BECOMING
(continued)
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
Chapter 18:
I Become Unpatriotic
Randy, my next-door neighbor, convinced me that I should join the Cub Scouts. I wasn't sure why I should but figured it probably wouldn't be too awful, and besides I liked Randy. I felt a little sorry for him too. His dad was a mean bastard who drank too much, and when he did, he decided to pick on Randy. Randy was skinny and knock-kneed, wore glasses and though quite tall was not at all impressive. His dad was an overweight postman with a crew cut. He liked to boast that despite only having one testicle he was able to father a child. The testicle apparently had been a casualty of the war.
Randy's dad drove the two of us to the scoutmaster’s, an unimposing ranch house on the edge of what was then southwest Denver. He dropped us off and said he’d be back in a couple hours, and that we were to behave ourselves and listen to what the scoutmaster had to say, and join up eagerly like good little patriots should.
"You will get some discipline that you will be grateful for when you join the Army," he said.
I didn't tell him that I had no inclination to join the Army. I just exited the car as quickly as possible.
We were met at the door by a stout smiley lady wearing a blue-and-yellow-flowered apron. She welcomed us heartily, then directed us to a door that opened onto the basement. The unlighted stairs creaked as we descended but the small windowed open space at the bottom was flooded with light. The room already held a number of kids in blue uniforms festooned with patches, and with over-sized yellow scarves tied at the throat and silly caps perched on their heads. A bunch of metal folding chairs were neatly lined up in two rows. On a platform at the far end was a desk with official- looking papers and a straight-backed wooden chair. Old glory’s flagpole was stuck into a sand bucket so that the large flag could be displayed upright.
A red-faced squat man seated at the table told us his name was Mr. Rick and that he would be our “guide to everything scouting.” He then asked us to identify ourselves. With a dramatic flourish he checked off our names on a notepad on the desk. The buttons on his uniform must have been reinforced with extra thread as his protruding belly was struggling to free itself from constriction. He commanded the seven or eight other boys to stand at attention and introduce themselves to us. I wasn’t sure about Randy but I certainly already felt more than a little out of place.
Mr. Rick informed us of various details regarding how we would become Cub Scouts, and what a privilege it was for us to join his troop. I don't remember saying a word. I just stared at the huge flag and counted the strained buttons on Mr. Rick’s shirt.
"We always start each den meeting," said the scoutmaster, "by saying the Pledge of Allegiance."
Everyone immediately stood but I remained seated.
"Come on now. You need to stand up and say the pledge," Mr. Rick said, pointing directly at me.
I stood but kept my hands at my sides. The boys started to say the pledge but I remained silent. At about the point we got to “the United States and the flag” Mr. Rick abruptly halted the pledge. He looked at me with a scowl. "What's your problem, son?" I noticed his fists were clenched and that his prominent nose had assumed a scarlet hue.
"I don't say the pledge,” I said.
“What?” said an incredulous Mr. Rick. I could feel the stares of everyone on me.
“I said I don't say the pledge. I pledge only to God not country. Everyone in the world is my brother or sister, not just Americans. I pledge to the world.”
The scoutmaster stood. This helped relax the buttons on his shirt a bit.
“Well, you are quite a little smartass, aren’t you?” he said, his eyes widening, veins visibly throbbing at his temples. “Either you get your hand across your heart and say the damn pledge or you get the hell out of here. You understand that?”
“Then I guess I have to leave,” I said, quite matter of factly. “It's against my principles.”
“Get out and don’t ever dare to come back you little fucking commie,” he screamed.
For a moment the scouts were quiet, then began shrieking in unison: “Get out, get out you Commie.” Poor Randy just stood there, shaking his head a little and looking at his shoes.
As I got to the stairs one of the scouts pushed me but I caught myself and calmly walked up the stairs. The smiley lady was nowhere to be seen but I could smell fresh-baked cookies.
It was a long walk home in the dark. I remember finding a stick and whacking it on the sidewalk as I trudged toward my house.
When I entered the living room, my grandparents greeted me and asked how it went. I told them what had happened.
My grandfather rose from his chair, walked across the room and threw his arms around me. “You’ve made me very proud. Very, very proud.”
I smiled. The uniforms were crappy anyway.
Randy's dad drove the two of us to the scoutmaster’s, an unimposing ranch house on the edge of what was then southwest Denver. He dropped us off and said he’d be back in a couple hours, and that we were to behave ourselves and listen to what the scoutmaster had to say, and join up eagerly like good little patriots should.
"You will get some discipline that you will be grateful for when you join the Army," he said.
I didn't tell him that I had no inclination to join the Army. I just exited the car as quickly as possible.
We were met at the door by a stout smiley lady wearing a blue-and-yellow-flowered apron. She welcomed us heartily, then directed us to a door that opened onto the basement. The unlighted stairs creaked as we descended but the small windowed open space at the bottom was flooded with light. The room already held a number of kids in blue uniforms festooned with patches, and with over-sized yellow scarves tied at the throat and silly caps perched on their heads. A bunch of metal folding chairs were neatly lined up in two rows. On a platform at the far end was a desk with official- looking papers and a straight-backed wooden chair. Old glory’s flagpole was stuck into a sand bucket so that the large flag could be displayed upright.
A red-faced squat man seated at the table told us his name was Mr. Rick and that he would be our “guide to everything scouting.” He then asked us to identify ourselves. With a dramatic flourish he checked off our names on a notepad on the desk. The buttons on his uniform must have been reinforced with extra thread as his protruding belly was struggling to free itself from constriction. He commanded the seven or eight other boys to stand at attention and introduce themselves to us. I wasn’t sure about Randy but I certainly already felt more than a little out of place.
Mr. Rick informed us of various details regarding how we would become Cub Scouts, and what a privilege it was for us to join his troop. I don't remember saying a word. I just stared at the huge flag and counted the strained buttons on Mr. Rick’s shirt.
"We always start each den meeting," said the scoutmaster, "by saying the Pledge of Allegiance."
Everyone immediately stood but I remained seated.
"Come on now. You need to stand up and say the pledge," Mr. Rick said, pointing directly at me.
I stood but kept my hands at my sides. The boys started to say the pledge but I remained silent. At about the point we got to “the United States and the flag” Mr. Rick abruptly halted the pledge. He looked at me with a scowl. "What's your problem, son?" I noticed his fists were clenched and that his prominent nose had assumed a scarlet hue.
"I don't say the pledge,” I said.
“What?” said an incredulous Mr. Rick. I could feel the stares of everyone on me.
“I said I don't say the pledge. I pledge only to God not country. Everyone in the world is my brother or sister, not just Americans. I pledge to the world.”
The scoutmaster stood. This helped relax the buttons on his shirt a bit.
“Well, you are quite a little smartass, aren’t you?” he said, his eyes widening, veins visibly throbbing at his temples. “Either you get your hand across your heart and say the damn pledge or you get the hell out of here. You understand that?”
“Then I guess I have to leave,” I said, quite matter of factly. “It's against my principles.”
“Get out and don’t ever dare to come back you little fucking commie,” he screamed.
For a moment the scouts were quiet, then began shrieking in unison: “Get out, get out you Commie.” Poor Randy just stood there, shaking his head a little and looking at his shoes.
As I got to the stairs one of the scouts pushed me but I caught myself and calmly walked up the stairs. The smiley lady was nowhere to be seen but I could smell fresh-baked cookies.
It was a long walk home in the dark. I remember finding a stick and whacking it on the sidewalk as I trudged toward my house.
When I entered the living room, my grandparents greeted me and asked how it went. I told them what had happened.
My grandfather rose from his chair, walked across the room and threw his arms around me. “You’ve made me very proud. Very, very proud.”
I smiled. The uniforms were crappy anyway.
Chapter 19:
I Become an Artiste Mauvais
I don't remember particularly caring for elementary school. I liked learning but was not fond of the regimentation. Most of my memories are an assortment of minor catastrophes: having diarrhea and messing my pants in class; getting measles; falling asleep at my desk and being rudely awakened by my teacher. Above all, I remember feeling rather bored most of the time. The school work was easy and I could dispatch it rather quickly which allowed me to concoct other ways to amuse myself and my classmates. As a result my grades were at the top; in deportment, however, I was consistently rated unsatisfactory.
Mrs. Hargrove, my third-grade teacher, was a rather unsympathetic creature. Tall and bony, she wore her hair in a bun and seemed to feel her role was largely that of an academic disciplinarian. In contrast to my teachers in the first two years, Mrs. Hargrove was exceedingly intolerant of any sort of nonsense. This, naturally, presented a challenge to me, and often, when she was facing the board, I would take the opportunity to put on a mime performance for my classmates. This usually consisted of doing an imitation of the stern teacher, screwing my face up like hers, sticking my nose up in the air, shaking my finger in imaginary admonishment at the other students. This generally would provoke a laugh or two at which point I would immediately resume my attentive position facing the front of the room. I was only caught a couple of times. The punishment was to stand in the corner, a position I used to advantage to put on an additional performance.
When not engaged in my dramatic entertainments, I would often draw pictures. Most of these were for my own amusement, but occasionally I'd share them with others. One day I decided to pick as my subject the school itself. I started with an innocuous rendering of the building, then added detail, namely that of my fellow classmates and of course Mrs. Hargrove. For some perverse reason I decided to depict them naked, shitting and pissing out the windows. I worked rapidly on the drawing, but took care to employ all my skills as a draftsman.
An artist naturally likes to have his work appreciated, and so during math, when we were all supposed to be solving problems, I circulated my scatological picture. It only made it to a couple of kids before the guffaws reached the ears of the ever-vigilant teacher. She rose from her chair and immediately walked to Caroline's desk where the drawing had just arrived from across the aisle. In one quick movement she snatched the picture from Caroline and demanded loudly that the culprit present himself immediately. No one rose to claim the work. After a moment of silence during which she coldly surveyed the room, her eyes landed on me. She looked at the drawing again, then quickly walked to my desk, yanked me out of my chair and informed me that we were going to the principal's office. I did not protest. Despite a fear of punishment, I was actually rather proud of the picture. I would have been denying my own talent not to have the acknowledged my artistry.
She did not speak to me at all on the way to the principal’s office nor did I speak to her. Once there, I was told to sit on a chair in the outer sanctum where a sympathetic secretary asked me what I had done wrong. I told her that I had simply drawn a picture that Mrs. Hargrove didn't like, not mentioning any details. She just shook her head, smiled at me, and then went back to her typing.
Mrs. Miller appeared shortly, and dangling my drawing from two fingers as if it were a doggie poop bag, she summoned me into her office. She asked me whether I was responsible for the “filthy picture” and I immediately said “yes.” She next inquired as to what the people pictured were doing. I told her, without any hesitation, that they were going to the bathroom.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asked. I suddenly noticed for the first time that her nose was crooked and that she had very small watery-blue eyes.
“Sort of,” I said.
“I'm going to have to call your mother.”
“She's at work,” I weakly protested.
“I know,” said the principal with a distinct scowl. “Now aren't you ashamed that I have to bother your mother while she is at her job?”
“I'm not ashamed but I wish you could just tell her when she comes to pick me up.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that. Go wait in the other room.”
I sat for a long time in the secretary's office not saying a word to her though I think she tried to talk to me.
I heard my mother’s high heels clicking on the wooden hallway floor even before she arrived. She entered the office, clutching her large beige purse against her bosom, and only bothered to glance at me. She introduced herself to the secretary who called out her arrival on the intercom. I hoped my mother would say something to me in the moments we had to wait to be ushered into the somber principal’s office but she didn't.
Finally inside, Mrs. Miller handed the picture to my mother.
“Explain this to your mother,” she told me.
I did.
My mother despite her attempts to keep the serious look on her face cracked just the hint of a smile. I knew I'd won. I was then told again to wait outside while Mrs. Miller conversed privately with my mother. I have no idea what they talked about but I doubt my mother really betrayed me. All she said as we were on our way home was that I needed to pay more attention in class and that she never again wanted to have to come to school to fetch me. She didn't mention a word about the drawing.
“Did you get the picture back?” I asked.
“No. Mrs. Miller kept it”.
“Why?” I inquired, somewhat stunned. “It belongs to me.”
“She wants to show it to someone else who she wants you to talk to.”
“Who?”
Mrs. Hargrove, my third-grade teacher, was a rather unsympathetic creature. Tall and bony, she wore her hair in a bun and seemed to feel her role was largely that of an academic disciplinarian. In contrast to my teachers in the first two years, Mrs. Hargrove was exceedingly intolerant of any sort of nonsense. This, naturally, presented a challenge to me, and often, when she was facing the board, I would take the opportunity to put on a mime performance for my classmates. This usually consisted of doing an imitation of the stern teacher, screwing my face up like hers, sticking my nose up in the air, shaking my finger in imaginary admonishment at the other students. This generally would provoke a laugh or two at which point I would immediately resume my attentive position facing the front of the room. I was only caught a couple of times. The punishment was to stand in the corner, a position I used to advantage to put on an additional performance.
When not engaged in my dramatic entertainments, I would often draw pictures. Most of these were for my own amusement, but occasionally I'd share them with others. One day I decided to pick as my subject the school itself. I started with an innocuous rendering of the building, then added detail, namely that of my fellow classmates and of course Mrs. Hargrove. For some perverse reason I decided to depict them naked, shitting and pissing out the windows. I worked rapidly on the drawing, but took care to employ all my skills as a draftsman.
An artist naturally likes to have his work appreciated, and so during math, when we were all supposed to be solving problems, I circulated my scatological picture. It only made it to a couple of kids before the guffaws reached the ears of the ever-vigilant teacher. She rose from her chair and immediately walked to Caroline's desk where the drawing had just arrived from across the aisle. In one quick movement she snatched the picture from Caroline and demanded loudly that the culprit present himself immediately. No one rose to claim the work. After a moment of silence during which she coldly surveyed the room, her eyes landed on me. She looked at the drawing again, then quickly walked to my desk, yanked me out of my chair and informed me that we were going to the principal's office. I did not protest. Despite a fear of punishment, I was actually rather proud of the picture. I would have been denying my own talent not to have the acknowledged my artistry.
She did not speak to me at all on the way to the principal’s office nor did I speak to her. Once there, I was told to sit on a chair in the outer sanctum where a sympathetic secretary asked me what I had done wrong. I told her that I had simply drawn a picture that Mrs. Hargrove didn't like, not mentioning any details. She just shook her head, smiled at me, and then went back to her typing.
Mrs. Miller appeared shortly, and dangling my drawing from two fingers as if it were a doggie poop bag, she summoned me into her office. She asked me whether I was responsible for the “filthy picture” and I immediately said “yes.” She next inquired as to what the people pictured were doing. I told her, without any hesitation, that they were going to the bathroom.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asked. I suddenly noticed for the first time that her nose was crooked and that she had very small watery-blue eyes.
“Sort of,” I said.
“I'm going to have to call your mother.”
“She's at work,” I weakly protested.
“I know,” said the principal with a distinct scowl. “Now aren't you ashamed that I have to bother your mother while she is at her job?”
“I'm not ashamed but I wish you could just tell her when she comes to pick me up.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that. Go wait in the other room.”
I sat for a long time in the secretary's office not saying a word to her though I think she tried to talk to me.
I heard my mother’s high heels clicking on the wooden hallway floor even before she arrived. She entered the office, clutching her large beige purse against her bosom, and only bothered to glance at me. She introduced herself to the secretary who called out her arrival on the intercom. I hoped my mother would say something to me in the moments we had to wait to be ushered into the somber principal’s office but she didn't.
Finally inside, Mrs. Miller handed the picture to my mother.
“Explain this to your mother,” she told me.
I did.
My mother despite her attempts to keep the serious look on her face cracked just the hint of a smile. I knew I'd won. I was then told again to wait outside while Mrs. Miller conversed privately with my mother. I have no idea what they talked about but I doubt my mother really betrayed me. All she said as we were on our way home was that I needed to pay more attention in class and that she never again wanted to have to come to school to fetch me. She didn't mention a word about the drawing.
“Did you get the picture back?” I asked.
“No. Mrs. Miller kept it”.
“Why?” I inquired, somewhat stunned. “It belongs to me.”
“She wants to show it to someone else who she wants you to talk to.”
“Who?”
A lady who's going to talk to you about it tomorrow.” My mind reeled I didn't understand who this lady could be. Was there someone even more powerful than Mrs. Miller at the school working unknown to me and others? “She's what they call a psychologist,” my mother explained. “She's not going to punish you. She's going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer all of them. OK?" “OK,” I said, not knowing to what I was agreeing. “That's my good boy,” she said. I beamed. |
It was early afternoon and the buds were on the trees and the sun was shining and it was two hours before school was officially dismissed and I was free and with my mother and we were going to have lunch at a restaurant.
I only learned years later that even though my mother was dead set against me “being shrunk,” as she put it, Mrs. Miller had made it a condition of my staying at the school.
The sessions with Dr. Graves, the school psychologist, are only vaguely memorable. I can recall that she pressed me unmercifully about my daydreams, asked me lots of questions about my family, including my father, and had me draw pictures for her in which I was supposed to reveal my feelings. I purposely used my right hand and drew badly since I quickly realized that she had no ability to discern a masterpiece from a doodle. Curiously, I never recall her realizing that the talent exhibited in my scatological drawing was not at all present in my work for her. Once I'd finished, she'd asked me to explain what I had drawn, and then interrogated me further in response to my explanations.
I don't know how many weeks this went on, nor do I have any sense of the outcome. I did, I guess, begin behaving better in Mrs. Hargrove's class. That, I suppose, was attributed to being counseled rather than to my fear that if I stepped too much out of line again I would end up back in Mrs. Miller's office with my mother being summoned.
I don’t recall Dr. Graves returning the picture to me but more than a half-century later I found it carefully preserved among my mother’s papers.
I only learned years later that even though my mother was dead set against me “being shrunk,” as she put it, Mrs. Miller had made it a condition of my staying at the school.
The sessions with Dr. Graves, the school psychologist, are only vaguely memorable. I can recall that she pressed me unmercifully about my daydreams, asked me lots of questions about my family, including my father, and had me draw pictures for her in which I was supposed to reveal my feelings. I purposely used my right hand and drew badly since I quickly realized that she had no ability to discern a masterpiece from a doodle. Curiously, I never recall her realizing that the talent exhibited in my scatological drawing was not at all present in my work for her. Once I'd finished, she'd asked me to explain what I had drawn, and then interrogated me further in response to my explanations.
I don't know how many weeks this went on, nor do I have any sense of the outcome. I did, I guess, begin behaving better in Mrs. Hargrove's class. That, I suppose, was attributed to being counseled rather than to my fear that if I stepped too much out of line again I would end up back in Mrs. Miller's office with my mother being summoned.
I don’t recall Dr. Graves returning the picture to me but more than a half-century later I found it carefully preserved among my mother’s papers.
Chapter 20:
I Become the Recipient of Postcards
From when I was about five, my mother would disappear now and then for a week or so. But by the time I had turned eight, her absences grew more frequent and longer. As I was fairly content being in the company of my grandparents, and occasionally my uncle, I was not particularly distressed by her departures. I was only bothered by her fleeing to Mexico.
Although I had few memories of Mexico, the ones I did have were exceptionally strong. Once I knew my father had left, I had no actual link to the country, of course, but neither my heart nor imagination knew that. Indeed, I had grown to cherish all things Mexican. As a budding archaeologist, I had become an authority on the Toltecs and Aztecs and Maya. A map of Mexico hung on my wall. I was first in my Spanish class. I would often dream of the narrow streets and gray buildings around the Alameda and retained an olfactory memory of the market. A café we frequented when I was a toddler was exceptionally vivid down to a painted expressionist mural on the wall.
The bars over my tiny bedroom window would often make their way into nocturnal musings about whether they were intended to keep me in or others out.
My grandparents didn’t say much to me about my mother’s sojourns but given my penchant for eavesdropping on the adults, I quickly picked up that they were not particularly pleased.
“I just think it’s irresponsible.”
“Yes.”
“I just hope the man she’s chasing is at least employed.”
“And not a drunk.”
Etcetera. Etcetera...
I suppose my mother thought she was keeping in touch with her son by sending him daily postcards. To me, however, they were actually a form of torture. I remember one that depicted a sugar-sand beach with waving palms. Next to Mexican ruins, my second greatest Latin passion was islands and palm trees. The ones of churches didn’t bother me much. And her cheery notes en verso, though bland and clichéd, were always welcome. But the card that sent me into a rage was that of the Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacán. It was the place I most wanted to visit. And she was there. And she had cruelly reminded me with her card that I wasn’t.
I held it in my hands for a few minutes. I don’t remember a word of her note penned in her impeccably-perfect penmanship. What I do recall is tearing the postcard into pieces and dumping it into a waste can.
When my mother returned a week or so after I had received the card, I was all welcoming smiles. I don’t actually even recall being angry with her. Apparently, tearing up the image of the pyramid had been somewhat cathartic. Over the next few days I heard a great deal about her trip to Mexico City and beyond. She recounted very little, however, about ruins. Indeed, most of her commentary concerned a suave Mexican engineer named Raimundo.
Although I had few memories of Mexico, the ones I did have were exceptionally strong. Once I knew my father had left, I had no actual link to the country, of course, but neither my heart nor imagination knew that. Indeed, I had grown to cherish all things Mexican. As a budding archaeologist, I had become an authority on the Toltecs and Aztecs and Maya. A map of Mexico hung on my wall. I was first in my Spanish class. I would often dream of the narrow streets and gray buildings around the Alameda and retained an olfactory memory of the market. A café we frequented when I was a toddler was exceptionally vivid down to a painted expressionist mural on the wall.
The bars over my tiny bedroom window would often make their way into nocturnal musings about whether they were intended to keep me in or others out.
My grandparents didn’t say much to me about my mother’s sojourns but given my penchant for eavesdropping on the adults, I quickly picked up that they were not particularly pleased.
“I just think it’s irresponsible.”
“Yes.”
“I just hope the man she’s chasing is at least employed.”
“And not a drunk.”
Etcetera. Etcetera...
I suppose my mother thought she was keeping in touch with her son by sending him daily postcards. To me, however, they were actually a form of torture. I remember one that depicted a sugar-sand beach with waving palms. Next to Mexican ruins, my second greatest Latin passion was islands and palm trees. The ones of churches didn’t bother me much. And her cheery notes en verso, though bland and clichéd, were always welcome. But the card that sent me into a rage was that of the Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacán. It was the place I most wanted to visit. And she was there. And she had cruelly reminded me with her card that I wasn’t.
I held it in my hands for a few minutes. I don’t remember a word of her note penned in her impeccably-perfect penmanship. What I do recall is tearing the postcard into pieces and dumping it into a waste can.
When my mother returned a week or so after I had received the card, I was all welcoming smiles. I don’t actually even recall being angry with her. Apparently, tearing up the image of the pyramid had been somewhat cathartic. Over the next few days I heard a great deal about her trip to Mexico City and beyond. She recounted very little, however, about ruins. Indeed, most of her commentary concerned a suave Mexican engineer named Raimundo.
NOTE BENE: Alyscamps Press in Paris, published the most recent chapbook by Chris Sawyer-Lauçanno, Just Words: Homage to Roman Jakobson, based on notes he kept when he was under Jakobson's tutelage as a graduate student. These were later discovered by the author's granddaughter when sorting through items to go to UC Santa Barbara as part of Sawyer-Lauçanno's archives there.
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