Today one of my students asked me--as we were diagramming predicate adjectives and predicate nominatives (which, by the way, they now call predicate nouns)--"Mrs. Jones what in the world made you want to be a teacher?"
And in less time than it took to crack my yardstick against the white board (no, it isn't corporal punishment...don't tell Henry David Thoreau..it's just such a great power trip, a yardstick and speed grammar in colored chalk on the black board, blazing dry erase markers up front, and 15 kids flying around the room diagramming Tim's uncle has been the town mayor for twelve years, and Your little brown dog is actually a Doberman or Professor Dumbledore seemed angry at Harry for the whole term..if you love this stuff like I do, you understand) I was back in Mr. Jacobson's pink and blue sixth grade classroom, at Wilcox Elementary.
None of us were sure why they painted his classroom pink and baby-blue over the summer, but now that I'm a teacher I'm pretty certain he must have done something to incur the wrath of the maintenance crew (teacher-the/ pissed off-staff,the, custodial). Anyway, I digress.
It was the year they separated me from all my friends, you know, three sixth grade teachers...let's keep that mouthy White kid (and when I say White, that was my name, not my race...although I guess technically it's my race, but I wasn't meaning it that way, and why do I feel like I have to explain that anyway...sheesh--definitely another blog, another day) away from her friends and maybe they'll stand a chance of learning something this year, or coming in from recess without having been verbally badgered for an hour, or making up their own minds about a topic (okay, I admit I may have been a little bit overbearing as a child...but thank God, I/ 've outgrown/ that! ).
Literally, and I mean literally, every morning I woke up hating the idea, the very thought of, getting out of bed to go to school. I detested everything about education and my life. My big brother had gone away to college and rather than living in a state of Nirvana, not having to wonder when he was going to crawl out the bathroom window only to crawl around the house in the dark and scratch on the screens of the TV room to crawl back through the bathroom window and come to our "rescue" after unlocking the door to our screams, I was completely and utterly depressed...because believe it or not, I really adored him.
That was the fall of 1975...and if I recall correctly it was also the fall of Saigon.
So that fall we spent the days looking through microscopes at purpled onion skins in Ms. Yancil's class, working algebra problems and learning grammar in Mr. Jacobson's nursery-colored classroom, and then spent the evenings watching dingy green and gray footage of military airlifts, the double propellered army helicopters taking off straight into the sky with hundreds of South Vietnamese crammed inside, dozens more hanging from the runners as they rose higher and higher into the sky, roters whirling, until the hangers-on finally dropped off or were pushed to the ground.(hangers on-the/ dropped---or were pushed-finally/ to ground-the.)
It was also the fall we learned to diagram sentences. It was like discovering the math of English. Suddenly, words--which I/ had adored-always, violenty-quite, like-brother,my, big-- fell into comprehendable rank and file, slanting lines of prepositions and sloping adjectives inclining adverbs. I covered my college-lined notebook paper (it was time for the big hitters, we were in sixth-grade after all) with messy pen and graphite lines filled with words--beautiful words. No, they drew themselves, the harder the sentence, the more in love I fell.
So that fall we spent the days looking through microscopes at purpled onion skins in Ms. Yancil's class, working algebra problems and learning grammar in Mr. Jacobson's nursery-colored classroom, and then spent the evenings watching dingy green and gray footage of military airlifts, the double propellered army helicopters taking off straight into the sky with hundreds of South Vietnamese crammed inside, dozens more hanging from the runners as they rose higher and higher into the sky, roters whirling, until the hangers-on finally dropped off or were pushed to the ground.(hangers on-the/ dropped---or were pushed-finally/ to ground-the.)
It was also the fall we learned to diagram sentences. It was like discovering the math of English. Suddenly, words--which I/ had adored-always, violenty-quite, like-brother,my, big-- fell into comprehendable rank and file, slanting lines of prepositions and sloping adjectives inclining adverbs. I covered my college-lined notebook paper (it was time for the big hitters, we were in sixth-grade after all) with messy pen and graphite lines filled with words--beautiful words. No, they drew themselves, the harder the sentence, the more in love I fell.
But I/ hated-still/ school......
And then Dâm arrived.
And then Dâm arrived.
The Methodist Church sponsored one of the refugee families--the ones we saw flooding into Laos every night as the North Vietnamese army marched its way south--and the family they sponsored was Dâm’s.
Her family had escaped with their lives, but they had been separated from her father. I don’t remember much more than that, and I’m not sure I ever truly understood. Maybe they floated on inner tubes, or doors or pieces of rafts—I remember the anchor men called them “boat people,” but most of them never used a boat. Dâm and her family had somehow gotten to Laos, where they stayed in a refugee camp and learned basic English phrases like “Thank you” and “Please.” And when Dâm came to Castle Rock that’s about all the English she knew.
Her family had escaped with their lives, but they had been separated from her father. I don’t remember much more than that, and I’m not sure I ever truly understood. Maybe they floated on inner tubes, or doors or pieces of rafts—I remember the anchor men called them “boat people,” but most of them never used a boat. Dâm and her family had somehow gotten to Laos, where they stayed in a refugee camp and learned basic English phrases like “Thank you” and “Please.” And when Dâm came to Castle Rock that’s about all the English she knew.
The Methodist church found Dâm’s family a little two-bedroom house, scrapped together enough clothing for seven children and their mother, a tiny scrap of a woman who was still nursing Dâm’s baby sister, Hieuh, and then sent them to American public schools.
And that’s the event that changed my life.
And that’s the event that changed my life.
When Holden asked me why I became a teacher, it’s hard to explain that it happened nearly forty years ago in 1975 when Mr. Jacobsen called me to the back of his classroom and asked me if I would like a special project. My job, he said, for the rest of the year, would be to teach Dâm English. No more sheets of diagrams and sitting, waiting for the others to finish, no more grammar for me at all. How, I asked, would I do it? He told me: Just be her friend (you)/ be-just/ friend-her.
She had five brothers: Co, Minh, Trinh, Quang, and little Trang, who was only three years old and looked like a tiny skeleton of a boy. I’m always afraid I’ve forgotten one, now, as I’ve forgotten so many things. Her full name was Nguuyen Thi Dâm, meaning she was the daughter of her father, Van Nguuyen. The boys went by Nguuyen Van Co and on down the line.
She had five brothers: Co, Minh, Trinh, Quang, and little Trang, who was only three years old and looked like a tiny skeleton of a boy. I’m always afraid I’ve forgotten one, now, as I’ve forgotten so many things. Her full name was Nguuyen Thi Dâm, meaning she was the daughter of her father, Van Nguuyen. The boys went by Nguuyen Van Co and on down the line.
Co was sent to junior high, where the first thing the boys did was to teach him every swear word they could think of. I can't imagine the weight or the anger Co must have carried around on his shoulders as the oldest son--his father lost in war. I was always a little frightened of him. But one day I remember seeing him smile.
I had a friend named Peter and one day Co tried to ask if we were siblings. I tried so hard to understand him (I/ took-seriously/ job-my), repeating, “Peanut butter? Peanut butter?” Finally in exasperation Co started laughing, and I suddenly realized he was asking if Peter was my brother. Dâm, Peter, Co and I laughed until our sides ached. It was one of the few times I saw him let down his guard.
I played at Dâm's house; she came over to mine. We met almost every day in the middle at the Elementary school and played on the swings and teeter totters, and we sat on the monkey bars and exchanged languages. I remember so little of what she taught me, and I wouldn’t know how to spell it if I tried. Dow Di ,Mat , Mui , and Mea…that was head, ears, eyes, nose and mouth. She taught me to make paper gum wrapper chains, and I still have it in a little box on my dresser. She taught me to scoop up one rock at a time as I threw another in the air, like a game of jacks without the rubber ball. Her mother made the best chicken I have ever tasted, and I never realized how very destitute they were. In fact I didn't realize at all until my parents scolded me for eating supper at her house. When they found out she had fed me They were appalled (parents-my/ must have felt\ sorry-for her). Dâm became my best friend. Her smile was as quick and as bright as fox-fire. Her skin was as rich as coffee, her hair as thick and dark as the fall had once felt. She laughed at all my jokes, and with her I never had to fight for my way. She trusted me in everything.
And because I was just a kid, I never thought ahead to what might come of my beautiful Vietnamese friend.
But that summer I went on vacation with my parents, and when I came home………….. Dâm/ was\ gone. The Methodists moved them to a Vietnamese community in Denver where they could have support, friends--a network. I guess there weren’t too many people like them in Castle Rock, but like most 12 year olds. I guess I had never noticed. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried that hard over a friend since.
I had a friend named Peter and one day Co tried to ask if we were siblings. I tried so hard to understand him (I/ took-seriously/ job-my), repeating, “Peanut butter? Peanut butter?” Finally in exasperation Co started laughing, and I suddenly realized he was asking if Peter was my brother. Dâm, Peter, Co and I laughed until our sides ached. It was one of the few times I saw him let down his guard.
I played at Dâm's house; she came over to mine. We met almost every day in the middle at the Elementary school and played on the swings and teeter totters, and we sat on the monkey bars and exchanged languages. I remember so little of what she taught me, and I wouldn’t know how to spell it if I tried. Dow Di ,Mat , Mui , and Mea…that was head, ears, eyes, nose and mouth. She taught me to make paper gum wrapper chains, and I still have it in a little box on my dresser. She taught me to scoop up one rock at a time as I threw another in the air, like a game of jacks without the rubber ball. Her mother made the best chicken I have ever tasted, and I never realized how very destitute they were. In fact I didn't realize at all until my parents scolded me for eating supper at her house. When they found out she had fed me They were appalled (parents-my/ must have felt\ sorry-for her). Dâm became my best friend. Her smile was as quick and as bright as fox-fire. Her skin was as rich as coffee, her hair as thick and dark as the fall had once felt. She laughed at all my jokes, and with her I never had to fight for my way. She trusted me in everything.
And because I was just a kid, I never thought ahead to what might come of my beautiful Vietnamese friend.
But that summer I went on vacation with my parents, and when I came home………….. Dâm/ was\ gone. The Methodists moved them to a Vietnamese community in Denver where they could have support, friends--a network. I guess there weren’t too many people like them in Castle Rock, but like most 12 year olds. I guess I had never noticed. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried that hard over a friend since.
Dâm was the best friend a 12-year-old girl could have ever had. Dâm taught me to not be sad angry anymore, and she made me think I was good at something. Dâm saved my life and taught me one of the greatest lessons I’ve ever learned: When you’re absorbed in yourself and depressed beyond words, try helping out somebody else. When you get your eyes off your own sadness, and you focus on another’s, the sadness suddenly recedes. Dâm came across the ocean, and she washed away my loneliness. And for that, I will always, always love her.I-for, that/ will love-always, always / her
I don’t claim to be an expert on the Vietnam war. It wasn’t even considered history yet when I was in high school. I’ve never been to Vietnam, and I don’t know if I ever will go.
I don’t claim to be an expert on the Vietnam war. It wasn’t even considered history yet when I was in high school. I’ve never been to Vietnam, and I don’t know if I ever will go.
But, oh, how I would love to see Dâm again. I’d probably chicken out if I ever found her…I doubt she even remembers who I am.
But I try to imagine what she’s like now. I’ll bet she’s married and has grown up kids, just like me. I’ll bet she still smiles like the sun and her hair is still jet black. I’ll bet she can still turn handsprings around me in math, and that her English is impeccable. I wonder if she taught her daughters to make gum wrapper chains and play the rock-tossing game, and I wonder if she still laughs about peanut butter.
I believe God heard me praying every night that fall when I was 11 years old: “God, please, please, please send me a friend.” And just like God, with his enormous sense of humor, he didn’t just send me any old friend….he went to Vietnam to find her. And who could have ever guessed that by the time my birthday came around that spring, and I turned 12, I would have already become the teacher I decided eventually to become.I / became \ teacher.
But I try to imagine what she’s like now. I’ll bet she’s married and has grown up kids, just like me. I’ll bet she still smiles like the sun and her hair is still jet black. I’ll bet she can still turn handsprings around me in math, and that her English is impeccable. I wonder if she taught her daughters to make gum wrapper chains and play the rock-tossing game, and I wonder if she still laughs about peanut butter.
I believe God heard me praying every night that fall when I was 11 years old: “God, please, please, please send me a friend.” And just like God, with his enormous sense of humor, he didn’t just send me any old friend….he went to Vietnam to find her. And who could have ever guessed that by the time my birthday came around that spring, and I turned 12, I would have already become the teacher I decided eventually to become.I / became \ teacher.
2 comments:
Who would have known that God was such a GREAT diagramer of the sentences, the clauses, of our lives. It was a dangling participle that brought you life! What a beautiful story - sure explains why you are such a terrific, passionate and COMpassionate teacher.
What an enjoyable story to read Deirdra...thank you for sharing. I hope you do find Dam someday - you might be surprised that she might just remember you fondly too as her first friend in America. :-)
Post a Comment