Unlike Mr. Cantor, the substitute teacher, who obsessively popped "Tums" into a large, loose-lipped, spittle filled mouth, and loudly blew shiny missiles from his mucous filled nose into thin, brown paper towels of the type found in public bathrooms- consequently laying them flat out to dry on the small, hissing radiator while we continued to shiver in the heatless room albiet now with the image of snot-encased "tissues" imprinted forever on our childish third eyes- Mrs. Herskovitz, the regular teacher, inspired rather than grossed us out. But even the revolting machinations of the Tum sucker proved instructional in our own youthful quest for survival. For as soon as creepy Cantor turned his back, however briefly, if only to plant an overly large aleph, bet or gimmel on the rickety, standup blackboard that swayed on its skinny legs with each tap of the chalk, mayhem and bravado spontaneously ensued behind the teacher’s back. And it was exactly during one of these miniscule though significant respites from formal instruction that I learned from Mikey Kaplan the following precious truth: you could run your fingers- nay, the whole tiny hand!- stealthily through eight lit Hanuka candles in one fell swoop and not die or at least be partially immolated, providing you did this insane act of risk taking sure and fast. You would be fine. You would have cheated the grim reaper and eluded painful disfigurement as well. The worst you could expect would be the residue of a little soot on your small knuckles. This too could become a story, one you could tell your children and grandchildren. . . .
Friday, February 22, 2013
A Story About Storytelling, Part Two
From "A Storyteller's Story"
Unlike Mr. Cantor, the substitute teacher, who obsessively popped "Tums" into a large, loose-lipped, spittle filled mouth, and loudly blew shiny missiles from his mucous filled nose into thin, brown paper towels of the type found in public bathrooms- consequently laying them flat out to dry on the small, hissing radiator while we continued to shiver in the heatless room albiet now with the image of snot-encased "tissues" imprinted forever on our childish third eyes- Mrs. Herskovitz, the regular teacher, inspired rather than grossed us out. But even the revolting machinations of the Tum sucker proved instructional in our own youthful quest for survival. For as soon as creepy Cantor turned his back, however briefly, if only to plant an overly large aleph, bet or gimmel on the rickety, standup blackboard that swayed on its skinny legs with each tap of the chalk, mayhem and bravado spontaneously ensued behind the teacher’s back. And it was exactly during one of these miniscule though significant respites from formal instruction that I learned from Mikey Kaplan the following precious truth: you could run your fingers- nay, the whole tiny hand!- stealthily through eight lit Hanuka candles in one fell swoop and not die or at least be partially immolated, providing you did this insane act of risk taking sure and fast. You would be fine. You would have cheated the grim reaper and eluded painful disfigurement as well. The worst you could expect would be the residue of a little soot on your small knuckles. This too could become a story, one you could tell your children and grandchildren. . . .
Unlike Mr. Cantor, the substitute teacher, who obsessively popped "Tums" into a large, loose-lipped, spittle filled mouth, and loudly blew shiny missiles from his mucous filled nose into thin, brown paper towels of the type found in public bathrooms- consequently laying them flat out to dry on the small, hissing radiator while we continued to shiver in the heatless room albiet now with the image of snot-encased "tissues" imprinted forever on our childish third eyes- Mrs. Herskovitz, the regular teacher, inspired rather than grossed us out. But even the revolting machinations of the Tum sucker proved instructional in our own youthful quest for survival. For as soon as creepy Cantor turned his back, however briefly, if only to plant an overly large aleph, bet or gimmel on the rickety, standup blackboard that swayed on its skinny legs with each tap of the chalk, mayhem and bravado spontaneously ensued behind the teacher’s back. And it was exactly during one of these miniscule though significant respites from formal instruction that I learned from Mikey Kaplan the following precious truth: you could run your fingers- nay, the whole tiny hand!- stealthily through eight lit Hanuka candles in one fell swoop and not die or at least be partially immolated, providing you did this insane act of risk taking sure and fast. You would be fine. You would have cheated the grim reaper and eluded painful disfigurement as well. The worst you could expect would be the residue of a little soot on your small knuckles. This too could become a story, one you could tell your children and grandchildren. . . .
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Your story excerpt brought to mind a "small act of defiance" perpetrated in a seventh grade music class. Mrs. Bengs our music teacher was not to be messed around with. It was a time of strictness that one no longer sees in our modern 21st century education system. You could think of it as a kind of Stalag 17 for prepubescent teens repete with silent passages in the hallways, student capos, and a 6'5" gym teacher who dispensed nuggies,which was a sharp blow to the cranium if you dared step out of line. Then there was the Principal, Harry Flaum an imperious fellow who ruled and struck fear in us by his very anonyminity. He was more terrifying because he was unknown. As I write this story, I cannot ever forget my typing teacher walking up and down the aisle to the din of clak, clak, clak, carrying her pointer and shouting out "asdf;lkj space" over and over until your brain went numb.
ReplyDeleteBengs was in this mold. Besides getting us to sing such favorites as Autumn Leaves and Unchained Melody, she had a peculiar habit similar to your friend Cantor. She would blow her nose into a silk hankerchief and promptly shove it down the front of her dress, there to dry at body temperature between her breasts. The class, particularly the boys would glance at each other snikering. Finally one day, Robert Levine, the class dufus and soon to be hung out the third floor window by upper classmen, decided it was his moment to face immortality. He stealthily placed several thumb tacks on Bengs' desk chair. Upon arriving our beloved music teacher somehow did not notice those sharp intruments of our destruction. She pranced around the room teaching god knows what as we all held our breath. Finally the moment was upon us as she leaned over, braced herself using the desk to support her weight and slowly lowered herself onto the awaiting daggers. Would she scream in agony as a prelude to the whole class being escorted down to Mr. Flaums office so that the culprit could be revealed? Miraculously, she sat but nothing happened. The world of music class went on as usual. We were perplexed and relieved. The bell rang. Mrs. Bengs got up to lead us to the door and we behold those shiny thumb tacks embedded in her girdle. I guess Robert Levine with the small prefrontal cortex and large amigula common to folks his age lived on to do larger acts of defiance as he continues to test his immortality.
Gil W
Threre's nothing like precious memories of repulsive teachers to pique my nostalgia for the good old days
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