My Myth, Chapter 4
Chapter 4: And so, the cries of my birth continued on into my childhood...
When I was in preschool, I remember spending endless amounts of time sitting on a wooden rung-backed chair in Sister McDonough's office staring at the clock. That was my sentence each time I had one of my many temper tantrums. No one ever knew why I was born so angry, least of all me.
One time, another Sister tried to temper my tantrum by giving me her rosary. I was so touched, disarmed, and bewildered by her compassion that I didn't know what to do. I hadn't realized that what I was seeking was simply some kindness. But then, of course, Sister McDonough rufused to let me have the rosary and took it away, wanting instead to deal with me using her discipline. That instant, I returned to my shelter of hatred, and there I remained for the rest of the afternoon.
That was the first toss in my light slumber, awakening me to the struggles of my life ahead. Discipline, control: these were my enemies.
In second grade, as my teacher Mrs. Brown began a lesson one day, one of the students behind me asked me to repeat what the teacher had said. I happily turned around to oblige, but before I could finish, Mrs. Brown reprimanded me for disrupting the class and sent me out into the hall to wait. I was to be an example to the other kids.
Pretty soon, several more students began to trickle out into the hallway to join me. Presumably, our teacher was either trying to prevent a full-scale riot or was having a bad day and decided to take it out on us. I couldn't stand the injustice! Everyone else had been sent out for similar reasons. We weren't trying to disrupt class, but we were not yet in the habit of being completely docile and mute. As I talked to the other children to hear their stories, something stirred inside me as I finally gave into my anger. Perhaps it was the recognition that power and control are blind to understanding and justice.
With the sole of my right foot and my fists, I pounded on the hallway wall until Mrs. Brown gave up her lesson and came out to see what was going on. If she wanted trouble, I was going to give it to her! She sent the rest of the students back into the class and looked at me as if she didn't know quite what to do--a look I became very familiar with all throughout my youth.
I don't exactly remember what happened next, but I have an image in my mind of her talking to me while sitting on the steps leading up from our floor. The memory seems so misplaced, though, like I had lived my life first and then had it inserted into my childhood. Or like it was one of the events predestined to occur, around which my life was filled.
When I was in preschool, I remember spending endless amounts of time sitting on a wooden rung-backed chair in Sister McDonough's office staring at the clock. That was my sentence each time I had one of my many temper tantrums. No one ever knew why I was born so angry, least of all me.
One time, another Sister tried to temper my tantrum by giving me her rosary. I was so touched, disarmed, and bewildered by her compassion that I didn't know what to do. I hadn't realized that what I was seeking was simply some kindness. But then, of course, Sister McDonough rufused to let me have the rosary and took it away, wanting instead to deal with me using her discipline. That instant, I returned to my shelter of hatred, and there I remained for the rest of the afternoon.
That was the first toss in my light slumber, awakening me to the struggles of my life ahead. Discipline, control: these were my enemies.
In second grade, as my teacher Mrs. Brown began a lesson one day, one of the students behind me asked me to repeat what the teacher had said. I happily turned around to oblige, but before I could finish, Mrs. Brown reprimanded me for disrupting the class and sent me out into the hall to wait. I was to be an example to the other kids.
Pretty soon, several more students began to trickle out into the hallway to join me. Presumably, our teacher was either trying to prevent a full-scale riot or was having a bad day and decided to take it out on us. I couldn't stand the injustice! Everyone else had been sent out for similar reasons. We weren't trying to disrupt class, but we were not yet in the habit of being completely docile and mute. As I talked to the other children to hear their stories, something stirred inside me as I finally gave into my anger. Perhaps it was the recognition that power and control are blind to understanding and justice.
With the sole of my right foot and my fists, I pounded on the hallway wall until Mrs. Brown gave up her lesson and came out to see what was going on. If she wanted trouble, I was going to give it to her! She sent the rest of the students back into the class and looked at me as if she didn't know quite what to do--a look I became very familiar with all throughout my youth.
I don't exactly remember what happened next, but I have an image in my mind of her talking to me while sitting on the steps leading up from our floor. The memory seems so misplaced, though, like I had lived my life first and then had it inserted into my childhood. Or like it was one of the events predestined to occur, around which my life was filled.
posted by Andrew at 11:02 PM
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