Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You

Christmas Spirits

V_Jrr\stmas ^pmits* \Y/ When I enter the classroom I notice her immediately. She is obese and has difficulty fitting onto the school chair attached to the desk. She wears thick glasses, and the skin on her face is pale as if she hides from sun, hides from light. Stringy hair trails to her shoulders. Her clothes, not just because of her weight, are ill-fitting, the material worn and beaded. She looks unsure, awkward, ashamed, defeated. And this is why I notice her immediately: because I remember my own awkwardness and shame, as if we are twins. Even though when I starved myself I was skinny, there is no difference between us, for I, too, looked ill-fitted, always expecting to fail. I put my books on the teacher's desk—I, now the teacher, teaching freshman English part-time at a local college. I stand before the class feigning authority, worried that I am still ill-fitted, worried that the students will know how I spent my childhood, or will think I'm not a real teacher. Yes, I dress differently now, wearing clothes I hope look professional. Still, I'm scared and unsure. On this first day I introduce myself, hand out a syllabus, and am more than a little surprised that every student actually reads it, only a syllabus, yes,but one I've written. I'm even more surprised that all the students copy down words I write, my words, that I write on the blackboard. But maybe it's only because my clothes make me look professional. 257 258 G R E E N When I call roll I learn the name of the obese girl. Kathy. I have this small dread she won't make it. I've never taught before, and I can't begin to figure out prepositions , but I am willfully determined to succeed because I believe I've failed at everything I've previously done. So I'm up at four o'clock every morning to grade papers or prepare classes. By nine o'clock at night, after again grading papers or preparing, I fall asleep, exhausted. I work Saturdays and Sundays, every weekend, grading papers. I read essay after essay, all the essays, very carefully . Because the essays are so personal—more personal than I would have expected—I must, besides correcting grammar, write long notes in the margins and on the backs of pages. I must respond to my students' tentative, unsure words, words that tell me their stories. They write of alcoholic fathers, of physically violent mothers. Their childhood pets die. Relatives are killed in car wrecks. Best friends die in DUI accidents. As children they are dumped at grandparents' houses as their parents divorce or disappear . One grandmother beats her granddaughter for failing to finish dinner. So I must comment not just about grammar and organization in the margins. I must also express encouragement, or outrage and sympathy. I tell them I'm sorry such terrible things have happened to them. Many don't receive good grades—I grade carefully, fairly—but I must tell them I know, with a little more work, they can do better. Kathy, whose handwriting is thin and scratchy, writes an essay about all the hours she sleeps. She's scared she'll fall asleep in class and the other students will laugh. As a child, she writes, she always slept in school, at home, in the car, outside on the grass, at friends' houses, before she lost her friends, sleeping anywhere and everywhere . She says she can't stay awake. Her mother used to beat her for sleeping. Christmas Spirits 25$ And, yes, I understand this sleep. If your body is sleeping, what can it feel? If your mind's not awake, what can it know? I imagine Kathy slumbering through endless summer heat. I imagine white sheets graying after hours and days of sleep. I remember the summer I slept in the West Indies. I remember being engulfed in clouds of sleep. I wonder where Kathy's father is while she sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. But even when my momma beat me, I couldn't wake up^ Kathy writes in her essay. I could never wake up. In the margin of her paper I tell her I'm sad this has happened to her, sad her mother beat her, sad she couldn't wake up...