The 18th of September.
Tethered to the Mainland.
Yesterday I went back to my high school, a tiny private school on Cape Cod. I drove my sister over the bridge to Falmouth, eating a banana. The building looks the same, the faculty remains the same, that embracing community feeling hasn't changed. I easily forget what a strong connection I have to that community, to those school days, until I visit again.I wandered the halls, looking at artwork and peeking into classrooms. I shmoozed in the little faculty room, hitting up the coffee-maker to help recover from a mere 3 hours of sleep. In a library bean-bag chair, I finished Daniel Quinn's Beyond Civilization, and rummaged through old magazine articles. I joined my sister for three classes, and went out to lunch with my friend Chrissy who now teaches drama at the school. The halls were full of busy voices, children growing shorter every year.
I enjoyed going to class, re-learning bits about Ann Bradstreet, bits about the French and Indian War. But it struck me, repeatedly, the hopeless fight to educate curriculum-style, stuffing kids full of facts and concepts they don't find exciting and only sometimes retain. It was good, though, to witness those moments when a student would make a connection, ask just the right question, share a point-of-view. Observing how my own life came to be this way.
I went to work for a while.
I cooked dinner at home, for a while, with food mom bought.
My father became upset, following a mistake and a misunderstanding.
Generally, I enjoy living at home.
Afterward, I sat upstairs alone in my parents' room. I sat on an old, stiff armchair, the only chair in the room aside from the wooden chair at my father's desk. I heard the ringing of loud silence, and sipped my tea, and waited for nothing in particular. I looked around and realized I had never spent more than two minutes alone in my parents room.
The room is not messy, but certainly packed full of furniture and belongings. The old chestnut-veneered headboard, bureau, bedside-table and dresser set dates from the mid-70s. The floor offers only the worn tan carpet that came with our house. I recognized that the twelve-year-old floral bedspread matches nothing else in the room. Bills, tax forms, and letters pile high on my father's desk. Nursing books practically leap off of my mother's particle-board shelf, it's stuffed so full. Each bedside table has a digital alarm-clock from the 80s. My dad owns a CD player, but he told me recently that it's broken.
My brother and sister and I have nearly brand-new carpets in our bedrooms, new wall paint, new books and CDs, working stereo equipment, my computer, guitars and new furniture. We're all private-schooled geeks, with cars and all.
I was so overwhelmed at my good fortune, the corners of my mouth began to twitch. That bedroom gives my parents little more than a place to crash for the night during their continuing efforts to provide for us. The household is alive and healthy.
2:00 PM - - - - I want to be ready for sacrifice - 4 comments
