The summer after I graduated elementary school my family had a bit more money than was usual and took a trip to New England. We went first to Danbury, Connecticut to see the grave of my father’s hero Charles Ives. I still have a picture of my mother, her face full of comic over-sincerity, standing beside my father, who had his arm around her and looked more genuinely moved. My father has always loved Charles Ives, and the trip was something of a pilgrimage for him. We saw the grave, we saw the site of a reproduction of the cottage he grew up in that was not due to open for several years, and we went to New Haven, Connecticut so dad could look through original Charles Ives manuscripts. This was a special thrill for the old man—Ives was notoriously messy, and left ink blotches all over the page, scratched through things, and left little notes to his editor in the margins saying things like, “Don’t change a goddamn thing.”
I later grew to like Charles Ives too, but at the time of our vacation the whole thing was baffling. His music is difficult even for adults, and even though I tried to like it for my dad’s sake I didn’t get very far. I was more taken with the stories of Mr. Ives screaming at airplanes as they passed over his house and calling his audiences “old ladies.” Anecdotes aside, the trips to Danbury and New Haven were only a distraction from what really mattered to me: the four days we spent in Boston.
Back in the early nineties I was a diehard Red Sox fans. For some reason a station in Norfolk carried all their games, and I watched them whenever they were on. I knew all the players names and positions, I collected their baseball cards, and I wore t-shirt with a picture of Roger Clemens pitching above the legend- “Rocket Roger!” The highlight of the vacation for me was seeing Rocket Roger pitch against Juan Guzman and the hated Blue Jays. That night a player I can’t remember stole home plate, and for the rest of our trip my father told many passing strangers about it, and that “you only see that once in a blue moon!!” I had yet to cross over into adolescent embarrassment of my parents, and the remark seemed full of wisdom to me, and worth repeating.
The day after the game was our last in the city, and after doing seeing lots of Boston Common and Quincy Market in the morning, my sister’s legs gave out on her that afternoon. Growing up, my sister often had a problem with her legs. If she stood for too long the blood would collect in them, she would become light-headed, and pass out. We discovered this in church one Sunday when, after repeatedly pleading with my mother to be allowed to sit down, she collapsed, smacking her head on the pew on the way down. She never had to stand in church again, and many was the Sunday that I looked at her jealously, certain the entire thing was an elaborate ploy to make the Nicene Creed more bearable.
Now she was tired of walking around Boston, and she declared that if she went any further she would pass out. My mother, taking this very seriously and also fairly tired herself, volunteered to stay with Sarah while I went with dad for the afternoon’s business—a long walk to the Old North Church and the Bunker Hill Memorial. I was delighted. Let these women sit and fan themselves! The men were not tired, and we would undertake a serious visit to very important historical landmarks that would improve our knowledge of the Revolutionary War.
My dad’s legs were, of course, significantly longer than mine, and once we got under way his stride was hard to keep up with. I spent much of the time running behind him, too embarrassed for long intervals to ask him to slow down. I was winded quickly from this, and maybe my dad noticed, because he suggested we stop and buy some fudge. This was almost too much for me. First, I get to go on a special man trip, and now fudge? My father’s generosity overwhelmed me, particularly when I saw how much he bought me: two pounds!
Well, we started walking again, and while two pounds of peanut butter fudge was a lot even for the chubby ten-year-old version of myself, I willed myself to eat it all. Every bit. It took roughly ten minutes, and I was running behind my father the entire time desperate to keep up, and afterwards I felt fairly sick, but I couldn’t do something so ungrateful as to not finish my father’s gift, to throw it away. What would he say? So I wolfed the entire package, and struggled to keep up.
We were approaching the famous statue of Paul Revere on his horse when my father said from several feet in front of me, “How about some of that fudge, Andy?”
“What about it, Dad?” I asked tentatively, confused. “It was really good.”
“Can I have a piece of it?” he asked, not breaking stride.
And then I realized that I had eaten all of what was supposed to be for our entire family. I don't exactly know how it happened-- maybe he had underestimated the rate at which his son could eat, maybe he had given instructions on how much I could have and I couldn’t hear him from his position several feet in front of me. Whatever the reason, there had been failure to communicate, and I was miserable over it. I apologized several times. Dad was nice about it and said “Don’t worry,” but he couldn’t completely hide the look in his eyes that said, “Holy shit, my kid is disgusting.” I felt it keenly, and as we headed towards Bunker Hill the afternoon was soured for me.
I think I was still able to eat dinner later.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Astronomy
This very serious twelve year old girl decided a few days ago to draw a picture of the solar system. I heard her say she was giving it to a boy she likes. I thought about counseling her against this, but in the end didn't feel like I should say anything. Sometimes it really is better to let them make their own mistakes and learn from them.
She worked at her project quietly for several minutes while boys across the room played a racing game on the Playstation and I watched to make sure they were taking turns fairly. I had struck up a conversation with one of these boys when the girl interrupted.
"Mr. Everton, what color is Uranus?" she asked me.
The boy started to choke.
"Is he okay, Mr. Everton?" she asked intently.
"Yes, he's fine," I told her, slapping his back. "Light blue."
"Great, thanks," she said, and returned to her coloring.
I told the boy to cut it out, and tried to return to our conversation, but he couldn't stop laughing for a minute or two. I had moved on to settling a dispute over who would play next when I was interrupted again.
"Mr. Everton, how big is Uranus?"
She worked at her project quietly for several minutes while boys across the room played a racing game on the Playstation and I watched to make sure they were taking turns fairly. I had struck up a conversation with one of these boys when the girl interrupted.
"Mr. Everton, what color is Uranus?" she asked me.
The boy started to choke.
"Is he okay, Mr. Everton?" she asked intently.
"Yes, he's fine," I told her, slapping his back. "Light blue."
"Great, thanks," she said, and returned to her coloring.
I told the boy to cut it out, and tried to return to our conversation, but he couldn't stop laughing for a minute or two. I had moved on to settling a dispute over who would play next when I was interrupted again.
"Mr. Everton, how big is Uranus?"
Monday, June 01, 2009
How I Spent My Morning
Before the spring semester wrapped up I made a list of the things I would do with my new free time: clean my apartment, finish David Copperfield, practice the violin, write blog posts. Now that the semester is over I find that I typically use my four hours of free time every morning to sleep until10 and then watch ER for two hours on cable.
I used to love ER, back in the early years before they completely changed their cast and started dropping helicopters on people. I did not remember, however, the frequency with which actors would stand alone in empty rooms, staring at the floor, full of angst, delivering monologues about the costliness of their mistakes.
Scene- the Kitchen at Andrew’s Daycare. Andrew is standing against the wall, arms folded across his chest, looking down-- the weight of the world on his shoulders. The assistant director Jason walks in.
Jason: Hey, I was looking for you; we’re over ratio outside and I’ve got two third graders who are late to see the nurse for their ADHD meds.
Andrew: Man, I love it here.
Jason (rolling eyes): You do a good job Andrew; you belong here.
Andrew (looking up, a wry expression on his face): Do I? DO I?? You know, I was busy, I was in a rush, and I see Ryan standing next to a little girl who was crying, holding a shovel you know, and I thought I knew…. (chokes a sob)… I thought I knew what was happening. And Ryan’s screaming his head off, “I didn’t do it, she hit me, it was an accident,” and I’ve heard it all before, so I’m not listening. I didn’t listen. And I put him in time out.
Jason: For how long?
Andrew: Oh Christ, for ten minutes. And then, you know, then Ellie comes up to me later, after he’s been sitting there, and says, “Mr. Everton, Stephanie hit Ryan.” Turns out she hit him in the face with a plastic shovel, and when he took the shovel out of her hand she fell down and started crying. I tried to make it up to the boy, told him I was sorry, but he didn’t care. What kind of teacher does that?
Jason: A young one. Andrew, you’re not perfect, and this job… this job takes a lifetime. Everybody makes mistakes— you aren’t God, and you’ve got a hundred kids out there, you can’t be everywhere. You can’t see everything. You’re just one man, trying to do the right thing, trying to make a difference. And Ryan, he’s only seven. Seven year olds are like golden retrievers, five minutes after timeout is over all they can think about is finding somebody to play catch.
Andrew: Yeah, he might forget. But I won’t. And I have to live with this.
(walks out and heads back to the playground)
I used to love ER, back in the early years before they completely changed their cast and started dropping helicopters on people. I did not remember, however, the frequency with which actors would stand alone in empty rooms, staring at the floor, full of angst, delivering monologues about the costliness of their mistakes.
Scene- the Kitchen at Andrew’s Daycare. Andrew is standing against the wall, arms folded across his chest, looking down-- the weight of the world on his shoulders. The assistant director Jason walks in.
Jason: Hey, I was looking for you; we’re over ratio outside and I’ve got two third graders who are late to see the nurse for their ADHD meds.
Andrew: Man, I love it here.
Jason (rolling eyes): You do a good job Andrew; you belong here.
Andrew (looking up, a wry expression on his face): Do I? DO I?? You know, I was busy, I was in a rush, and I see Ryan standing next to a little girl who was crying, holding a shovel you know, and I thought I knew…. (chokes a sob)… I thought I knew what was happening. And Ryan’s screaming his head off, “I didn’t do it, she hit me, it was an accident,” and I’ve heard it all before, so I’m not listening. I didn’t listen. And I put him in time out.
Jason: For how long?
Andrew: Oh Christ, for ten minutes. And then, you know, then Ellie comes up to me later, after he’s been sitting there, and says, “Mr. Everton, Stephanie hit Ryan.” Turns out she hit him in the face with a plastic shovel, and when he took the shovel out of her hand she fell down and started crying. I tried to make it up to the boy, told him I was sorry, but he didn’t care. What kind of teacher does that?
Jason: A young one. Andrew, you’re not perfect, and this job… this job takes a lifetime. Everybody makes mistakes— you aren’t God, and you’ve got a hundred kids out there, you can’t be everywhere. You can’t see everything. You’re just one man, trying to do the right thing, trying to make a difference. And Ryan, he’s only seven. Seven year olds are like golden retrievers, five minutes after timeout is over all they can think about is finding somebody to play catch.
Andrew: Yeah, he might forget. But I won’t. And I have to live with this.
(walks out and heads back to the playground)
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn.
My freshman year of college I lived with my best friend from high school, Nick Bognar. He'll correct me on the accuracy of this story, but as I remember it, one Saturday night we decided to take a break from our many drunken parties with the attendant new friends and hook-ups with hot girls, to spend a little quality "us" time. Nick suggested we go to the library and play Gin Rummy. I suggested we play pool instead.
"Only if we gamble," said Nick, who even at this early age was showing signs of the sickness that would haunt his late twenties (Have you seen The Gambler with James Caan? That's pretty much Nick. Shit is sad.)
So we headed out into the bustling metropolis that is Fredricksburg, and found ourselves a pool hall. We were both exceptionally fine pool players, and after we had been there for a few minutes we were surrounded by a crowd of regulars, all of whom wanted to catch a glimpse of our epic eight-ball battle, and I told them all that Nick liked to go by the nickname "Fats."
We had each won a game, when the song "Torn" (a haunting pop ballad that never fails to move me to tears) as covered by Natalie Imbruglia (one of the great unappreciated talents of the late nineties, the owner of a haunting voice and flawless sense of musicianship) came on the jukebox. I was not yet a fan, however, and as it played I derided the song. I might have used the word "retarded." I may even have implied that Ms. Imbruglia was not a singer, but merely an attractive young woman attempting to parlay her looks into a music career. I shudder to think of it, but I think that is what I said.
"Alright," said Nick, interrupting my remarks, "If you win the next game, I will give you my car."
I was shocked.
"I would certainly love to drive your beautiful eggplant-colored Ford Taurus," I said to him, "it is as fine a vehicle as e'er I've seen. But what would I give up if I didn't win, as unlikely as that might seem?"
"If you lost you would have to promise that for the rest of your life whenever this song was played, you would have to talk about how wonderful it is and what a genius you think Natalie Imbruglia is."
"It's a bet!" said I.
You may infer for yourself how the game went.
"Only if we gamble," said Nick, who even at this early age was showing signs of the sickness that would haunt his late twenties (Have you seen The Gambler with James Caan? That's pretty much Nick. Shit is sad.)
So we headed out into the bustling metropolis that is Fredricksburg, and found ourselves a pool hall. We were both exceptionally fine pool players, and after we had been there for a few minutes we were surrounded by a crowd of regulars, all of whom wanted to catch a glimpse of our epic eight-ball battle, and I told them all that Nick liked to go by the nickname "Fats."
We had each won a game, when the song "Torn" (a haunting pop ballad that never fails to move me to tears) as covered by Natalie Imbruglia (one of the great unappreciated talents of the late nineties, the owner of a haunting voice and flawless sense of musicianship) came on the jukebox. I was not yet a fan, however, and as it played I derided the song. I might have used the word "retarded." I may even have implied that Ms. Imbruglia was not a singer, but merely an attractive young woman attempting to parlay her looks into a music career. I shudder to think of it, but I think that is what I said.
"Alright," said Nick, interrupting my remarks, "If you win the next game, I will give you my car."
I was shocked.
"I would certainly love to drive your beautiful eggplant-colored Ford Taurus," I said to him, "it is as fine a vehicle as e'er I've seen. But what would I give up if I didn't win, as unlikely as that might seem?"
"If you lost you would have to promise that for the rest of your life whenever this song was played, you would have to talk about how wonderful it is and what a genius you think Natalie Imbruglia is."
"It's a bet!" said I.
You may infer for yourself how the game went.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
At Least They Can't Make Me Go To Church
1) We were comparing the working conditions of 19th century factories to those of our modern day, and my professor was making a point that was way too interesting for a 200 level history class:
"We tend to think of ourselves as free, being at liberty to do what we want. But think about the ways that people's jobs control them. Think about the hours that some people work. Has anyone here ever had to pee into a cup for their employer? Isn't that a control of your leisure time? Has anyone here ever worked a job where they took home a pager or a cell phone? My husband wears a cell phone and has to answer it whenever it rings; he basically works all the time. That's not to say that our working conditions are in any way comparable to what people faced during the Industrial Revolution, only to say that before we start thinking, 'Oh I would never work a job that treated me that way,' we need to reconsider some of the things people do today for their employers."
I pondered this as a girl on the other side of the auditorium raised her hand to point out that her boss didn't regulate her morality, as employers in the 1800s often did by forcing workers to go to church on Sundays, firing them if they drank, etc.
I raised my hand.
"I know my circumstances might be unusual, but I work at a daycare and I definitely feel like my morality effects my work," I said.
"If I got a DUI I think I would lose my job. And I have to be extremely careful about what I say-- I work at a place where if I said the words "shut up" it would be a big deal."
2) "LIIIIIIIIIIKE A BRIIIIDDDGE OOOOVER TROUBLED WAAATER, I WILL LAAAAAAAAAYY ME DOOOOWWWWN, LIIIIKE A BRIIIIIDDGE OOOOOVER TROOOOOUUBLED WAAATEEERRRRR, I WILL LAY ME DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWN."
We were playing a game at work where the kids were on two teams, each sending up a representative to compete in a sort of musical Family Feud. My boss would say a word, perhaps 'world,' and the first person to start singing "You Get the Best of Both Worlds" would win the round. In the event of a tie, the person who sang the most of the song the loudest would win. The kids had a great time with it, but then my boss called up the teachers to participate. I was facing off against a co-worker, and the word was 'bridge,' and Simon and Garfunkle was the first thing I thought of. She started singing some song I never heard of that is apparently on the radio and much better known than 'Bridge over Troubled Water.' Wanting to win, I was forced to sing most of the song as loud as I could, and when I got to the end I started over, hoping nobody would notice I was repeating myself. I think the other teacher did the same thing. Eventually my boss called it a tie.
I am a very competitive person, and this tie got under my skin. I was feeling particularly frustrated because I was no good at this game, and was losing badly. "Bridge" had been one of the few words I had a song for, and I all I could get for it was a tie.
"Okay," said my boss, "This is the last round, and our two teams are tied. So the winner of this round will win it all!!" The kids all screamed and cheered. My old boss was good at building this sort of thing up and making the kids scream a lot.
There were four teachers standing in front of a crowd of roughly sixty children, who finally fell silent as the last word was about to be called. There was palpable tension in the room. And then my boss said "Home."
I thought for a second too long, and another teacher started singing "Home, home on the range," and, completely forgetting myself, I stomped my foot and said loudly and clearly, "FUCK!"
Immediately recognizing what I had done, I clamped a hand over my mouth. I looked around the room, expecting to see mouths open in horror, kindergartners crying, third graders laughing and saying "Fuck," over and over, but somehow nobody noticed. Even though I had practically yelled the word, I had yelled it while the kids were cheering the teacher who sang "Home on the Range," their enthusiasm masking my tumble into profanity. The only person who caught it was my boss, and I saw her eyes practically bug out of her head as we exchanged a series of glances that said the following:
"Am I fired?"
"No, but only because nobody else heard you."
Later my favorite kid ( the girl who farts) would come to me and ask why I had covered my mouth and acted so embarrassed. I would tell her I was ashamed of losing, and she would laugh at me, and remind me of how often I tell kids not to take games too seriously.
"We tend to think of ourselves as free, being at liberty to do what we want. But think about the ways that people's jobs control them. Think about the hours that some people work. Has anyone here ever had to pee into a cup for their employer? Isn't that a control of your leisure time? Has anyone here ever worked a job where they took home a pager or a cell phone? My husband wears a cell phone and has to answer it whenever it rings; he basically works all the time. That's not to say that our working conditions are in any way comparable to what people faced during the Industrial Revolution, only to say that before we start thinking, 'Oh I would never work a job that treated me that way,' we need to reconsider some of the things people do today for their employers."
I pondered this as a girl on the other side of the auditorium raised her hand to point out that her boss didn't regulate her morality, as employers in the 1800s often did by forcing workers to go to church on Sundays, firing them if they drank, etc.
I raised my hand.
"I know my circumstances might be unusual, but I work at a daycare and I definitely feel like my morality effects my work," I said.
"If I got a DUI I think I would lose my job. And I have to be extremely careful about what I say-- I work at a place where if I said the words "shut up" it would be a big deal."
2) "LIIIIIIIIIIKE A BRIIIIDDDGE OOOOVER TROUBLED WAAATER, I WILL LAAAAAAAAAYY ME DOOOOWWWWN, LIIIIKE A BRIIIIIDDGE OOOOOVER TROOOOOUUBLED WAAATEEERRRRR, I WILL LAY ME DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWN."
We were playing a game at work where the kids were on two teams, each sending up a representative to compete in a sort of musical Family Feud. My boss would say a word, perhaps 'world,' and the first person to start singing "You Get the Best of Both Worlds" would win the round. In the event of a tie, the person who sang the most of the song the loudest would win. The kids had a great time with it, but then my boss called up the teachers to participate. I was facing off against a co-worker, and the word was 'bridge,' and Simon and Garfunkle was the first thing I thought of. She started singing some song I never heard of that is apparently on the radio and much better known than 'Bridge over Troubled Water.' Wanting to win, I was forced to sing most of the song as loud as I could, and when I got to the end I started over, hoping nobody would notice I was repeating myself. I think the other teacher did the same thing. Eventually my boss called it a tie.
I am a very competitive person, and this tie got under my skin. I was feeling particularly frustrated because I was no good at this game, and was losing badly. "Bridge" had been one of the few words I had a song for, and I all I could get for it was a tie.
"Okay," said my boss, "This is the last round, and our two teams are tied. So the winner of this round will win it all!!" The kids all screamed and cheered. My old boss was good at building this sort of thing up and making the kids scream a lot.
There were four teachers standing in front of a crowd of roughly sixty children, who finally fell silent as the last word was about to be called. There was palpable tension in the room. And then my boss said "Home."
I thought for a second too long, and another teacher started singing "Home, home on the range," and, completely forgetting myself, I stomped my foot and said loudly and clearly, "FUCK!"
Immediately recognizing what I had done, I clamped a hand over my mouth. I looked around the room, expecting to see mouths open in horror, kindergartners crying, third graders laughing and saying "Fuck," over and over, but somehow nobody noticed. Even though I had practically yelled the word, I had yelled it while the kids were cheering the teacher who sang "Home on the Range," their enthusiasm masking my tumble into profanity. The only person who caught it was my boss, and I saw her eyes practically bug out of her head as we exchanged a series of glances that said the following:
"Am I fired?"
"No, but only because nobody else heard you."
Later my favorite kid ( the girl who farts) would come to me and ask why I had covered my mouth and acted so embarrassed. I would tell her I was ashamed of losing, and she would laugh at me, and remind me of how often I tell kids not to take games too seriously.
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