, after each practice I ask the teachers in charge to please, please change my place. They brush me off as an annoying nudge and tell me seventh graders should be able to get along. I tell them that I'm trying and it's not my fault, but they say I have to be mature and take my place like everyone else. I knew this would happen. They never do anything.
I have no more personal space, I have nowhere to go, and I am too wimpy to fight back. In fact, they make fun of this too, pinching my arms and saying that they can't feel any muscle there. The black and blue marks from this will last for days but I can't make them stop. I leave my place in middle of practice and tell the teacher that she has to do something or I quit. She tells me to get back in my place because I'm disrupting practice. I leave the room instead.
I don't know what else to do, so I sit outside and try to conjure up some pitiful tears, in the hopes that this will garner some sympathy and maybe get the problem taken care of. Every time someone passes by I hope they will save me, and I am disappointed when they walk on like they didn't see me.
Finally, someone comes straight towards me. Unfortunately, this is the Evil Math Teacher. Instead of the tender concern I was hoping for, I get a verbal beating about how I'm supposed to be at practice, as if I seem unsure about that. I try to get a word in edgewise but there are no buts to be had. I am informed that I will lose my part in the production and sent to the classroom to do unbelievable amounts of boring busywork, practicing math that I already knew perfectly. After another feeble attempt at self-defense, I trudge off to meet my fate, utterly beaten.
Having never been a major fan of the performing arts, I don't really mind being docked from the production. But before the next practice I am told that despite losing my solo, I must still participate in the choir. In the same place. And now I'm a "crybaby" too.
You know, I never really wanted my solo in the first place. It was just a few words and not really a singing part, the kind they give someone with no talent because everyone had to get a part. At the time I had made fun of this tradition, thinking that getting a part is not such a compliment at all if everyone has to get one anyway.
But being the only person in the entire seventh grade without a solo is pretty embarrassing, after all.
Nightmares
My mother yells at me to get moving already. It's the third time and I have to leave for school in 15 minutes, so I sluggishly roll out of bed and start to tug on my socks. My mother put my undershirt in the dryer again so it's all scratchy, but I hurry up and put it on anyway because I'm a good kid really and I don't want to be late for school. "Are you dressed yet?!" she shouts, and I mumble "almost" as I reach for a uniform shirt.
Suddenly, the door bangs open and I hear my mother shreik. "You told me you were getting dressed ten minutes ago! Why are you still here?! It's five to eight!" I sit up with a start and my eyes fly open to see that I'm still in pajamas. Wow, that was one realistic dream! Still disoriented, I throw on the clothes my mother is stuffing in my face and stagger out the door.
This time I'm really up (and dressed, to boot). With a mad dash I make it onto the schoolbus... and that's when the nightmare begins.
Suddenly, the door bangs open and I hear my mother shreik. "You told me you were getting dressed ten minutes ago! Why are you still here?! It's five to eight!" I sit up with a start and my eyes fly open to see that I'm still in pajamas. Wow, that was one realistic dream! Still disoriented, I throw on the clothes my mother is stuffing in my face and stagger out the door.
This time I'm really up (and dressed, to boot). With a mad dash I make it onto the schoolbus... and that's when the nightmare begins.
Anatomy (part II)
At the end of ninth grade, I go to the elementary school class reunion. Elementary school already seems like such a long time ago, but the memories come trickling back as the girls in my former class rehash some of our amusing moments. I like when they laugh about things I did especially. They're nice girls and they wouldn't really make fun of me, it's just good to know that I was a memorable part of the class after all.
Except suddenly they're laughing about my science poster and I don't get why it's funny. I can feel my ears turning pink but I can't stop myself from asking what's so funny. I hate being the only one who doesn't get the joke. My friend quietly explains how my poster was just a little too anatomically correct. Now I really turn red, because I finally start to understand what they probably tried to tell me in fifth grade too.
I still don't quite get it, though. I mean, the picture was perfect. I checked it against my sister's high school book, too. But I've wisened up a bit by now, so I just smile along and everyone's moved on to the next topic anyway.
I illustrate the digestive system again for AP biology. This time I stop after the intestines, even though it seems sort of wrong. People seem to like my poster even though it isn't perfect. Life is weird.
Except suddenly they're laughing about my science poster and I don't get why it's funny. I can feel my ears turning pink but I can't stop myself from asking what's so funny. I hate being the only one who doesn't get the joke. My friend quietly explains how my poster was just a little too anatomically correct. Now I really turn red, because I finally start to understand what they probably tried to tell me in fifth grade too.
I still don't quite get it, though. I mean, the picture was perfect. I checked it against my sister's high school book, too. But I've wisened up a bit by now, so I just smile along and everyone's moved on to the next topic anyway.
I illustrate the digestive system again for AP biology. This time I stop after the intestines, even though it seems sort of wrong. People seem to like my poster even though it isn't perfect. Life is weird.
Anatomy (part I)
In fifth grade, each student gets to make a poster for one unit in science. It's so unfair that people who are good at writing get to do it every day, people who are good at gym get to show it every week (plus recess when the weather is good) but people who like making posters only get a turn every few months. And even then, two people do each one because there aren't enough units to go around. I wait and wait until my turn, and finally I am chosen to draw the digestive system. I am thrilled because I know that my poster will be absolutely perfect and everyone will see that I am the best at something, too.
I neglect my other homework the entire week that it takes to create the masterpiece. I select the cleanest, smoothest oaktag from the supply closet and deliberate for hours over whether markers or pastels will create the best effect. I carefully measure the illustrations in the textbook until the proportions on my poster are precisely perfect. The night before it's due, I ignore my parents' pleas to go to sleep and remain sprawled across the living room long after the house has fallen silent -- It is much more important to make sure that each organ is labeled clearly in my best lettering.
I keep my poster securely rolled all morning, and entertain myself through Hebrew class with dramatic visualizations of the teacher's reaction when I unveil my creation. I secretly hope that she will be so impressed that she will ask me to make all of the posters from now on.
When the moment arrives, however, it is woefully anticlimactic. The teacher offers similar compliments to me and the other girl who did this unit, and puts the posters with the rest of her junk behind the desk. A few days later, the other girl's poster appears on the wall. I'm not sure where mine is. I've never liked the science teacher, but now I'm really sure she hates me. And I never get another chance to do a science poster.
I neglect my other homework the entire week that it takes to create the masterpiece. I select the cleanest, smoothest oaktag from the supply closet and deliberate for hours over whether markers or pastels will create the best effect. I carefully measure the illustrations in the textbook until the proportions on my poster are precisely perfect. The night before it's due, I ignore my parents' pleas to go to sleep and remain sprawled across the living room long after the house has fallen silent -- It is much more important to make sure that each organ is labeled clearly in my best lettering.
I keep my poster securely rolled all morning, and entertain myself through Hebrew class with dramatic visualizations of the teacher's reaction when I unveil my creation. I secretly hope that she will be so impressed that she will ask me to make all of the posters from now on.
When the moment arrives, however, it is woefully anticlimactic. The teacher offers similar compliments to me and the other girl who did this unit, and puts the posters with the rest of her junk behind the desk. A few days later, the other girl's poster appears on the wall. I'm not sure where mine is. I've never liked the science teacher, but now I'm really sure she hates me. And I never get another chance to do a science poster.
Incomplete
In second grade, we do a lot of writing. Most kids will probably write every word of the chumash at least five times in three languages before they get promoted. But I stink at writing. I can barely even read the stuff to copy and I never, ever finish in time. So I get lots of homework. The probem is that by the time I get home I'm so burnt out from copying all day that it hurts to even think about more work.
Later, much much later, I will learn that handwriting is hard because of muscle tone and motor coordination issues, and copying is even harder because of vision tracking problems. Or something like that. But right now I'm just slow and worn out, and my parents fight a losing battle every night. I don't need treats or threats, I just want a break.
So every morning I come back to school with only a few more lines done. And every morning the teacher checks the notebooks at our desks, one at a time, and stops by mine to put a big red X at the top and yell "Incomplete!" and her voice echoes in my ears for a while.
Years later, I will find an old notebook in the back of my closet. It is crammed, cover to cover, margin to binding, with stodgy, seven-year-old script. It has red checks, too, on several pages between each Incomplete. I can't understand why or how they got there, because I know I have always been an awful kid who never did her work.
Could it be that I achieved something after all? And surely we must have done something that year besides copy lines? I guess I will never know, because the only memory I have is a shrill, ringing echo...
INCOMPLETE!
Later, much much later, I will learn that handwriting is hard because of muscle tone and motor coordination issues, and copying is even harder because of vision tracking problems. Or something like that. But right now I'm just slow and worn out, and my parents fight a losing battle every night. I don't need treats or threats, I just want a break.
So every morning I come back to school with only a few more lines done. And every morning the teacher checks the notebooks at our desks, one at a time, and stops by mine to put a big red X at the top and yell "Incomplete!" and her voice echoes in my ears for a while.
Years later, I will find an old notebook in the back of my closet. It is crammed, cover to cover, margin to binding, with stodgy, seven-year-old script. It has red checks, too, on several pages between each Incomplete. I can't understand why or how they got there, because I know I have always been an awful kid who never did her work.
Could it be that I achieved something after all? And surely we must have done something that year besides copy lines? I guess I will never know, because the only memory I have is a shrill, ringing echo...
INCOMPLETE!
From Day One
Despite hating school in general, I always look forward eagerly to the first day. Every year I get psyched up all over again about having a fresh start. (My uncle tells me he can do this two to four times a year in college!) See, I generally don't mean to be bad, it's just that things tend to happen... and I'm sure it's really not my fault, it's the silly teachers. So this year will be better for sure, because not only am I more mature and more determined than ever, but there are a couple of new teachers and this time I'm sure we'll hit off great. Yes, the first day is so exciting -- pristine, error-free notebooks; unscuffed new shoes; bright, fresh posters; and another chance to make a first impression.
The big day is finally here, and the morning goes as expected. New young teacher, brimming with enthusiasm, smiles at us all equally and tells us what a great year we'll have. Recess bell rings right on schedule and everyone vies for the best summer story. Even lunch seems to stink a little less than last year. Yep, it's gonna be the best year ever!
During lunch we get our first glimpse of the new math teacher. She is the epitome of youthful sophistication, she teaches my favorite subject, and best of all she's never seen me before. Things are looking up and the new me is pumped for third period.
I'm still excited and hopeful when she pulls me aside shortly before class. (I wonder if she can somehow sense that I"m about to become her best student.) So I'm puzzled at first when she puts on a Strict Teacher Face and starts lecturing me about how we're not going to have any problems this year.
Then it hits me.
My reputation has preceded me.
I don't even stand a chance.
This is gonna be the worst year ever!
The big day is finally here, and the morning goes as expected. New young teacher, brimming with enthusiasm, smiles at us all equally and tells us what a great year we'll have. Recess bell rings right on schedule and everyone vies for the best summer story. Even lunch seems to stink a little less than last year. Yep, it's gonna be the best year ever!
During lunch we get our first glimpse of the new math teacher. She is the epitome of youthful sophistication, she teaches my favorite subject, and best of all she's never seen me before. Things are looking up and the new me is pumped for third period.
I'm still excited and hopeful when she pulls me aside shortly before class. (I wonder if she can somehow sense that I"m about to become her best student.) So I'm puzzled at first when she puts on a Strict Teacher Face and starts lecturing me about how we're not going to have any problems this year.
Then it hits me.
My reputation has preceded me.
I don't even stand a chance.
This is gonna be the worst year ever!
Tears
I'm standing in the dean's office, hanging my head in shame. He's bawling me out for some scrape I've gotten into, and the truth is it was in really poor taste. It's all my fault, I'm sorry, and I'll never do anything like it again. But I'm not hearing a word he says. My ears are buzzing and the only thought that fills my entire head is how badly I want a tissue right now. A whole box would be nice, the softer the better.
Because ever since the dean started yelling, and I realized how caught I was, tears have been running down my face nonstop. It is unbearably embarrassing, and the dean seems to think that is a good thing; I should be embarrassed of what I've done. But I'm more embarrassed of blubbering all over his office, within earshot of the secretary and the teachers' lounge. And of having to leave the office with my tear-streaked face and having to stumble all the way to the bathroom while trying to convince all my prying schoolmates that I'm fine. And this is all I can think of, even if he were actually saying something meaningful.
And then my nose starts running. By the time I taste the snot in my mouth, I am thinking beyond my own embarrassment and discomfort. I'm thinking how absolutely evil it is to imprison a young woman in an office with no tissues and no way out for as long as it takes for the dean to let off his steam.
Because ever since the dean started yelling, and I realized how caught I was, tears have been running down my face nonstop. It is unbearably embarrassing, and the dean seems to think that is a good thing; I should be embarrassed of what I've done. But I'm more embarrassed of blubbering all over his office, within earshot of the secretary and the teachers' lounge. And of having to leave the office with my tear-streaked face and having to stumble all the way to the bathroom while trying to convince all my prying schoolmates that I'm fine. And this is all I can think of, even if he were actually saying something meaningful.
And then my nose starts running. By the time I taste the snot in my mouth, I am thinking beyond my own embarrassment and discomfort. I'm thinking how absolutely evil it is to imprison a young woman in an office with no tissues and no way out for as long as it takes for the dean to let off his steam.
MVP
My second grade English teacher is beautiful, kind, wise, and in short exactly the kind of person I want to impress. Occasionally I even fantasize -- just for a moment -- about her marrying my uncle and becoming my new best friend for life.
Miss Lowenstein has a special contest, and I can't wait to win. Then everyone will be my friend and Miss Lowenstein will love me because she'll see how good I am. The best part is that I know everyone will have a chance to win because there is a new winner every week and there's a lot of weeks. But I hope my chance comes soon.
The first week, of course, Leah is the MVP of the Week. I'm not even disappointed because everyone knew she would be first, she's always the best at everything. Her name goes up on the scoreboard and she gets a prize -- a real prize, not just a little eraser. She looks so proud. I hope I'm next.
I don't win the next week or the one after that, either. But still, every Friday I get all excited because I really hope it's me this time.
Finally the week comes when I know I will be the MVP of the Week. I know it has to be me this time because everyone else has already had a chance. I am on my best behavior all week and Friday is maybe the happiest day of my life. Until MVP time, because it's not me after all. It's Leah. Again. And she gets a great prize, even though she got one already. It's a fancy sharpener with glitter and things that move around inside. I wish I had one just like that. It should have been mine. It's not fair. I think Miss Lowenstein doesn't really like me at all. Maybe I'll never be MVP of the Week.
The year is almost over when I finally get my turn. I'm not even sitting at the edge of my seat anymore, just barely paying attention because I'm sure it will be another repeat. But suddenly I hear my name called, and Miss Lowenstein has a big smile on her face and gives me the best prize of them all. I love it, I love her, and I'm every bit as proud as I'd always imagined I'd be.
Miss Lowenstein has a special contest, and I can't wait to win. Then everyone will be my friend and Miss Lowenstein will love me because she'll see how good I am. The best part is that I know everyone will have a chance to win because there is a new winner every week and there's a lot of weeks. But I hope my chance comes soon.
The first week, of course, Leah is the MVP of the Week. I'm not even disappointed because everyone knew she would be first, she's always the best at everything. Her name goes up on the scoreboard and she gets a prize -- a real prize, not just a little eraser. She looks so proud. I hope I'm next.
I don't win the next week or the one after that, either. But still, every Friday I get all excited because I really hope it's me this time.
Finally the week comes when I know I will be the MVP of the Week. I know it has to be me this time because everyone else has already had a chance. I am on my best behavior all week and Friday is maybe the happiest day of my life. Until MVP time, because it's not me after all. It's Leah. Again. And she gets a great prize, even though she got one already. It's a fancy sharpener with glitter and things that move around inside. I wish I had one just like that. It should have been mine. It's not fair. I think Miss Lowenstein doesn't really like me at all. Maybe I'll never be MVP of the Week.
The year is almost over when I finally get my turn. I'm not even sitting at the edge of my seat anymore, just barely paying attention because I'm sure it will be another repeat. But suddenly I hear my name called, and Miss Lowenstein has a big smile on her face and gives me the best prize of them all. I love it, I love her, and I'm every bit as proud as I'd always imagined I'd be.
Beginning
I don't know where to start my story. Fragments of memory drift around in my head, with no beginning nor end, no rhyme nor reason, no overarching pattern to help me make sense of my life. (If only I knew when it started, then maybe I would know what it was...) There will be no drama here, either, no tragedy nor happily-ever-after. Just a lonely little girl riding the ups and downs of a confusing little life. I've never quite understood what other people think, so I give you only my point of view; take it as you wish. It does not claim to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth; only the quiet ramblings of a puzzled kid all but lost in a 19-year-old body.
So, I'll just dive right into the middle... like I do so often when my grown-up is trying to fall asleep...
So, I'll just dive right into the middle... like I do so often when my grown-up is trying to fall asleep...
Preface: The Child Inside and her unheeded call
I'd like to think The Child Inside doesn't exist. If you met me, you'd probably believe it. She's a pretty quiet little thing. Once, she may have been more demanding, but now she's let me take over her life and I dare say I manage it well enough. All she asks are a few moments to herself during the night... She just doesn't want to be completely forgotten. Who would? So, now I'm going give her the floor to tell her own story. Maybe when I grant her that wish, she'll finally leave me alone...
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