08.23.2008
What Every Kid Should Know
Nobody can remember what time of day I was born, a deficiency that has perturbed my potential astrologers to no end and made me wonder if the blessed event occurred at all or if I oozed into the world by other means. My mother does, however, claim to recall that I could read before I ever went to school, which strikes me as correct, and if I stitch the stray patches of my own early memories together, I come up with a quilt of voracious proficiency in the art. Which is why that day in Mr. Nordfjord’s third grade class is so perplexing: when asked to read aloud from the textbook—something about christening a newly discovered seashell after an old man—I suddenly couldn’t. That is, I could perceive the words with my eyes, my brain processed them effortlessly, but my tongue and lips stumbled over them as if shot full of novacaine. This disconnect was perhaps the first instance of my brain misfiring, something that happens hourly now as I confuse people’s names, choke on random words, and type entire sentences when I mean to type completely different sentences. Sometimes I wonder if it’s my own brain that’s the problem or if something else that’s trying to communicate through me is gumming up the works. I don’t, for example, remember writing the first half of this paragraph, although it must have happened mere seconds ago. I’m not on drugs, merely in a “zone,” but what else happens in that zone? If I traverse it from this end back to its origin, will I discover my true self or something of alien origin signaling for help?
That moment in the third grade, incidentally, must have also been when Mr. Nordfjord decided I was an idiot. When I had him again for fifth grade, he pulled me aside for a helpful lecture about how no one liked me and how I had to pull my head out of the clouds and learn about real life. He recommended a book called What Every Kid Should Know, which I checked out of the library expecting to unravel the great mysteries my sheltered upbringing had kept mysterious but instead prescribed such prosaic cures as getting a bank account of my own (something I already had) and keeping secrets (something I already did). One of my biggest secrets at that point was that I wanted to go to bed with Mr. Nordfjord, but the bloom did not stay long on that particular rose.
posted by
David at 12:44 PM
Our existences converge briefly. I wanted to sleep with my 5th grade teacher, too! Until I figured out what a complete ass he was. He hated me. No love lost; the feeling was mutual. I became quite adept at countering him in class to make him look bad. To this day he probably still doesn't know the difference between Aztecs and Mayans. Oh, and he was gay. Was Mr. Nordfjord?
Where our existences diverge is I know I was born at exactly 5:15 in the afternoon after the shortest labor and easiest birth in history. My mother is fond of telling this to my brothers and comparing it to the living hell they put her through. Probably why I'm her favorite. :P
posted by:
Schaef on 08.25.2008 at 5:31 AM
Astrologers! Hah. Go find a Jyotishi; they don't need no stinking birth time 'cause they can reckon it for you!
I think your fuzziness sounds more like mini strokes than alien possession, though.
posted by:
goblinbox on 08.25.2008 at 3:21 PM
Schaef: At what point did you want to sleep with him? Actually, I should say, at what point did you sleep with him? Ha ha.
Goblinbox: Mini strokes somehow seem like the less glamorous option to me.
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