At the Assumption Catholic Elementary School there are rules, like a master artist’s studio, about form and order. There should be quiet voices, there should be good, disciplined children in the classrooms, and there should be a show of deference to everyone. That, at least, was how the teachers presented the school to me. A blood red brick building with a massive white cross jutting from the building’s roof, as if Christ had struck the building in a similar fashion as the astronauts did in the sixties with the moon. This was His school, where he would be so upset with me if he found out what a bad girl I was. My parents certainly were disappointed, I was informed, and so naturally Jesus was going to be too. The Assumption School was His, and just look how disrespectful I was acting: I forgot to bring home my “N” papers-“N” as in Not Satisfactory. Age seven and already I’ve failed miserably. What was so terrible though, was that I was not in the least bit scared that I had upset my Savior; I was petrified that my mother and father found out how’ awful’ I was. The school, I suppose, expected me to be mortified that The Messiah had found enough time to be dismayed with my second grade learning, or lack thereof, abilities. My teacher must have forgotten about how Jesus forgives when one seeks forgiveness. However, my parents were not Christ; they do not forgive as easily as The King of kings does.
The teacher was going to attach a note informing my loved family that their only child was a dunce…and a lazy one at that. I had dared to not get those “N” papers signed when it was expressly clear that was my task at hand. Now I had to the face the consequences of my ‘laziness’. She, Miss Dell, was going to write a letter home, stating that I was a bad girl, that I was stupid, that I wasn’t going to get into Heaven( or go to third grade) because...because why?
I wanted to just cry and cry. I was not lazy! I was afraid! They kept telling me that my parents were going to be furious with me, and I could not stand that. It was a fate worse than death: to have Daddy pick me up in his black Ford Bronco and drive me back to our home, only to realize he was not driving his little daughter home…but a not satisfactory liar! He would hand Mama my miniscule purple backpack, and she would reach into the bag only to pull out a mass of red markered papers with a neat and fluorescent post-it that detailed my descent into idiocy and my life as a lying N- paper hoarder. I just could not bear that pain. I had to do something, devise some way to make it through the fiery obstacle course that was second grade.
The seven year old mind is a very fertile land of imagination, and the only way I was going to survive this childhood trial was to imagine a way to save myself from the terrible devolution into failure. There was the option of creating some story that would explain to my parents that there was another Evie Goggins in the class, or that N actually stood for Nice!-That they had to merely sign the papers to recognize how good I was at learning. The only flaw with such an idea was the cursed Post-It, declaring my blunders. Thus, there was only option remaining: make good use of pity and my mind. Perhaps, like Jesus, Miss Dell would recognize my shame and forget about my erroneous ways.
The plan was quite simple. Make good use of my cherubic, babyish features. Speak in a voice befitting an upset child and, most importantly, convince her that I was legitimately distressed. How was I going to pull of the biggest coup the second grade had ever seen? I would need to use every ounce of creativity and intelligence I had acquired in my short life. I was about to begin my life as a writer, as a storyteller, as a creative person.
I slowly walked up to her desk, positioned cheerfully next to the windows bright with buttery sunshine rays reflecting the grimy crayons’ pigments on a nearby shelf. She was busy doing paper work (most likely delighting in her daily ritual of giving me an “N”), and I had to lightly tap her free hand to get her attention. When she looked down at me, I was ready. I was rubbing a chubby hand in my eye, and whispered “I don’t want any more “N”s…please.” She gave a look of bewilderment and then sighed. She was about to begin a speech about how I have to be a good student to not get anymore “N’s” and I was not being a good student. I had prepared for this ‘talk’ too, and launched into, quite possibly, the best acting I have ever performed. “Oh, Miss Dell, please don’t give me anymore “N’s”! My uncle, from Spain, is visiting us, and how awful and angry he will be with me if he finds out that his favorite niece only gets “N”’s! They don’t stand for Nice, either! Oh please, you don’t want my uncle to be mad at me, do you? How am I go-going to sh-show him only “N”’s?” and then a perfect tear fell down my mask of misery.
It felt as if I was a Broadway actress giving an award winning performance. I knew I had melted the icy heart of Miss Dell, and that I was going to be safe from gazing up into the would- be heartbroken and dis-appointed faces of Mama and Daddy- faces which one day I would learn, will never bear that expression in regards to myself. My slate was wiped clean, I felt like Lazarus
This epiphany that I was among the creative was a miracle. The fact that I knew I was -although many doubted that this and tried to make me believe so- inventive and was unique aided me through many a similar rough patch; it is a comforting thought to know that one is worth having such abilities. How thankful I am that I have been bequeathed such an ability with acting and words is inexpressible; simply stating that I would not be very much who I am today without having been able to have found the path to artistic ingenuity-beginning that one fateful day in second grade- is the most I can string together to display my gratefulness. God only knows how else I could have become the writer that I am today.
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