If You Are Lucky
If you are lucky, there are specific moments in life to which you can point and say, “That’s where it all changed for me.” On bad days, these times can be your scapegoats, taking the blame for every subsequent failure in your life. On days of more clarity, they serve benignly as milestones of growth, whether painful or exhilarating. Whatever your mood when you look back in memory, the moments are there, looming large and crystalline out of the blur of the past.
I started fourth grade at a new school: Woodland Elementary. My mother had remarried the March before. We moved out to my stepfather’s place in West Sacramento. Our new home was a little house on a huge Church corn farm for which my stepfather was the bookkeeper. We had no close neighbors, and the levee of the Sacramento River stood right across the road. For the rest of third grade, Mom made the long trip to Carmichael twice a day so my sister and I could finish the school year at Carden, a tiny private school we had attended since kindergarten. But my stepfather couldn’t or wouldn’t pay Carden’s tuition, so fourth grade was to be a whole new experience.
I am sure that somewhere there exist public schools realizing the dreams of John Dewey and Horace Mann—places where children from different walks of life come together and learn from the diversity of each other’s backgrounds, places where gifted teachers devoted to the good of society teach a synthesized and perfect American dream. Woodland was not one of those schools, as far as I could see. At least thirty of us fourth-graders were crammed into a trailer-like module, a “temporary” classroom that had sat on the school grounds for many years, judging by the height of the weeds that surrounded it.
Here was cultural awakening. From the boys, I learned about pencil fights, football games with those folded paper triangles, and who the Sweat Hogs were. I was amazed at the intricately detailed sketches of race cars, tanks, and airplanes produced on virtually any surface: desktops, forearms, the backs of fabulously smelly dittoed sheets of papers. Among the girls, the topic of endless discussion was Love. Who was the cutest boy at school? Who had kissed whom behind the baseball backstop? Who had written whose initials on the bathroom wall? These questions never ceased to engage the young minds of my peers.
Whereas at Carden, scholastic achievement determined social status, here at Woodland, a different pecking order applied. The undisputed king of fourth grade was a boy named Doug. Despite the setbacks of an undernourished frame, a crew cut, and a somewhat scabby nose, Doug ruled by virtue of his incredible, wiry strength and his equally stupendous gift for clowning. He must have had an older brother from whom to learn the finer points of bathroom humor and the sounds that can be made with one’s armpit. If Doug were in fourth grade today, no doubt he would be medicated somehow—but in 1975, Doug’s spirit ran unfettered. Though he disrupted the class constantly, he could elicit exasperated giggles from our harassed and generally apathetic teacher without much effort. At one point in the first week of school, Doug sauntered over to my desk, where I sat reading. He gazed at me for a moment. When I looked up to see what he wanted, he pointed at me and solemnly proclaimed, “You’re not normal.” The king had spoken.
Doug’s assessment was accurate; I didn’t have much to contribute to the group. For the other children, class time served only to fill the breaks between the real point of school: recess. Here, I was at sea. I didn’t know how to traverse the monkey bars and I failed to grasp the finer points of dodgeball. My prodigious jump rope skills were no help; that pastime was enjoyed only by those tiny untouchables on the fenced-off kindergarten playground.
Indoors, I was similarly useless. I had no way to keep up with fashion and popular culture. My grandmother made my clothes (never pants), and previous to this, my only requirement as far as my hairstyle went was that it be out of my eyes. Since I had no idea who John Travolta or David Cassidy were, girls stopped trying to start conversations with me. Always a sure defense against the anger and chaos at home, books became my best friends at school as well.
In the classroom, I found that hand raising did not produce the reinforcing approval to which I was accustomed. I didn’t yet notice the subtle ritual others performed each time the teacher looked their way: the ducking of the chin, the evasive eye maneuvers, the preternatural stillness that sought to avoid attention. My teacher met my eager hand waving with a bewildering sequence of reactions. First, an exaggerated look around for any other takers. Then came a flash of irritation at my persistence. Last, a resigned sigh as she called on me. The snickers and rolled eyes of my classmates sank into my consciousness, but since I couldn’t connect them with my behavior, I disregarded them.
Change came about a month into the school year. The trailer remained my homeroom, but I was sent to spend most of the day in the fifth-grade classroom in the main school building. This pleased me for two reasons. First, the old and relatively comfortable room, with high ceiling and large windows, made a nice change from the stuffy, ugly modular. Second, and far more important, Cynthia Crandall was in the fifth grade.
Cynthia’s family lived down the road from us on County Road 117 and was in our church congregation. She was the only Mormon girl close to my age at school. We rode the bus together—a long ride, at least a half hour each way. It would seem at first glance that here lay potential for friendship. But between us stretched an abyss. Cynthia’s family had money; ours barely scraped by on my stepfather’s salary. Her father was the lay priesthood leader over several congregations; my stepfather, having gotten a job and met my mother, found no further use for the Church and lapsed into hostile inactivity.
Cynthia took frequent ballet classes and looked the part, being skinny to the point of frailty. I had the sturdy build of my peasant ancestors, accentuated by my dirndl skirts and knee socks. Her long, shiny, perfectly straight hair, parted down the middle, represented the height of style. My mother cut my hair in the easy-care bob with bangs that would not come into fashion for another ten years. Ah, how I worshipped Cynthia—a member of every inner circle I could now see and covet.
In a matter of weeks, we were put together in a small reading group along with Cynthia’s two best friends, Mary Beth Petersen and Susie Johns, and a couple of boys. Our principal himself led our group in his office every afternoon. At the time, I had no idea how unusual this was. Mr. Stevens was young and handsome; his kind brown eyes resembled those of Donny Osmond. But it was his enthusiasm for teaching and learning that won him my undying love and loyalty. In our group, we read novels and talked about them. Even better, each Monday, Mr. Stevens required us to choose a poem from one of his many collections, memorize it, and recite it the following week. I couldn’t get enough of those gorgeous words I could barely understand. It was heaven, this class of ours. Discussions were lively, my input valued. My confidence, which had begun to erode, strengthened again.
Bonus: at recess, Cynthia, Mary Beth, and Susie let me tag along. Cynthia, for all her obvious perfection, was not the leader of this little clique. That honor rested with tall, blonde, tomboyish Mary Beth, who lived on a farm across the street from the school. Glad to have an alternative to sitting alone each recess, I happily followed the three girls everywhere. Fifth graders eschewed the playground for the more refined pleasure of walking around the soccer field in small clusters. Based on my experiences with the fourth-grade social set, I suppressed my impulses to continue conversations about books or poetry. Instead, I nodded and made agreeing noises while the others pored over and analyzed the merits or flaws of local boys or the latest Tiger Beat cover celebrity. I took my cues from Cynthia, who never brought up Church, ballet, or anything else that would set her apart, render her unique.
One day as we circled the soccer field for the umpteenth time, Mary Beth gave us the astonishing news that she was getting her own horse. Cynthia and Susie were instantly and appropriately worshipful. Yes, Mary Beth went on grandly, her father had bought her a palomino named Dusty, and she would be able to ride him after school every day. And—she let it drop, out of pity and benevolence—at some point in the far future, she might let her friends ride him, too. I was thrilled at her good fortune, but even more exciting was the discovery that Mary Beth and I had something in common.
“I have a horse!” I blurted out. I was instantly subdued by the raised eyebrows of all three girls, who turned around to stare at me. “Well, he’s a pony,” I added lamely.
Mary Beth sneered in obvious relief. “Oh, really. Tell us about your pony.”
Not realizing my danger, I described Dimples, who lived on my grandfather’s ranch in Arizona. He was a sweet, gentle pony who loved to eat apples and carrots out of my hand. My grandfather had given him to me when I was four, and I hadn’t seen him for a while, but he was still there, still mine.
I trailed off as Mary Beth turned away, satisfied that I posed no real threat. Her acolytes followed close behind. “He’s only a pony,” she threw over her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll let you see what a real horse is like someday.”
***
About twelve years later, I found out that I had been duped regarding my treasured pony. I sat at dinner one night with my cousins Jason, Steven, and Travis. We hadn’t seen each other for years and were busy catching up and reminiscing. I brought up Dimples as we talked about visits to Gampy’s ranch.
“Your pony,” snorted Jason. “Dimples was mine and Steven’s.”
“No, Gampy gave Dimples to me,” Travis quickly corrected. Stunned, we looked around the table at each other. We all ended up laughing about it, but we each went away feeling a subtle sense of loss as we pondered the shrewdness of our grandfather, so efficient in his gift giving and heart winning. At least Dimples was well loved.
***
In November came more disruption to my school schedule. I went once a week to the school psychologist, Dr. Johnson, who shared a cramped office with the nurse. I enjoyed these sessions and didn’t question why they occurred. Behind a folding screen, Dr. Johnson set two desks facing each other. I sat at one and blazed through activities she put out for me while she sat at the other, making copious notes. Sometimes I solved puzzles or mazes while she timed me. Other times, I played math or logic games and answered vocabulary quizzes. Whatever it was, I dug in with relish, oblivious to the sounds of the nurse’s ministrations to various sick or injured children just inches away.
Time flew by; I regretted having to leave Dr. Johnson’s office each week. However, with my fledgling social senses, I could tell my visits could easily become the cause of instant and prolonged mockery. Fortunately, I had an alibi in the fourth-grade homeroom. By some grace, my secret stayed safe, and my new friends remained none the wiser for months.
One brisk day in March, my mother surprised me by picking me up early from school. She’d been to a meeting about me and wanted to talk. My sisters would ride the bus home as usual. I was cautiously pleased at the prospect of some time alone with Mom. As we drove, I asked my mother whether something was wrong; why would she have a meeting about me, when parent-teacher conferences had been months ago?
“You’re a very lucky girl,” Mom answered. “Mr. Stevens and Dr. Johnson think you’re extraordinary. They’d like to try advancing you several grades.”
I tried to make sense of this while noticing how proud my mother seemed.
She went on. “I think it would be a mistake to overdo it, but what would you think about skipping fifth grade? It means you would go straight to middle school next year.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my joy was so intense. All winter, as I’d grown more secure in my tenuous friendship with Mary Beth, Susie, and Cynthia, the thought of the future had plagued me. What would happen next year, when they went on to greater glory and I was doomed to stay behind? This was the answer to many a fervent prayer. God had reached down and blessed me by changing the natural order of things, by working a real miracle.
“Oh, yes, that would be great!” I shouted. My mother laughed.
“You’re a very lucky girl,” she repeated.
I could barely sleep that night. I listened to the heavy rain on the roof and envisioned scene after scene of social success in sixth grade. On the bus the next morning, I almost shared my good news with Cynthia—but decided to wait until recess, when I could tell my three friends all together. For once, I concentrated not at all on my schoolwork, as frantic for recess to come as the rest of the class.
Finally, we were out on the soccer field as usual, picking our way across the mud and puddles left by the previous night’s storm. Mary Beth was asking the others’ advice about inviting Shane, a boy she liked, over to worship at the altar of Dusty. Would a mere boy, even as worthy a candidate as Shane, properly appreciate her palomino’s wonders?
I grew impatient as the issue was turned over and over. Finally, I could take no more of the suspense. “Umm, you guys,” I began, knowing that to interrupt was a sin, but unable to help myself. “I have some great news.”
The girls stopped and turned back to me. “Well?” Susie said.
“I get to skip fifth grade! I get to go with you to middle school next year. We’ll all be together. All of us.” I waited for the congratulations of my dreams.
No one moved. “Who said?” asked Mary Beth after a moment, her eyes narrowed, her voice cold.
“Well, my mom told me, but Mr. Stevens told her.” Now I was nervous. My friends clearly weren’t taking this the way I’d hoped. They weren’t happy at all.
In fact, Mary Beth looked downright furious. She stepped toward me. Cynthia and Susie backed up a few feet. “You will never be one of us,” Mary Beth hissed into my face, poking me in the chest with a hard forefinger. Then she shoved me. I flopped backwards into a big patch of mud. “C’mon, Susie,” she called over her shoulder. “Get her other leg.” They grabbed me by the ankles and ran, dragging me along the sodden ground behind them.
I was paralyzed with embarrassment and fear, not knowing how to fight back. I could hear the shocked laughter of the other fifth graders, who stood watching this bizarre display. Finally, the bell rang. Mary Beth and Susie let go of me and ran into the school without a backward glance. I assume Cynthia and all the others did the same. I was too numb to notice.
I lay in the cold muck and looked up at the troubled March sky. I felt chilly water seep into my socks, the back of my dress, my hair. My skirt and slip were rucked up under my arms, but none of that mattered. Scraps of poetry flitted through my mind as I watched gray clouds scudding toward the horizon. I closed my eyes and prayed for death to come.
Death did not oblige, but Mr. Stevens did. I opened my eyes to his face at close range as he bent to pick me up. Heedless of the filth I spattered over his once immaculate suit, he carried me all the way across the field, up to the school, and on into the nurse’s office. I didn’t enjoy being rescued by this handsome man; I didn’t care that my underwear was on display. I was in a faraway place. To anxious entreaties from the adults crowded above me as I lay on the nurse’s cot, I answered only that I had fallen. As the nurse used rough, brown paper toweling to get the worst of the mud off me, I heard Mr. Stevens on the phone, first asking my mother to pick me up, then requesting to speak to Mary Beth’s mother across the street.
At this I sat up in alarm, but relaxed when he said only that a student had fallen, and could she borrow a set of Mary Beth’s clothes in which to go home?
Mrs. Petersen arrived a few minutes later, a plastic bag under her arm. She was tall, blonde, and tan, just like her daughter, but her eyes were kind as she helped me dress in the unfamiliar things. Pink Toughskins, I remember, with the legs rolled up several inches, and a sweater that smelled faintly of hay.
Did I know her daughter, she wanted to know as she bundled up my wet clothes.
I nodded. She asked my name. I whispered it. She frowned momentarily.
“I’ve never heard her mention you,” she said.
I shrugged, then mumbled my gratitude.
She squeezed my arm. “I’m glad I could help.” She smiled and left.
I never told anyone what really happened on the soccer field that day. I never spoke to the girls again, nor they to me. I like to think Cynthia was embarrassed. It was her passive betrayal that most jolted and confused me. Perhaps because we had religion in common, I held her to a higher standard of conduct. Whatever it was, I couldn’t find a way to address the issue with her. We worked hard at ignoring each other at church, in class, and on the bus. The incident also caused my love affair with horses to wane, which was probably for the best, since Dimples was living out his pony life a thousand miles away.
The rest of the school year passed in a dull fog, broken only in memory by my brief but impassioned crusade against a stubborn librarian to have the complete works of Laura Ingalls Wilder moved from Juvenile Fiction to Biography. In June, my family moved to another town. I never saw Cynthia, Doug, or the fascinating Mr. Stevens again; for many years, I tried never to think of them. The next fall, as I entered sixth grade, I worked hard at blending into the background. It seemed the art of invisibility was a skill I would need. In the years to come, my prescience worked in my favor.
If you are lucky, you will learn to navigate the treacherous waters of social interaction early and effortlessly, the way some children learn to ice skate or ride bikes with no lasting trauma. If you are lucky, you will learn hard lessons once, and once only. If you are lucky, you will recognize true friendship when it is bestowed and appreciate help when it is given. You will remember mud and March and ponies and fourth grade with some sweet mixed in with the bitter, if you are lucky.
Originally published in the essay collection Silent Notes Taken, edited by Glen Nelson and published by Mormon Artists Group in 2002.