A memoir in the voice of Haven Kimmel

Once you have read Haven Kimmel's stuff, you are not likely to get it out of your head. This happened to me with A Girl Named Zippy, which, though (or because) it mostly describes

a. sadists, ghouls, the undiagnosed mentally ill, and other picturesque small-town characters
b. live animals that die and dead animals that stay dead
c. impossibly cool parents with layers under their layers
d. manifold forms of appalling cruelty

is still a ROFL scream, you will come to the inescapable conclusion that Haven Kimmel is (pick one)

a. seriously bent
b. the reincarnation of a shamanic priestess
c. completely adorable
d. all of the above

Haven's hook is "a memoir of a happy childhood." It really should be "a memoir about a happy, bent childhood." Mine would be "a memoir about a happy, bent childhood lacking cool parents and chapter-length set pieces with unbelievably perfect endings."

But that should not stop me from submitting my own humble set piece in honor of Haven Kimmel, and in her voice, imitation being the sincerest form of somehow getting Zippy and the thirty-six coonhounds out of my head.

In sixth grade we were in Mrs. Woolridge's class. She was a large, perpetually annoyed woman who spent her life attempting to carry out the latest educational methods on a class that was about as cooperative as a mule on Mr. Pibb.

At the beginning of the year we were divided into teams, which meant that four or five of us would push our desks together and make a kind of desert island with pencil wells.

One of the team was the Team Leader. This was the kid with High Potential, the smart one.

Another kid was the Co-Leader, also a smarty-pants, but not quite as smart as the Leader.

The third and fourth kids in the team, the Team Members, were dumb, or troublemakers, or both. The theory was that the Team Leader would do his or her work quickly and efficiently, then spend the rest of the time helping the others, walking around the island making helpful suggestions as necessary. Kids, being supervised by their own peers rather than an authority figure, would relax and learn naturally. Mrs. Woolridge would then be free to preside from her desk at the front of the room and watch the good teaching awards roll in.

All this we learned lightning-quick, because as sixth graders and the kings of Malcolm X Elementary School, we were nobody's fools.

And we were not about to make Mrs. Woolridge's theories look good.

We spent the year squabbling and gossiping, or becoming partners in crime, or ganging up on each other, or competing to the death with other teams. Team Leaders refused to help, Team Members refused to be helped, and Co-Leaders grumbled about their junior status. Anyone who appeared to follow the program was ruthlessly ostracized.

Mrs. Woolridge responded with rants ("I'm oh th'ow this book at you!"), tears, and new team configurations.

I was always a Team Leader, unless I was a Co-Leader, which offended me greatly. And the class bully, Dennis Cartwright, was also always a Team Leader, despite the fact that he never did a lick of work, terrorized everyone except those bigger than him, and at one point in the year thought it would be a fun thing to put tacks point up in students' chairs.

A yelp, followed by a peal of maniacal laughter meant that Dennis had speared another victim.

Finally, towards the end of the year, Mrs. Woolridge decided to try Another Theory. Dennis played trumpet, and she knew he wanted to go to music camp that year, but his family had no money to do it. So she organized a bake sale. Everyone in class would bring into school a batch of cookies, or some brownies, or some slices of cake, and we would sell them at lunchtime, the proceeds going to Dennis' music camp fund.

This act of kindness, so she claimed, would turn Dennis' heart.

We launched into it with a unity of purpose that astonished Mrs. Woolridge. The bake sale was a smashing success, making around $100, which was more than half of the camp fees.

When we presented the money to Daniel and told him what it was for, he said, in a very grumpy and disappointed voice, "Awwww... Now I got to be nice to y'all."

But that wasn't the end. Fired by the prospect of easy profits, we organized a new bake sale without Mrs. Woolridge's knowledge or permission.

When the word got out, the administration shut us down with sirens blaring. After lunch Mrs. Woolridge stared daggers at us, threw up her hands, and declared, "What am I going to do with you? Today it's bake sales, tomorrow it'll be drugs!"

Then a voice came from the back of the room, the voice of a perpetual Team Member:

"But tomorrow is Saturday."

He should have been immediately promoted.

Comments

[moominpapa]

I liked this a lot. Sixth grade was when I finally got the message that teachers were often using us. And by junior high it was obvious that some had some weird issues that they worked out on us. I'm not saying there wasn't some great teaching done, or that there were no good teachers - but there were others...

[kellincatty]

That's fantastic. I love this story. It reminds me of a time when I joined a bell choir for half a year. We did a piece called "Paean" or something like that. I don't remember what prompted this - but the music teacher told us it was a song honoring someone... I asked why then, the author wrote about a Peon...

Ok. I actually like your story much better. It made someone a better person. Sorry I missed you in NC. Maybe next time.

[moominpapa]

And I didn't say how much I love the last line of this. So how much of this is based on real experience and how much is fiction? It's not every day one gets to ask an author that.

[DF]

Kell, make sure you write about the musical Peon at your blog.

MPop, every word of this is true. After all, as James Frey once said, this is memoir.

And thanks for the strokes, both of you.