Chapter Five
Veterans’ Day, Octopus Soup, and a Tomahawk
Standing amidst the students, hand across my heart, I heard the familiar drumroll as the national anthem began. Immediately I was back on a cold football field in Ohio. I could see my breath on the night air as the stadium lights beat down upon our orange, brown, and white band uniforms. I held the bass drum against my chest, standing at attention, ready to begin. Though the drum was the smallest our band owned, I still couldn’t see over it. I had always been the short one on the drumline, but it never stopped me. Our plumes, or ‘chickens’ as we liked to call them, flapped their feathers in the breeze, looking like real fowl roosting upon our heads. Either way, we looked damn good as the bleachers made their familiar echo when the numerous fans rose, removing their hats and placing their hands over their hearts.
The echoing trumpets sounded so sweet to my ears. Then Boom - Crash! The vibrations of the bass shook through me with shrill excitement followed immediately by the ear-splitting serenade of the crash cymbal. This vivid memory made me so content for it took me back to a time when things were simple and fun. Back then there were no reasons why we did the things we did, we just did them. But that joyful memory couldn’t last for the penetrating squeal of a wrong note brought me back to reality. I glanced around for a brief moment, but no one else seemed to notice. Go figure, the art teacher is the only one in the entire gymnasium that had a sharp ear for music – maybe with an exception of the band director.
A few more wrong notes and an off-beat drummer later, the band director cut the band off and everyone sat down. An older man, probably in his late 80s, came up to the microphone at center court and began to speak. He was so cute in his old army uniform and I bet he had a really great story too, but dang it, he was so soft-spoken that no one could hear him talk. Surprisingly though, the kids remained completely silent. It was the most respect I’d ever seen from them, and I was even sitting in the junior high section because I figured they would need the most supervision. I was completely, and pleasantly shocked at the polite consideration they showed for the veterans during the assembly.
When he was done talking, they presented the flag and discussed why and in what manner the flag was given to a fallen soldier’s family. It was very touching and informative, but the assembly overall was becoming drawn out and the kids began to stir about in their seats. When they had finished their presentation of the colors and discussed the setting of the table for the soldiers away at war, the little quiet man from before headed back up to the microphone. Oh please kids, just bear with him. I thought to myself, not sure how much longer they would last. I mean, they had already sat there quietly and respectfully for 35 minutes. And we’re not talking just high school students here, think a mess of students grades 6th through 12th all crammed together on one set of bleachers. But we had been okay so far, if only a few more minutes.
When the veteran reached the microphone he was somewhat whispering again and I could only make out a few words here and there. He mentioned when he was on foreign soil he had seen a women sing “God Bless America” and how it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. And suddenly, this feeble-sounding old man that could barely whisper through his speech, broke out into a booming voice singing the song that he knew so well. It nearly brought tears to my eyes, but the kids never saw.
On Veterans’ Day for the past 3 years I call my grandpa to thank him for being my veteran. This day was a sad day for many people, but such a good day in my eyes because it made me think of my grandpa and all the stories he used to tell me about the war. And as I went through the rest of my day, my memories carried me back to bits and pieces of those stories.
My grandpa was part of the air force when he was a young man and he fought in the Korean War. He was overseas in the Asian countries for a good bit of the war, experiencing things that I could only imagine. And it’s always the little things that really get to me. Like how he was baptized in the China Sea or how he had purchased my grandma’s wedding ring while he was there. But I think my favorite story from my grandpa’s overseas experiences was when he was eating at a restaurant with a lizard on the wall.
Now, I’m not sure exactly what country he was in at the time, but him and some of his comrades went to a local restaurant to eat. This place was a hole in the wall and from how my grandpa described it, in my visual retention I always see a cement building that was like a basement. It had no decorations and nothing on the walls. The dim light that filled the room was from a single door entrance. The dining area was badly lit and damp and there were only a couple of tables and chairs. Now, this may not be how it really was at all, but for some reason, that’s how I picture it every time I remember the story.
Anyway, so my grandpa and his buddies go into this restaurant only to find out that no one in the entire building can speak English. So, after a few rounds of questioning and lots of visual gestures, they finally get the word ‘fish’ out of the cook. So, happy with their progress in communication, they all order the ‘fish.’
While they are waiting for their food to come back, my grandpa notices a lizard on one of the concrete walls. It doesn’t move at all, in fact he thinks it’s probably not real or his eyes are playing tricks on him. So he goes back to conversing with his friends and when he looks back, the lizard has moved a few feet. Knowing now that the lizard is alive, I can picture my grandpa playing a staring contest with it, but it never moves. It’s like an endless game of red light, green light. Whenever my grandpa would look away, the lizard would move. But as long as he kept his eyes fixed on that sneaky little creature, it wouldn’t budge.
Minutes later, the cook returns with their food. A big metal pot, at least 7 gallons worth, is sat down in the middle of their table. As they all look in, they realize that they have ordered some sort of seafood concoction in a broth. When grandpa told me the story, he mentioned that there was octopus in it. I’m not sure what gave it away, but with my crazy, creative imagination, I see tentacles rising out of the big pot and the soldiers fighting the monster off with their spoons and chopsticks. He had told me that the octopus didn’t taste too bad after all it was just a little chewy. Thinking of it now, I realize that that is a food I still haven’t tried to this day. I’ll have to add it to my list.
As the students begin to file out of the gymnasium, I realize that I have drifted off into my mind again and I have missed the rest of the assembly. I make my way back to my classroom and continue on with the rest of my day.
After lunch, my drawing class piles in my classroom, even though some of them are already there from lunch. I give up eating in the teachers’ lounge so some of them can eat their lunch in my room and work on projects. Though it seems small, sometimes I think that the students don’t realize how much I really do give up for them. Sometimes, I don’t think that I even realize how much of my life revolves around school.
Stress levels are very high when it comes to getting things done for school. Even on the weekends I’m completing lesson plans and worksheets, grading sketchbooks and projects, putting together ineligibility papers, and trying to live out a normal weekend with my husband all at the same time. Sometimes the workload is not worth the job. I hate bringing my occupation home with me, and my husband hates when I do too. Occasionally I wonder what it would’ve been like had I went into the culinary arts. I could have my own hole-in-the wall restaurant at this point in my life and though monetarily I’m sure I’d be struggling on the other hand, I bet I’d be happy. Every time I’m preparing a meal at home I imagine that I could be serving this to a customer rather than just my husband. And honestly, my husband is the biggest food critic ever, so I think I’d be fine in the eatery setting. This is how sad it really is – I’ve already thought of a name: Dryad. It’s interesting, fun, intriguing, and it sounds sophisticated. Not only all of that, but it sort of represents me and my love for trees.
I hate that that constant contemplation of being a chef consistently runs through my mind. But if I had turned back time and became the cook that I dreamed of, would I relentlessly speculate of what it would’ve been like to be an art teacher?
Back in my Drawing class, a student shouts out to grab my attention. I hate when they do that, but I respond nonetheless.
“What do you want?” I shouted back in a spirited reply. We have a good time in that class, and even though we actually work, sometimes the class period is one big joke after another. Of course, today is one of those days.
“Tomahawk – ballistic knife!” He cries out with the swift movements of the invisible weapons in his hands. I stand there, dumbfounded, surely with the look of utter confusion written across my face. When I don’t counter, they realize the joke is dead and they have to explain what the heck is going on before I have the chance to laugh. Apparently it’s from this new video game that just came out the previous day. Some new set of weapons with an instant kill. Being a lover of video games myself, I soon understand the hilarity of it all and for the rest of the day the joke is funny. I think I got ‘Tomahawked’ 15 times that day.
When the drawing class ends, I’m left in the silence of a messy room before its time to rush over to the junior high for my worst classes of the day. What a way to end it, huh? But before the chaos begins again, I take time to tidy up and just breathe.
I sit at my desk making a list of all of things I needed to grade by Monday. Why is it the longer I sit there, the longer my list gets. I pause and look around the room to see a paper tomahawk pinned to my white board. What the heck? I read the words under neither. If you read this you’ve been TOMAHAWKED!!! Damn… there’s number 16. Accompanying the tomahawk is a drawing of a little old lady with saggy boobs, a few classroom examples, a color wheel, the day’s schedule, the week’s assignments and a funny comment referring to the remark I made earlier about drinking too much water that I made a lake.
I laughed at the final remark that I had read. When had they even written that up there? Let’s just say I drank 32 oz. worth of water in about 15 minutes during their class. I was really thirsty and I had been working on drinking more water in my daily life. With that much water entering my system right after lunch, it felt like there was a lake inside… no, an ocean. I felt it sloshing around with every little movement. Needless to say, in short, I drank too much and had to pee straightaway. Sometimes I get myself into trouble in that class because it’s like they walk in and I lose my filter. I just spurt out whatever the heck is on my mind. And sometimes that is really not a good thing.
I’m sure that some may go as far to say that I have no classroom management. But I know for a fact that I do. Things may be crazy and unconventional, but that’s how I like it. I’m an unorganized art teacher with a passion for expression. Maybe that’s why kids enjoy my class. It’s an outlet for them physically, emotionally, spiritually and creatively. Or, I may just think that. Either way, most of my students get along with me and enjoy my classes, with an exception to the whiney little assholes that the guidance counselor throws in my class for the hell of it. Don’t you love it when people screw you over for shits and giggles?
But I don’t have the backbone to tell people how I really feel. I hate confrontations, I hate people being disappointed in me, and I hate hate hate drama. It’s all a waste of time and a really shitty way to live life. But what do I know? I live my life afraid to go for the things I really care about. I’ve lost the person I was to the conformed version, a shell of who I could be. I’m just living in fear, afraid to do anything for fear things might not go well. I heard a quote the other day that ‘If no one took risks then Michelangelo would have painted the Sistine floor.’ Shame that at this point in my life, I feel like my work wouldn’t even be worth being walked on.
I saw the Sistine Chapel last summer. I cried when I looked up but I just silently let the tears fall. The tour guide was talking, but I removed my headset. I just wanted to enjoy the moment in silence. It was really quiet in there. Probably because there were guards there that kept telling everyone to stop talking. We were in the chapel for a solid half hour. I don’t think I looked down once. Needless to say I had a neck ache when we left. But I couldn’t stop staring at the space between the fingertips of Adam and God. That tension between the two hands made me so anxious. I wanted them to come together so bad. But I’m sure that Michelangelo meant to do it that way so people like me would understand that God and man could never be one. And I’m not sure if I mean that in a religious way, a philosophical way, or even a metaphorical way, but I know it means more than what we all take it for.
Try as I might, I can’t convey such a deep meaning as that. I look over to the partially finished human bust with the technological parts. Partially finished – that’s as far as I ever get. It scares the shit out of me that one day I will die and my life will only be partially finished. I’m afraid I will never accomplish anything that I’m holding on to. I thought about starting a bucket list once, but thought better of because it would probably disappoint me even more. And at this point in my life, life itself is nothing but one big fucking disappointment.
Maybe I should go skydiving tomorrow…
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