approve. She’s definitely short-term .
Well, Dad was wrong about that. Miss Solomon’s still here. But now she’s
Mrs
. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs. She’s abandoned leotards in favor of sensible suits. I guess gravity and years of experience finally got the better of her. She’s still a great teacher, though.
I had Mrs. S-B-C for Myth and Meaning last year. Of all my teachers, she handled Dad’s suicide best. For one thing, she talked to me when I came back, invited me to come to her office if I needed to vent. She also encouraged me to incorporate the loss into my final project, creating my own myth. She said that was the chief function of myth-making: It was “man’s effort to grapple with and tame the unendurable.”
I took her advice, creating the story of an island kingdom whose monarch ended his life, hurling himself off a cliff into the hungry sea, to save his people from a deadly typhoon. When he hit the water, his body dissolving into silver foam, the storm instantly subsided.
Each dawn, the king’s children gathered on the shore to mourn. On the seventh day, foam swirled into the glistening form of a sea lion. It drew them into the surf, bestowing a gift on each. To the youngest, it gave a nest of seaweed, for hope. The middle child received a heart-shaped cockle, for love. And the king’s eldest was given a driftwood cross, for strength.
When the sea lion swam off, singing their father’s lullaby, the children, amazed, returned home with their inheritance. Realizing he hadn’t left them, they accepted their birthright, ruling wisely. Each year on the anniversary of the monarch’s death, the sea lion returned, and the kingdom honored its ruler’s great sacrifice. And never again did the sea threaten the tiny island.
I did this huge watercolor of the children on the sand, built a topographical map of the kingdom, and sculpted a crest showing the three gifts. For my presentation, I dressed in this robe I wore as the apostle Thomas in the school’s Passion play. I wore a coronet of seashells.
Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs went gaga. I guess any teacher would’ve been impressed, but it seemed truly cathartic for her. When I finished reading my myth, she got up from her desk, applauded, then started bawling. She said, “You have succeeded in transforming pain into parable.” After hugging me, she excused herself and bolted.
The class gaped. I just stood there, wondering what the heck had happened. She must’ve thought I believed my father had made a noble sacrifice. But he wasn’t heroic, like the king in my myth. And instead of an enchanted pinniped, he’d morphed into a human piñata.
By the time Mrs. S-B-C returned, the period was almost over. As I started to go, she caught my sleeve. Once the class filed out, she repeated her invitation to stop by. I thanked her. She made this tiny, hiccupping nod when I asked her to keep my illustration. Bet she still has it.
I did go to her office about a week later to talk. Taped to her door was a note saying,
I shall return, toot-sweet!
I took it as a sign; never went back.
January 22, 1976
Hey Journal!
I’m stoked! It’s love! Or GRADE-A LUST! Deena’s amazing! We’ve been lab partners for months and nothing. Today our fingers brushed over a dissection tray and — ZAP! Who knew slicing sheep eyes was such a turn-on?
Practice was hell and I’ve got tons of homework. Later, E .
January 25, 1976
Howdy J .
You know that saying “When it rains it pours”? Well, I got a chick monsoon. Tammy called. Her father’s job fell through, they’re back from Boston, and she wants to get together. Deena’s cool, but Tammy’s primo! Hmmmm … why not date both? Just kidding, journal. Sort of .
Hornily, E .
February 1, 1976
Yo!
This bunny-juggling’s intense! Came THIS CLOSE to calling Tammy “Deena” yesterday. Then at the movies with Deena, I ran smack into Tammy’s brother! He’s such a chump, he prob’ly didn’t know the diff. Better split!
Well, Dad was wrong about that. Miss Solomon’s still here. But now she’s
Mrs
. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs. She’s abandoned leotards in favor of sensible suits. I guess gravity and years of experience finally got the better of her. She’s still a great teacher, though.
I had Mrs. S-B-C for Myth and Meaning last year. Of all my teachers, she handled Dad’s suicide best. For one thing, she talked to me when I came back, invited me to come to her office if I needed to vent. She also encouraged me to incorporate the loss into my final project, creating my own myth. She said that was the chief function of myth-making: It was “man’s effort to grapple with and tame the unendurable.”
I took her advice, creating the story of an island kingdom whose monarch ended his life, hurling himself off a cliff into the hungry sea, to save his people from a deadly typhoon. When he hit the water, his body dissolving into silver foam, the storm instantly subsided.
Each dawn, the king’s children gathered on the shore to mourn. On the seventh day, foam swirled into the glistening form of a sea lion. It drew them into the surf, bestowing a gift on each. To the youngest, it gave a nest of seaweed, for hope. The middle child received a heart-shaped cockle, for love. And the king’s eldest was given a driftwood cross, for strength.
When the sea lion swam off, singing their father’s lullaby, the children, amazed, returned home with their inheritance. Realizing he hadn’t left them, they accepted their birthright, ruling wisely. Each year on the anniversary of the monarch’s death, the sea lion returned, and the kingdom honored its ruler’s great sacrifice. And never again did the sea threaten the tiny island.
I did this huge watercolor of the children on the sand, built a topographical map of the kingdom, and sculpted a crest showing the three gifts. For my presentation, I dressed in this robe I wore as the apostle Thomas in the school’s Passion play. I wore a coronet of seashells.
Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs went gaga. I guess any teacher would’ve been impressed, but it seemed truly cathartic for her. When I finished reading my myth, she got up from her desk, applauded, then started bawling. She said, “You have succeeded in transforming pain into parable.” After hugging me, she excused herself and bolted.
The class gaped. I just stood there, wondering what the heck had happened. She must’ve thought I believed my father had made a noble sacrifice. But he wasn’t heroic, like the king in my myth. And instead of an enchanted pinniped, he’d morphed into a human piñata.
By the time Mrs. S-B-C returned, the period was almost over. As I started to go, she caught my sleeve. Once the class filed out, she repeated her invitation to stop by. I thanked her. She made this tiny, hiccupping nod when I asked her to keep my illustration. Bet she still has it.
I did go to her office about a week later to talk. Taped to her door was a note saying,
I shall return, toot-sweet!
I took it as a sign; never went back.
January 22, 1976
Hey Journal!
I’m stoked! It’s love! Or GRADE-A LUST! Deena’s amazing! We’ve been lab partners for months and nothing. Today our fingers brushed over a dissection tray and — ZAP! Who knew slicing sheep eyes was such a turn-on?
Practice was hell and I’ve got tons of homework. Later, E .
January 25, 1976
Howdy J .
You know that saying “When it rains it pours”? Well, I got a chick monsoon. Tammy called. Her father’s job fell through, they’re back from Boston, and she wants to get together. Deena’s cool, but Tammy’s primo! Hmmmm … why not date both? Just kidding, journal. Sort of .
Hornily, E .
February 1, 1976
Yo!
This bunny-juggling’s intense! Came THIS CLOSE to calling Tammy “Deena” yesterday. Then at the movies with Deena, I ran smack into Tammy’s brother! He’s such a chump, he prob’ly didn’t know the diff. Better split!
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