Chapter Nine
The Heroic Dream to Save Myself
I held the hard piece of metal in my hand and propped it, securely, on a scrap chunk of wood. Once I felt that I could hit it without damaging my hand or the art table, I took a hammer and began to beat the shit out of it. I was making a lot of noise, probably too much noise, but boy, it felt good. Setting the hammer down, I held the twisted metal up against the technological plaster-man, still a work in progress and far from being done. The plate still didn’t fit, so I sat it down and hammered on it some more. Something about this hunk of metal intrigued me – I felt it just had to be part of the sculpture. I had found it lying in the kiln room with a pile of computer parts. See, in my art class, we strongly believe in using found objects in sculpture. Not to mention, the kids love to tear shit up. That’s probably why we get along.
Today was the first day, in a long time, that I actually decided to work on my technology man. For the longest time, he just sat up on my filing cabinet, silently observing the future generations. Probably quivering inside at what may lie ahead. Not that all of my students are a plague upon humanity – but there sure are quite a few of them. I have found in the past few weeks that I am becoming very aggravated with stupidity. I mean, it is becoming nearly intolerable for me. And the worst part is that the stupid people in the world are the ones getting away with cheating any and every system that they possibly can. But enough about that. Why waste my thoughts on something that is sure to just piss me off because there is nothing I can do about it.
I’ve given up on the piece of metal – for now. Sooner or later I will find the urge to take it on again. This project would probably sit on my filing cabinet all year if it weren’t for certain students pushing me, making me strive for success in my art. They like seeing that their art teacher actually does art, even if it is only one partially finished project per year.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to my mailbox in the school office to find an invitation to a High School Art Teacher Exhibition. Someone actually wanted me to participate in their show. Now, of course, this was a mass mailing to all high school art teachers, no doubt there. But honestly, it brightened my day – gave me something to strive for. I had immediately thought of my technological man and how awesome it would be to finish him for the show. Let’s see, if I mail in the entry form by the first of the month that would be sure to make me actually finish something I started. The form is due at the beginning of December and the project itself is due by the beginning of January. There would be plenty of time to finish, but would I really want to display it when it was finished? Would I really want to have my name displayed on that creation for all public eyes to see?
There goes that fear and self-doubt again. Why am I so afraid to just live? Needless to say, I’m a third of the way through November, and the blank entry form is still sitting on my desk.
So, I guess the middle school had a lockdown drill yesterday. That’s all the hype among the high school kids now. They seem so concerned about when we will be having ours. It’s not like it’s going to be the real thing – but I guess at least it gets them thinking.
My student aide randomly got serious about the topic while at the middle school today. My seventh graders were preoccupied with the work I gave them and he just asks me, out of the blue, what I would do if the lockdown were real. At first, I was surprised that this serious of a question was coming from him – I mean, this is the ‘blue-footed booby’ kid. But, then again, our conversations had been getting more mature in the past couple of weeks. So, I sat there a minute, trying to put myself in the situation, then finally said that I would probably get all of the students to a safe place and then find the sharpest, most dangerous thing I could and ‘stand guard’ in lack of better words.
“You know what I’d do?” He came right out in response and I prepared myself for some smartass answer. “I wouldn’t sit around and wait to die. I would find whatever I could to stop him and I would go after him. I’m not going to sit around knowing someone is going through this school with a gun and killing people. And you know what, if I die, then well…” He trailed off for just a moment, then “I would rather go and try to be the hero, even if that means I die a hero.” I never expected that answer out of him, and honestly, it left me dumbfounded. At that moment, I had a new admiration for that student. I also envied the valor he possessed, knowing that at one time, I had possessed it too.
Later on, during the drive home, the thought revisited me as I zoned out to a somber song on the radio. What would I really do in that situation? Given the situation, would I cower at a gun to my face, or would I fight back? And what about all of those students depending on me? If I were the only thing standing between them and death, would I take the first shot? I would like to think that I would be the aggressor, even if it meant death – but I guess I’ll never know for sure until the situation arises. Let us hope that day never comes.
I try not to dwell on the thought too long for the next scene in my head is that of the rot and decay of a body in a coffin. Pleasant, am I right? Death is the thing that royally fucks with my mind, but it is something that I can’t stop thinking about. I would like to think it’s far away, but I know that life is just so fragile that it could all end tomorrow. These feelings are the strongest during the winter months, as I’m sure they are for most people. The way I look at it, spring is our birth, summer is our life, fall is our pathway to death, and winter is the long silent sleep that follows.
I pray that my soul will get to leave my body when all this ends and join my ancestors in heaven. For me, my hell isn’t fire and torture, my hell is the possibility that when I die, I will lose all sense of thought, I will have no memory, I will be nothingness – rotting away to fragments of cloth and a pile of bones. With thoughts like this running through my head, it’s going to be a long night before I finally calm my mind enough to go to sleep.
Just as I figured. It’s going to be a late night for this little girl. I lay on my back staring at the shadows dancing in the corners of my bedroom. My husband snores lightly next to me, but at this moment it’s pleasantly welcomed. It keeps the silence from closing in around me, preventing the chocking feeling with those images of me in my coffin. I shake my head from side to side, trying to force myself to revisit the life I lead through Jade – but nothing happens. Glancing at the clock, I thank God that it’s not a school night. Then the last time I look at the illuminated red digits – 2:37 a.m.
I wake up at 7 a.m., wide awake and ready to go, or so it seems. I’m sure I’ll be taking a nap later on in the day when the husband has some random football game on the television. We both agree that the best thing about football games is that they are easy to sleep to. In fact, we actually channel surf for football on the weekends just for a quick midday snooze.
Today, Saturday feels like a Sunday, and that sort of depresses me and my husband. To us, Sundays are days to cram in everything that must be done by the following Monday – well, for me anyway. In my opinion, Sundays that are followed by school days are the worst. That means my Sunday is lost to grading, lesson plans, paperwork bullshit and senseless routines. Sometimes I really hate the educational line of work – just for the mere reason that I feel like I have no life.
I think that’s the reason to all of my problems. I’m just not living.
“Ah! Come on!” I hear my husband call from the office, followed by an irate Irish announcer. He’s on his computer listening to the Irish vs. New Zealand rugby game today. Of course, we don’t get the game here in BFE Ohio – so online radio is our only way to go. I’m assuming that New Zealand just scored again, it’s not looking good for the Irish today. Nor is it looking good for my husband either.
My husband proposed to me at a rugby tournament when we were still in college. Both of our teams and coaches were there to watch and congratulate us. It was the perfect setting. We had all just finished our final games of the season. We were still in uniform, covered in mud, and soaking wet from the rain when he got down on one knee. That was my last memory as a rugger.
To this day, jealousy still overcomes me every time I see my husband take the field. Even though we have graduated, he still plays for a mens team about an hour from where we live. There’s a womens’ team there too – but sadly, I don’t play anymore. After we got engaged, my rugby career had to come to close due to back injuries I had sustained during the season. And don’t get me wrong, it was just rugby the screwed up my back. It had been the little things from over the years that had just caught up with me. The years of bad posture, a couple car accidents (neither of which were my fault, thank you), working in a diesel engine factory, playing rugby, yeah, it all adds up. Looking back now, I used to be one tough cookie – man what I wouldn’t give to get that feeling back.
What I wouldn’t give to get a lot of things back. But one thing is for sure, sitting around and wishing I would change back to who I was isn’t going to make it happen. All I’m doing is wasting the precious time needed to actually retrieve my lost self. And though valor, strength, outgoingness, and self-worth can all be obtained again, time itself cannot be returned, exchanged, or purchased – even if I did keep my gift receipt.
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