the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I was chatting with Kalli today about her Academy experience. (She's a major now, and destined for greatness. And yeah...my friend. Your point?) She told me that that system rated her very low in the “order of merit” because she failed the physical fitness test once, when she was a freshman, and as far as the Academy was concerned, she was “substandard” ever since, even though she never failed another physical fitness test.

I pointed out that her Academy experience is determining her career. She responded (with her usual wit) that her career could thus far be described as “the path of most resistance,” thank you very much.

I said no, that wasn't what I meant. I meant that she was determined to prove them all wrong, and that drives her. Success is the best revenge.

She responded as follows: “Telling someone they can do something isn't nearly as motivating as telling them they can't.”

Which makes me mindful of some of the reasons I've become what I have.

Three moments stick out in my mind.

Keep in mind that I was a strange child (no surprises there). I was hypersensitive and shy. Well... “shy” doesn't do what I was justice. I was terrified of what anyone would think of me—even strangers. I read all the time; it was my escape of choice. Despite my shyness, I was as bullheaded as...well, my mother and father. It was an odd mix, no question.

First defining “moment”:

This isn't really a “prove them wrong” thing, but it's still important. We—Noel and I—sat in the back of the school bus with the Williams kids (Jill and Jeff), listening to them tell jokes and stories. They were incredibly funny. They had natural timing and delivery.

My realization was that I didn't have any of these skills. I wasn't funny at all. I think I was in the third grade or so, which would have made me about 9 years old. I understood funny when I heard it, but I couldn't do it myself.

At some point, I decided to fix this. I reasoned that I just needed to learn some jokes, understand how they worked, and then I could be funny. I went to the library and checked out book after book about humor, jokes, and how humor worked. I read them all, studying the word choice and the power of details. Within a couple of months, I'd read almost every joke ever conceived in twenty different forms and was bored.*

* One great night a few years ago, I was out shooting pool with Roger in Wilmington, and he was telling me jokes that failed to amuse me and I eventually told him this story. He took it as a challenge to find a joke that would surprise me and make me laugh. He failed. (But it was still fun.)

As a result of this investigation into this mystery known as “humor,” I had to forge my own way. From that day forward, only genuine improv has worked for me.

I suppose I'm a bit like a whore who holds out hope that someone will someday genuinely please her. Old, tired, predictable jokes bore me and I metaphorically look skyward, buff my nails, and say, “Beige...I think I'll paint the ceiling beige.”*

* On one occasion, Daddy told me one of his favorite jokes and I responded, “You need new jokes, Daddy.” He said, “No...just new friends.” Daddy, 1; me, 0.

Second defining moment:

We were going home from church in town. I was excited and telling a story to everyone. Or trying to. I was maybe 12 or 13—I don't remember. I was going off on tangents that seemed important. I was trying to get my facts right. (Did this happen on Monday or Tuesday? Whose class was I in at the time? Details matter.) Mother, exasperated, turned and said, “Phylis, you don't know how to tell a story.”

She was right, of course. I didn't have a clue. This tied in with my poor sense of humor. Telling a good story and telling a good anecdote or joke all depend upon the ability to choose the right details and have the right timing—even when the medium is written.

Her words stung, of course, but they motivated me. I already read voraciously. Now, I read more closely...for word choice, details, and timing.

You can, no doubt, see how her words (spoken in exasperation—not meant to hurt) made me what I am now.

Third defining moment:

When I was a senior in high school, I needed one and a half credits to graduate. I didn't know early graduations were a possibility, so I enrolled in a class which made it possible for me to leave school after three hours. The class was designed to integrate us into the work force. A prerequisite to the class was joining their club. I said ok, no problem. (Join a club? Whatever.)

The club was DECA. I was not interested in the club at all. The problem was, the club was interested in me.

Well...it was interested in my dues. I paid the first month or two, then decided I wasn't interested anymore, and quit paying. They retaliated by requiring that I pay all months and the year's dues all at once. I don't remember the sum, but it is irrelevant (also, this was in 1985, so if it was $30, that's like, what? $6430 now?).

This program had two teachers. Mrs. Kendrick was the leader of the DECA club, and my teacher—who was sweet and whose name I've forgotten—was the other. The first technique Mrs. Kendrick tried was to put my name on the board in my classroom, to try to use peer pressure to shame me into paying. The first day I went in (remember, I'm a senior in high school, 17 years old), I asked why my name was up there. My teacher told me that it was because I hadn't paid my dues. When class began, I stood up and explained to everyone that my name was on the board because I'd decided to not pay my dues, as I wasn't interested in the club.

My name remained on the board for a couple of weeks. Then it disappeared. I came into class and saw that my name was no longer on the board, and went up to write it on the board. My teacher told me to sit down, so I did. When class began, however, I stood and explained to the class that my name had not been removed from the board because I'd paid my dues (I just wanted to make sure they understood I hadn't buckled). Then I sat down.

A week or two later, Mrs. Kendrick's and our classes were combined to watch an after-school special about teenage suicide. I was into the movie, so I was annoyed when I was asked to leave class and go to Mrs. Kendrick's office.

She had me sitting in one of those cheesy old-time school desks while she sat behind her imposing desk. She began by appealing to my sense of “team.” I had none. Then she asked outright when I was going to pay my dues. I said I wasn't (and wasn't that already clear?). Then she said, “You'll never amount to anything. You don't go with the flow and whatever you do, you will fail.”

This pissed me off, of course, but I just sat and looked at her. Moments ticked by. Then she said, “Are you going to pay your dues?”

“No. Of course not.” (And if I was on the fence, I'm definitely not paying them now. You bitch.)

She looked at me with undisguised malevolence. “Do you want to pass this class?”

I just looked back at her. It was a standoff. At this point, I was just pissed that she was making me miss the end of a movie I was into (spoiler: the teenagers commit suicide in the end).

Eventually, she dismissed me. I got back to the classroom in time to see the kids dead in the carbon monoxide-impregnated garage. I waited until the end of the period, at which point I went directly to the school counselor.

Mr. Thompson knew me already. I was an honor student (no...really!), and he liked me. I popped into his office and asked if a teacher could fail me because I refused to pay club dues. He immediately escorted me into his office, shut the door, and I related the whole story.

He advised me that if anything...anything...happened to my grade that I couldn't explain, I was to come to him immediately. (In retrospect, I think he didn't really care for Mrs. Kendrick, himself.)

Nothing ever happened to my grade. Of course.

I graduated with honors. (Not against my will, but I didn't really give a damn. But that's another story entirely.)

I didn't tell my parents about this until I was in my 30s. By that point, I had served in the Air Force, traveled abroad, lived in five states, earned 4 black belts, and my first college degree (of three).

Now I look back on Mrs. Kendrick with...well, I don't know. Fuck you, I think. I've accomplished more now than she had then (and she was older then than I am now). Surely she knew better than to use her position of authority to threaten a kid. Surely she knew better than to “prophesy” that I'd never amount to anything. That was just nasty.

So when I think of her, I think—if she's still alive—may the aides at the nursing home take their time coming around to change her diaper.

d