I went to public school when I was in sixth grade. Clay Junior High was not entirely horrible. Yes, there were a few druggies and a couple of weirdoes, like that boy who purposefully cut himself and then proceeded to bleed on my notebook, but, for the most part, Clay was fine. I especially liked my science teacher, Mr. Butcher. He had a moustache that resided under his nose, and it was there that, nestled in his finely groomed hair, a family of very happy boogers made their home. He was very no-nonsense; once he stopped mid-sentence and stared at me. Everybody in the entire classroom turned around to gawk at me. My crime? I had dared to unzip my pencil case to retrieve a pen while he was speaking. But I liked him because he would go off topic and talk about fascinating things. It was in his class that I learned how a refrigerator works and how oxygen came to exist. I also respected, and still respect, Mr. Butcher, especially after one of his students tried to commit suicide during his class, and Mr. Butcher stopped him.
Brandon was a troubled kid. He was in the special education program at Clay for his autism. He would chortle to himself during class and draw funny little animals in the bylines of his papers. His strange behavior and high voice made him a target for bullies. It was alarming to sit near him in class because he would suddenly start crying and silently weep for several minutes.
One day in the fall of my sixth grade year, I was sitting across from Brandon and listening to Mr. Butcher talk about the composition of soil. Brandon was fiddling with his pencil and muttering to himself. Without notice, Brandon looked up at Mr. Butcher and announced that this particular school day had been the worst day of his entire life. Sighing, Mr. Butcher said something like, “Now, Brandon, it can’t be the worst day of your entire life. You haven’t lived your entire life yet. You don’t have much to compare this day to.”
Brandon straightened up higher in his chair and exclaimed, tears wobbling in his voice, “It is! It is the worst day of my entire life! This is the last day of my life because I’m going to kill myself!”
And with that, Brandon seized his yellow pencil and began violently racking it against his wrist. My jaw dropped. Mr. Butcher flew to Brandon and wrestled the pencil out of his grasp.
“Brandon, don’t do this,” Mr. Butcher grunted as he entangled the last of Brandon’s fingers from the pencil. The pencil out of his hand, Brandon slumped onto his desk, and Mr. Butcher dashed over to his desk phone and swiftly dialed the front desk. Brandon had not broken his skin, but his threat was obviously one that should be treated with caution. All of us sat in silence and stared at Brandon as he breathed heavily. Two or three minutes later, two women from the special education program arrived at our classroom. They kneeled around Brandon and whispered encouraging words into his ears. He eventually stood up, his head hanging, and followed them from the room.
Mr. Butcher watched the trio leave the room silently. Then, looking at us, the bewildered students, he uncharacteristically dismissed us before the ending bell had rung. I left in sadness for the boy who wanted to die, and I left in awe of the man who had saved him.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
In Response to "Memory and Imagination"
Patricia Hampl writes in I Could Tell You Stories about the value of one’s imagination and the power of a memoir. In a chapter entitled “Memory and Imagination,” Hampl declares, “Refuse to write your life and you have no life (34).” This statement seems alarming, but Hampl is correct. We exist only in how others perceive us, and if others are not aware of us, how can we be sure we exist? In her memoir How to Tame a Wild Tongue, Gloria Anzaldúa explains how sometimes she feels as if her knowledge of both the English language and the Spanish language are ruining each other. She writes, “… I feel like one cancels out the other and we are zero, nothing, no one (42).” Because we relate to each other through our stories, when someone is unable to tell their stories, they cannot share their experiences and therefore make their reality known. Like Gloria, they are metaphorically cancelled out through their inability to articulate their thoughts and experiences.
Hampl goes on to write, “True memoir is written, like all literature, in an attempt to find not only a self but a world (35).” Anzaldúa hints that she is writing How to Tame a Wild Tongue to connect with fellow Chicanos. She is writing her memoir to reach out to her world. And, indeed, her world, though unsteady, is found. She describes how she became aware of other Chicanos through the publication of the Chicano book I Am Joaquín and the formation of the Texas party la Raza Unida. “With that recognition, we became a distinct people. Something momentous happened to the Chicano soul— we became aware of our reality and acquired a name and a language (Chicano Spanish) that reflected that reality.” By announcing their existence and story, Chicanos existed outside of their own reality and were known to others. Chicanos were truly present in the world.
In the final pages of “Memory and Imagination,” Hampl explains that “[t]he authority of memory is a personal confirmation of selfhood… (36).” Through our memory and our language, we tell our stories and share our experiences. When we share our stories, we claim our own reality and inform others of it. Likewise, when we are told the experiences of others, we are being informed of another’s reality. Stories and language are needed to create a common reality-like life where all of us can exist. Without our shared experiences, we would continue to live in our perceptions. In another chapter of Hampl’s book, “Red Sky in the Morning,” she says, “Maybe a reader’s love of memoir is less an intrusive lust for confession than a hankering for the intimacy of this first-person voice, the deeply satisfying sense of being spoken to privately (19).” These private words people tell us are their stories, and we need these stories, yearn for them, so that we can further understand ourselves and make our reality known.
Hampl goes on to write, “True memoir is written, like all literature, in an attempt to find not only a self but a world (35).” Anzaldúa hints that she is writing How to Tame a Wild Tongue to connect with fellow Chicanos. She is writing her memoir to reach out to her world. And, indeed, her world, though unsteady, is found. She describes how she became aware of other Chicanos through the publication of the Chicano book I Am Joaquín and the formation of the Texas party la Raza Unida. “With that recognition, we became a distinct people. Something momentous happened to the Chicano soul— we became aware of our reality and acquired a name and a language (Chicano Spanish) that reflected that reality.” By announcing their existence and story, Chicanos existed outside of their own reality and were known to others. Chicanos were truly present in the world.
In the final pages of “Memory and Imagination,” Hampl explains that “[t]he authority of memory is a personal confirmation of selfhood… (36).” Through our memory and our language, we tell our stories and share our experiences. When we share our stories, we claim our own reality and inform others of it. Likewise, when we are told the experiences of others, we are being informed of another’s reality. Stories and language are needed to create a common reality-like life where all of us can exist. Without our shared experiences, we would continue to live in our perceptions. In another chapter of Hampl’s book, “Red Sky in the Morning,” she says, “Maybe a reader’s love of memoir is less an intrusive lust for confession than a hankering for the intimacy of this first-person voice, the deeply satisfying sense of being spoken to privately (19).” These private words people tell us are their stories, and we need these stories, yearn for them, so that we can further understand ourselves and make our reality known.
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