knowing my mother was a reasonable woman, “I really think you have gotten the wrong impression of Kimball. I am learning sooooo much every day!” And when that failed I banged my fingers with the ketchup bottle.
But Mom brushed aside all disputes with one sentence: “Sweetie, I know you like Kimball, but I don’t think you have what it takes to be a professional street fighter.”
My mom was a sarcastic person. That’s actually what led to the tests to get me into IPP. After my teacher tried to kick me out of kindergarten for sarcasm, Mom started taking me to get all these tests done—one a year for three years. I think it was her way of defending her personality. If I was sarcastic, I learned it from her. And while sarcasm being related to IQ is debatable, Mom felt it was now a fact. So, as I left my neighborhood school—my “behavioral problem” and “foul mouth” now a symptom of a frustrated genius (I preferred “wunderkind”)—my mom couldn’t get on the line fast enough to tell all my old teachers to go fuck themselves.
I, however, was inconsolable. I had just started to feel comfortable with the neighborhood kids and now I was moving. Plus there was Dad—I could tell by the way this was all going down that he wasn’t happy with it. That night, when Mom dropped me home after Red Robin, he yelled at her and she got this tone in her voice like she was talking and getting electrolysis at the same time.
And when Dad came back in, he sat down next to me on the couch and said, “So . . . I guess your mom told you ’bout them tests.” I told my dad how nervous I was to go to a whole new school where I didn’t have friends like I did at Kimball.
“Well . . . ,” Dad said. “You keep your friends at Kimball—that’s called integrity. You go to school to learn. You don’t need to be making all kind of friends when you’re learning.”
“Yeah,” I said, unsure. “But you need people to play with at recess and stuff.”
“You just need to learn there. You be you at recess.”
“What about lunch?” I asked.
“You be you at lunch, too.” I must have looked confused, because Dad explained it to me. “Okay. You’re goin’ to a new school, let me put it this way: Your neighborhood is where you live!”
Monday morning I decided my two-week-old cornrows were too messy and pulled them all out before I got in the shower. Then I put my wet hair in pigtails and got dressed in my best outfit to go to IPP—an outfit I thought was me being me. I headed up to breakfast in a pink sweatshirt with a super-cute quilted bear on the front, and a denim overall skirt with athletic socks and my real Nike tennis shoes. I felt confident.
Dad was quiet most of the morning as I hurried through a bowl of cornflakes and washed my bowl. Then he put my coat on me, which he never did. And said, “I love you,” which meant he needed comforting.
“I love you, too, Daddy,” I said as he zipped up my coat, but he just looked sad and bewildered. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I asked. “I go to school every day.”
“I know,” he said.
Then he grabbed one of his ugly work hats and put it on my head emotionally. I decided not to say anything about the hat as Dad regained his usual face. “Don’t you worry ’bout your dad, though. I’m okay.”
Which made me worry about him, and I didn’t even know why.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “I’ll just be normal. And everything will be normal.”
“Good,” he said, and with that he sent me out to Mom, who was waiting in her car downstairs, unwilling to come up. I got in the car with her, fastened my seat belt, and looked up at Dad in the dining room window. And then Mom drove meacross town, to a new school full of smart kids who were richer than God.
Nothing could have prepared me for the scene that morning: my classroom—a sea of shining white faces and brand-new clothes. In almost utter silence the kids
But Mom brushed aside all disputes with one sentence: “Sweetie, I know you like Kimball, but I don’t think you have what it takes to be a professional street fighter.”
My mom was a sarcastic person. That’s actually what led to the tests to get me into IPP. After my teacher tried to kick me out of kindergarten for sarcasm, Mom started taking me to get all these tests done—one a year for three years. I think it was her way of defending her personality. If I was sarcastic, I learned it from her. And while sarcasm being related to IQ is debatable, Mom felt it was now a fact. So, as I left my neighborhood school—my “behavioral problem” and “foul mouth” now a symptom of a frustrated genius (I preferred “wunderkind”)—my mom couldn’t get on the line fast enough to tell all my old teachers to go fuck themselves.
I, however, was inconsolable. I had just started to feel comfortable with the neighborhood kids and now I was moving. Plus there was Dad—I could tell by the way this was all going down that he wasn’t happy with it. That night, when Mom dropped me home after Red Robin, he yelled at her and she got this tone in her voice like she was talking and getting electrolysis at the same time.
And when Dad came back in, he sat down next to me on the couch and said, “So . . . I guess your mom told you ’bout them tests.” I told my dad how nervous I was to go to a whole new school where I didn’t have friends like I did at Kimball.
“Well . . . ,” Dad said. “You keep your friends at Kimball—that’s called integrity. You go to school to learn. You don’t need to be making all kind of friends when you’re learning.”
“Yeah,” I said, unsure. “But you need people to play with at recess and stuff.”
“You just need to learn there. You be you at recess.”
“What about lunch?” I asked.
“You be you at lunch, too.” I must have looked confused, because Dad explained it to me. “Okay. You’re goin’ to a new school, let me put it this way: Your neighborhood is where you live!”
Monday morning I decided my two-week-old cornrows were too messy and pulled them all out before I got in the shower. Then I put my wet hair in pigtails and got dressed in my best outfit to go to IPP—an outfit I thought was me being me. I headed up to breakfast in a pink sweatshirt with a super-cute quilted bear on the front, and a denim overall skirt with athletic socks and my real Nike tennis shoes. I felt confident.
Dad was quiet most of the morning as I hurried through a bowl of cornflakes and washed my bowl. Then he put my coat on me, which he never did. And said, “I love you,” which meant he needed comforting.
“I love you, too, Daddy,” I said as he zipped up my coat, but he just looked sad and bewildered. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I asked. “I go to school every day.”
“I know,” he said.
Then he grabbed one of his ugly work hats and put it on my head emotionally. I decided not to say anything about the hat as Dad regained his usual face. “Don’t you worry ’bout your dad, though. I’m okay.”
Which made me worry about him, and I didn’t even know why.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “I’ll just be normal. And everything will be normal.”
“Good,” he said, and with that he sent me out to Mom, who was waiting in her car downstairs, unwilling to come up. I got in the car with her, fastened my seat belt, and looked up at Dad in the dining room window. And then Mom drove meacross town, to a new school full of smart kids who were richer than God.
Nothing could have prepared me for the scene that morning: my classroom—a sea of shining white faces and brand-new clothes. In almost utter silence the kids
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