The aftermath of honesty

The problem with honesty is . . . it is not allowed.

Before you jump to the conclusion that I was raised by wolves, I, like most of you, was raised by a mother whose motto was: If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So I remained silent for a great deal of my childhood. Whenever I slipped up and pointed out something real or something honest, someone was quick to throw a blanket over it, extinguishing the flame of my truth.

Same thing happens these days, except now I'm the mom, and I no longer have to remain silent.

That being said, I also do not wish to impugn anyone's character or cause an uproar. I share my stories as I experience them, hoping someone else can relate to the scenarios I describe.

When someone is not helpful when I am asking for help, or someone is rude when I am being polite, my first instinct is to laugh at them. That may sound callous, as if I am not living the way I have professed to live. It may help to know my second thought is to see if there is something I can do to help the person who is struggling, even though I am the one requesting assistance.

I was not even aware how much that is my way until I was nearly run into one morning by a woman who apparently had not noticed my vehicle was stopped, signaling to make a left turn. I saw her car in my rearview mirror approaching too fast, and I barely got out of her way in time as she nearly drove into the ditch. My first reaction was to inquire about her. Something must have gone wrong in her life for her to be driving so recklessly, though I had no way of knowing. Because there had not been a collision, we mouthed the words through our closed windows: Are you ok? I was fine.

One thing I try not to do is make assumptions. So when someone makes them about me, it takes me a minute to regain my footing.

I think there is a tendency to project oneself into a situation, interpreting it through a different lens, and not the thick lenses for extremely near-sighted eyes through which I view the world. When I am no longer permitted to be the main character of my own story and someone else is playing the lead role, the story can take a trip down a forlorn path into the dark and scary woods.

Someone with a take-charge attitude is going to be greeted differently than someone who looks like she is easy to control. But looks are deceiving and just because one is soft-spoken does not mean she is afraid to take a stand. It also doesn't make her rude, though according to this new narrative imposed upon her story, she has gone from victim to villain in five seconds flat. Perhaps neither is the truth.

There is a problem in ever truly knowing the heart of another. Our smiles can betray our sadness. Our words can either soothe or ignite an encounter with another who is also unknown. In the mind of a writer, no detail is missed. The smell of the room, the color of the papers on the desk, the girl sitting with her head down looking sick, the eyes averted, hesitant tone of voice, and the general feeling of this entire experience is lodged deep within the psyche of the writer. I read recently that people with my personality type remember impressions more than facts which is why many of us are writers. We are concerned more with how the experience made us feel than if each detail could hold up in a court of law.

There are verbal processors, people who have to hear themselves say what they are thinking to make it real, and internal processors, people who have way more going on in their heads than will ever make it into sound. I speak through my written words. It is my truest voice. I can lie to your face and tell you I am perfectly fine, but I cannot lie in what I write. It is there I express who I am for all to see, always hoping I will be understood, yet knowing it may not make any difference ultimately. We are each unique and for that reason, communication can be an insurmountable obstacle.

If we find even a handful of others who can interpret our coded messages, laugh with us at the absurdity of daily life, get our symbols, and know what we mean when we say what we do, we have found love.

No more teachers, no more books, no more office ladies' dirty looks

Driving to the high school with my son one last time, I pull into his parking spot. As our only son who ever had a parking spot, and only because he has been driving his brother's car while he is in the Peace Corps, it has made things a bit easier. But today I would be coming with him, one last time.

We knew his chances for receiving an award at the senior award ceremony were slim to none. Even the academic awards were few and far between. What seems to deserve valued recognition is community service. Student athletes and music students rarely can fit these extra hours into their schedules, and yet, I wondered about the value of providing entertainment in the way of sporting events and concerts. Do we really want a society of people who just show up or those who spend hours trying to get better and inspire others to do the same? (This is a rhetorical question.)

In the midst of my contemplation, a recording of Pomp and Circumstance played one too many times, screeches its way throughout the auditorium as the graduates enter wearing caps and gowns. I had prepared myself as best I could and even had a kleenex in my pocket, but when I saw my son whose cap made his curly hair stick out on the sides, he looked like my little boy playing dress-up with his father's cap and gown, and I could only laugh. My baby had grown up.

Sitting through an hour and a half of awards most students would never get, save the one girl who received about a dozen of them (there is always that one girl) I allowed myself to consider the only chance my son would have for an award could be athlete of the year, which never seemed attainable until his older brother won it three years ago. But his older brother had been part of an indoor track team that won the state title and that is what it takes apparently, as the award was given to a wrestler who had done the same. It had been a futile hope. They call when something like that is going to happen and we had not received a call.

Leaving the graduates in the auditorium, the parents waited in the hall. I decided I would take care of some business since the state track meet was already going on and my son would run in a few hours.

We had a pre-calculus textbook hanging around our house for a couple of years and even though no one had requested its return, I wanted to take care of it so there would be no last minute effort on the part of the school to get it back. I also did not want to pay a replacement cost, having already received a fine for a library book that had apparently never made it home and was now lost. The note we received stated that when the fine was paid and the senior survey completed, tickets to get into the graduation ceremony would be issued. Since we were about to send out graduation announcements, adding the tickets would be appropriate since the announcement is an invitation to the ceremony with the fine print at the bottom stating one needs a ticket to enter.

I always make the mistake of walking into that office thinking that I will be treated like a grown-up and forget momentarily it is a school, and therefore, I will be treated like a student.

I do not expect to be greeted with a smile, though it is obvious I have come to the school that morning to attend the awards ceremony because my child is graduating. I am instead greeted with a look of hesitation, the kind of look one gives when one is not sure what is going to happen next. I put the textbook on the counter and tell the ladies behind the counter that I found it in my house and am returning it. They don't want to receive it from me. They want me to find the teacher who taught that class whatever year it was that my son took it. There is a name of a teacher in the book. I have never met this teacher. This is a big school, this is my youngest child of three, and I apparently am not the most on-top-of-it mom when it comes to knowing the teachers. I have always left that up to my husband who is a teacher at another high school. I wish at that moment I had thrown the book in the dumpster instead.

With reluctance they take the book, making me write on a sheet of paper my son's name along with the teacher's name. I would be surprised if they still use that textbook in that class, but here I am admitting my son did not return his textbook, so in a way, I am aiding and abetting. Mom and son in textbook stealing ring. Story at 11.

I then pull out the sheet mailed to us threatening to withhold our son's diploma until he returns a library book or pays a $5.00 fine. I have $5.00 in my purse. I know my son does not have the book or know where the book is. He said he never had the book and it was used for a group project at school. I know that if they do not accept the $5.00, my son may never graduate.

They let me know with the look on their faces they are not pleased with this transgression. It was bad enough about the textbook, but this is truly unforgivable. The lady starts to tell me that I will need to go to the media center, which is on the other side of the building through a hallway now filled with parents awaiting the end of the awards ceremony so they can take their students home. I am imagining me walking to the media center, showing another lady this sheet of paper and having her send me back to the front office. I'm also imagining my son exiting the auditorium any minute and needing to leave immediately. I ask the woman behind the counter if more money is required. I am not trying to pay her off. I am wanting to be released from this office. I am wanting my youngest child to graduate from high school and go off to college. I am wanting my nest to be empty because even though I have been warned that having an empty nest is a terribly sad time, I cannot for the life of me figure out how that could be so!

If this were the first time something like this happened, I would not be writing about it now. This situation, however, has in many ways been typical. It got so bad with the attendance office lady that when my sons said they could slip out the side door to meet me in the parking lot for an orthodontist or dental appointment, I agreed that it was the best and maybe even the only way to get to these appointments on time since going through the proper channels usually meant standing around an office waiting, and in at least one case being scoffed at. Yes, scoffed.

The $5.00 was eventually accepted. We were down to the very last thing: the graduation tickets. I slipped my son's senior survey into the box and asked if I may have the tickets, in as polite of way as I could muster, and the response was a resounding: no. The tickets have not been issued. I ask when they will be issued since my son is done with classes and testing. They tell me he should have listened to the announcements. They do not know my son. They may not have raised boys. I have no excuse, and yet, there is absolutely no way my son knows anything about graduation tickets. In the past two graduations we have attended for his older brothers, there was a big deal made about the tickets. At the door of the coliseum, however, the tickets did not matter.

These ladies know they have got me this time. They had reluctantly taken back a textbook and collected a fine for a library book, but there was no way they were going to work with me on this one. The looks on their faces, as they tried not to look me in the eyes--a tired mom whose 10-year high school career was soon coming to end--seemed to almost reflect a kind of victory. I could not understand why they were not congratulating me, why they did not seem to even know who I was, and why they would act this way. They may not be issuing the tickets, but they knew when they would be issued, especially since they insisted my son had heard all about it on the announcements. But they would keep their little secret, as I finally had to leave the office to meet my son.

We may someday get the tickets to go to graduation. If not, I know of a side entrance.