Thursday
Oct222009
Bitter Memories
Thursday, October 22, 2009 at 06:17PM
Hello, Diary. Listen, I'm a pretty upbeat guy, I think. I'm rarely down on myself; I probably border on arrogant, though I'd just call myself appropriately confident. I accept that I can be a major douche in the "thinking I'm hot shit department." It is a major character flaw. I'll work on it.
I posted a story earlier, addressing my delusions of grandeur as a young lad. These things keep popping up in my memory and bugging me. That last story was essentially an apology for my behaviour. What follows is another entirely factual account of young Tom doing shit old Tom can't effing belive.
---
He was in sixth grade, one of the final years of his "sweat-pants 'n mushroom cut" phase. It was toward the end of the year, March or April. His class was studying ancient Greek culture. His teacher, Mrs. Balaam, was a delightfully clueless Dutch woman. She would laugh at his jokes, and tell his parents how gifted he was. She was one of his closest allies. She was speaking, then, to assign a project: they (her class) were to study one aspect of ancient Greek culture and present their findings to the class in an interesting way (the standard poster-board was forbidden). As the trusty teacher elaborated on the criteria, a short, fat, troll of a child sat with wide eyes and a salamander-smile spreading across his face. He sat there, the thick, greasy cogs of his mind grinding into one another with excitement and cunning. The rusted machine of his mind was cranking out a plan to ensnare the hearts and minds of his classmates; to secure his seat upon the throne of sixth grade popularity. Oh, foolish child! Oh poor, misguided, idiot! Do you truly lack self-awareness to this degree? Stay this madness! He, the cackling imp, was Tom, our misguided hero.
Tom hated putting in more effort than was necessary. He knew himself to be above most of his peers intellectually. He just knew it. If he didn't get the best grade in the class on a test, he shrugged, knowing that the victory would've been his, had he but put in an ounce of work. "No matter. I know I'm the best" was the national anthem in the fledgling state of Tom. Luckily, for this new project, an opportunity of convenience presented itself: It just so happened that the esteemed Weird Al Yankovic, who held the sole rights to music in the land of Tom, had written a song about horoscopes. Horoscopes were a part of Greek culture! Sure, it might have been a bit of a stretch, maybe some research would've helped, but it was good enough for our hero. He had the song on a CD at home, he knew the lyrics by heart: he was finished his project before old teacher was even done going over the specifics. He would sing in front of the class, and be a hero.
It turned out to be a group project–a minor setback. Two trusty colleagues, Mark and David, would have the luxury of being included in Tom's master plan. They would be given subsidiary acting roles to pump up the crowd for the main event. Tom waddled home that day in a gleeful, sniveling clip. The better part of his grade was secured at no cost of time or investment, with his own crowning as a charismatic god as an added bonus. All he needed to do was secure a costume to satisfy the teacher's lust for historical accuracy. Demanding a cape of his mother, he was regrettably informed of a cape shortage in the house, but was offered a substitute: An enormous, deep purple, hand-sewn poncho, the result of a community-building exercise on a Unitarian Women's Retreat. As he looked at his round form adorned in the purple robe, he thought himself kingly. He was a wizard. An action hero. A bad-ass. How sad it is he could not see the piggish, cruel, ridiculously dressed boy, lost in his own imagination and arrogance.
Weeks later, as the due date approached, the complaints of his class on the vagueness reached old Mrs. Balaam's ears. She accepted that the project lacked a real direction, and should be scrapped altogether. The class, shocked and ecstatic, rejoiced while Tom sat in his plastic chair, his flabby bottom sweating with anger and helplessness. How could his chance to be a hero be torn away so quickly? He bravely raised his hand into the air in slow motion, an ancient stone pillar cresting out of the sea, straining to reach the sun. Mrs. Balaam, awash in her sudden popularity with the students, took a very long time to notice the pudgy yet adamant hand in the air. She quieted the class, and called on Tom.
"What if we've finished our projects already?" he said in a voice you couldn't enjoy if you tried. "Some people put a lot of work into these."
Mrs. Balaam was troubled, and now shaken in her resolve to cancel the project. Either the will of this overweight child was unusually compelling, or she was missing a spine. After a moment of consideration, she decided that anyone who wanted to could present their project for extra credit, but those who did not participate would not be penalized. Such a wise leader, she was.
Tom had dodged a bullet, and figured that now was the time. He arranged to present his masterpiece to the class the next day. He was dropped off toting his backpack as well as the bundled poncho, too vast to be contained by mortal back-apparel. He sat through the first few periods with a brick of excitement bouncing off the walls of his gut. Social studies finally began, and as Mark and David exchanged worried looks, Mrs. Balaam announced that the boys would be presenting their findings on astrology. After one last briefing with David and Mark on their roles, Tom went into the hall to wait for his cue. David was to play the role of the master of ceremonies, warming up the crowd and introducing the star. Tom couldn't hear exactly what he was saying as he struggled to pull the poncho over his bulky head, but he could tell that he got a few laughs from the crowd. A good start. Mark, the twelve year old who looked not a day over six, was to play the muscle-bound, silent tough guy you would see playing a bodyguard in a comedy. Whether this was intended to be ironic or not was unknown. His role was to nod and make a grunting noise at one point, and Tom heard it, and again the response was positive.
As he waited in the hall, a confident smile on his face, thrilled to entertain, two boys walked by. They looked at him in his enormous, purple poncho, and though one of them smiled, they didn't say anything. Tom's smile vanished and he looked away, pretending to busy himself at a locker he had been leaning against. All of a sudden, he was naked and afraid. He wanted to explain to the boys that his garb was justified for the performance he was about to give. He wanted to tell them that he knew it looked silly, and it was a joke. As they walked out of hearing range, he saw one of them whisper to the other, and glance back toward him. His heart sank for a moment, and he hated them. He told himself that he shouldn't be embarrassed, and those boys are just the sort of bullies that television and books told him not to mind, and that individuality and a positive attitude were all he needed. Poor, ignorant moron. You didn't have either.
He got his cue, and entered the classroom, eyebrows raised and nose upturned, completely in character. As far as what the "character" was, it seems an arrogant yet infinitely wise seer would be an accurate description. A seer with a passion for purple. A Greek seer with a passion for purple, if you really wanted to get specific. Mark gave another grunt and hit the play button at David's command, and the song began.
I'll pause here for a moment, so you can hear the song. It'll help paint the picture.
Tom knew every word, he had heard the song hundreds of times. It was a fast song, too; how could they not be impressed? David had instructed the audience to stand up when they heard their astrological sign called. As the song went on, and his arms swayed about in broad, sweeping movements, like a grand mage commanding the ocean, Tom began to notice that, while everyone in the class had an enormous smile on their face, none of them were standing up when he called a sign. Eventually, when he called "Virgo," a boy named Mike stood up and waved at Tom. He stood there laughing, ready to hear his hilariously conceived and delivered horoscope from our hero, and as Tom sang, Mike clapped a little. As he finished and went on to the next sign, Tom saw Mike receive a high-five from one of his friends. His heart sank just as it had in the hallway minutes before, and his voice started to fade out. He finished off the last few minutes of the song, as the chorus repeated itself over and over, with a squeaky whisper of a voice. From that point on all he wanted was for the song to end. He wanted to take off the stupid poncho, he wanted to leave the class and go home and lie down. It was like lightning striking him; like a blind man being struck with a holy vision and then given sight. He had made a fool of himself, and was presented with his own profoundly "uncool" behaviour and appearance.
I don't know how Tom lived it down. I know that he started to change. He became conscious of his appearance, he began to think that he might not inherently be the most intelligent, respected, or otherwise gifted kid around. He certainly wishes he could've changed the way he behaved sooner. His friends tell him that this, what he experienced, is simply the nature of growing up: a lack of self-awareness, and a refusal to accept the consequences of one's actions in a rational way. Poor kid.
He'll turn out alright.
I posted a story earlier, addressing my delusions of grandeur as a young lad. These things keep popping up in my memory and bugging me. That last story was essentially an apology for my behaviour. What follows is another entirely factual account of young Tom doing shit old Tom can't effing belive.
---
He was in sixth grade, one of the final years of his "sweat-pants 'n mushroom cut" phase. It was toward the end of the year, March or April. His class was studying ancient Greek culture. His teacher, Mrs. Balaam, was a delightfully clueless Dutch woman. She would laugh at his jokes, and tell his parents how gifted he was. She was one of his closest allies. She was speaking, then, to assign a project: they (her class) were to study one aspect of ancient Greek culture and present their findings to the class in an interesting way (the standard poster-board was forbidden). As the trusty teacher elaborated on the criteria, a short, fat, troll of a child sat with wide eyes and a salamander-smile spreading across his face. He sat there, the thick, greasy cogs of his mind grinding into one another with excitement and cunning. The rusted machine of his mind was cranking out a plan to ensnare the hearts and minds of his classmates; to secure his seat upon the throne of sixth grade popularity. Oh, foolish child! Oh poor, misguided, idiot! Do you truly lack self-awareness to this degree? Stay this madness! He, the cackling imp, was Tom, our misguided hero.
Tom hated putting in more effort than was necessary. He knew himself to be above most of his peers intellectually. He just knew it. If he didn't get the best grade in the class on a test, he shrugged, knowing that the victory would've been his, had he but put in an ounce of work. "No matter. I know I'm the best" was the national anthem in the fledgling state of Tom. Luckily, for this new project, an opportunity of convenience presented itself: It just so happened that the esteemed Weird Al Yankovic, who held the sole rights to music in the land of Tom, had written a song about horoscopes. Horoscopes were a part of Greek culture! Sure, it might have been a bit of a stretch, maybe some research would've helped, but it was good enough for our hero. He had the song on a CD at home, he knew the lyrics by heart: he was finished his project before old teacher was even done going over the specifics. He would sing in front of the class, and be a hero.
It turned out to be a group project–a minor setback. Two trusty colleagues, Mark and David, would have the luxury of being included in Tom's master plan. They would be given subsidiary acting roles to pump up the crowd for the main event. Tom waddled home that day in a gleeful, sniveling clip. The better part of his grade was secured at no cost of time or investment, with his own crowning as a charismatic god as an added bonus. All he needed to do was secure a costume to satisfy the teacher's lust for historical accuracy. Demanding a cape of his mother, he was regrettably informed of a cape shortage in the house, but was offered a substitute: An enormous, deep purple, hand-sewn poncho, the result of a community-building exercise on a Unitarian Women's Retreat. As he looked at his round form adorned in the purple robe, he thought himself kingly. He was a wizard. An action hero. A bad-ass. How sad it is he could not see the piggish, cruel, ridiculously dressed boy, lost in his own imagination and arrogance.
Weeks later, as the due date approached, the complaints of his class on the vagueness reached old Mrs. Balaam's ears. She accepted that the project lacked a real direction, and should be scrapped altogether. The class, shocked and ecstatic, rejoiced while Tom sat in his plastic chair, his flabby bottom sweating with anger and helplessness. How could his chance to be a hero be torn away so quickly? He bravely raised his hand into the air in slow motion, an ancient stone pillar cresting out of the sea, straining to reach the sun. Mrs. Balaam, awash in her sudden popularity with the students, took a very long time to notice the pudgy yet adamant hand in the air. She quieted the class, and called on Tom.
"What if we've finished our projects already?" he said in a voice you couldn't enjoy if you tried. "Some people put a lot of work into these."
Mrs. Balaam was troubled, and now shaken in her resolve to cancel the project. Either the will of this overweight child was unusually compelling, or she was missing a spine. After a moment of consideration, she decided that anyone who wanted to could present their project for extra credit, but those who did not participate would not be penalized. Such a wise leader, she was.
Tom had dodged a bullet, and figured that now was the time. He arranged to present his masterpiece to the class the next day. He was dropped off toting his backpack as well as the bundled poncho, too vast to be contained by mortal back-apparel. He sat through the first few periods with a brick of excitement bouncing off the walls of his gut. Social studies finally began, and as Mark and David exchanged worried looks, Mrs. Balaam announced that the boys would be presenting their findings on astrology. After one last briefing with David and Mark on their roles, Tom went into the hall to wait for his cue. David was to play the role of the master of ceremonies, warming up the crowd and introducing the star. Tom couldn't hear exactly what he was saying as he struggled to pull the poncho over his bulky head, but he could tell that he got a few laughs from the crowd. A good start. Mark, the twelve year old who looked not a day over six, was to play the muscle-bound, silent tough guy you would see playing a bodyguard in a comedy. Whether this was intended to be ironic or not was unknown. His role was to nod and make a grunting noise at one point, and Tom heard it, and again the response was positive.
As he waited in the hall, a confident smile on his face, thrilled to entertain, two boys walked by. They looked at him in his enormous, purple poncho, and though one of them smiled, they didn't say anything. Tom's smile vanished and he looked away, pretending to busy himself at a locker he had been leaning against. All of a sudden, he was naked and afraid. He wanted to explain to the boys that his garb was justified for the performance he was about to give. He wanted to tell them that he knew it looked silly, and it was a joke. As they walked out of hearing range, he saw one of them whisper to the other, and glance back toward him. His heart sank for a moment, and he hated them. He told himself that he shouldn't be embarrassed, and those boys are just the sort of bullies that television and books told him not to mind, and that individuality and a positive attitude were all he needed. Poor, ignorant moron. You didn't have either.
He got his cue, and entered the classroom, eyebrows raised and nose upturned, completely in character. As far as what the "character" was, it seems an arrogant yet infinitely wise seer would be an accurate description. A seer with a passion for purple. A Greek seer with a passion for purple, if you really wanted to get specific. Mark gave another grunt and hit the play button at David's command, and the song began.
I'll pause here for a moment, so you can hear the song. It'll help paint the picture.
Tom knew every word, he had heard the song hundreds of times. It was a fast song, too; how could they not be impressed? David had instructed the audience to stand up when they heard their astrological sign called. As the song went on, and his arms swayed about in broad, sweeping movements, like a grand mage commanding the ocean, Tom began to notice that, while everyone in the class had an enormous smile on their face, none of them were standing up when he called a sign. Eventually, when he called "Virgo," a boy named Mike stood up and waved at Tom. He stood there laughing, ready to hear his hilariously conceived and delivered horoscope from our hero, and as Tom sang, Mike clapped a little. As he finished and went on to the next sign, Tom saw Mike receive a high-five from one of his friends. His heart sank just as it had in the hallway minutes before, and his voice started to fade out. He finished off the last few minutes of the song, as the chorus repeated itself over and over, with a squeaky whisper of a voice. From that point on all he wanted was for the song to end. He wanted to take off the stupid poncho, he wanted to leave the class and go home and lie down. It was like lightning striking him; like a blind man being struck with a holy vision and then given sight. He had made a fool of himself, and was presented with his own profoundly "uncool" behaviour and appearance.
I don't know how Tom lived it down. I know that he started to change. He became conscious of his appearance, he began to think that he might not inherently be the most intelligent, respected, or otherwise gifted kid around. He certainly wishes he could've changed the way he behaved sooner. His friends tell him that this, what he experienced, is simply the nature of growing up: a lack of self-awareness, and a refusal to accept the consequences of one's actions in a rational way. Poor kid.
He'll turn out alright.
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