My mother took every opportunity to tell my sister and me how we were really stupid. “Dumb as a pissant” or “Lose your head if it wasn’t attached” and especially “never amount to anything.” I remember in Third Grade we had to take an “Achievement” test and the teachers and the principal telling us over and over how these tests do not matter, we should just try our best but they will not affect our report card or go anywhere on our permanent record. At some point during the test, my teacher announced we could go outside when we were finished. So I ABBA CA DABBAed the rest of the scantron and headed for the playground. It was about four years later when I found out they lied to us as they were dividing up every elementary kid to matriculate into junior high. I really wish someone had told me: If you kick ass on that Third Grade “Achievement” test, you get to be called “gifted” or at least “advanced.” Later, I found out how my fill-in-the-blanks fast track to recess returned my test back with an IQ of 72 and my parents were called into school where the principal said I belonged in the Special Ed class and my mom as all: Well, that explains everything. The weird part of this story is how my mom was actually a teacher’s aid in the Special Ed room. She worked with these kids everyday and somehow it made sense to her when some authority figure told her I belonged there. My teacher spoke up: Janine is most certainly not Mentally Retarded (as we called it in those days), I have a pretty good idea of what happened here and it has more to do with Dodge Ball than intelligence.
By Junior High, we were divided into curriculum tracks labeled “Advanced, Average, and Below Average.” The Below Average students eventually made their way to the Vo-Tech program by high school. I had all “Average” classes except I am pretty sure I fell into “Below Average” math. I was a trouble maker. I started hanging out with “The Freaks.” School was one big entertainment session: How to cut class, how to convince the nurse I was sick, how to use a cheat sheet, how to copy off my neighbor’s work, how to steal hall passes, how to make out with boys on the condemned third floor. One day at the beginning of 8th grade, Mrs. Corona, my English teacher, approached my mother in the Faculty Lounge. (Now my mom was a teacher’s aid in remedial reading, following my sister and me from school to school.) My mother waved her away, telling her: No, I only talk about Janine during conferences. This was not the first time a teacher tried to ruin her cigarette break. Mrs. Maffie once marched up to her and slammed my cheat sheet of all the Roman gods and goddesses onto her table, for example. But Mrs. Corona persisted: I think Janine belongs in Advanced English. My mother burst out laughing: Oh no, surely you’re not talking about my daughter. This experienced teacher saw something my mother refused to see. Perhaps I was not dumb, perhaps I was bored, perhaps I needed something a little more challenging. She asked my mother if we could try an experiment and have me sit in on her advanced class. My mother was not proud or even excited for me. When she told me about what Mrs. Corona said, she insisted it was all a big mistake and not to get my hopes up or anything. I sat in that class for one week and then marched into the guidance counselor’s office by myself and demanded a schedule change from top to bottom.
By the time I was 23, I had dropped out of three different colleges and now found myself trying one more time at a community college north of San Francisco. Starting all over again, I landed in another freshman English course taught by an over-enthusiastic young man named Mr. Haskell. (In my mind, I called him “Eddie.”) He was so thrilled to be teaching English at a community college. He loved school. He loved my writing. He went on and on about my great writing. I rolled my eyes. I think at that point, I considered myself a History major or maybe I would just default into Nursing. Or something. But he kept telling me: You. Are. A. Good. Writer. I figured it was his job to say all this. Or something. We were doing a close study of Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. We were supposed to read the play and write all about the meanings and symbolism. We had to watch the Elizabeth Taylor movie and write all about the ways Hollywood changed the story and why. We watched the Jessica Lange version and at the end of the semester, we met in the city to watch a staged version. Up until the night of the performance, school was always a total drag for me, some hoop you jumped through to move to the next stage of life. I did the least to get by. Standing in line, “Eddie” was waxing poetic about what an awesome opportunity to get to see this live performance in the great city of San Francisco and for just a moment, I tilted my head and he moved into a different prism in my mind. I remember thinking: Oh my god, you actually like this shit. And this young man, who worshipped at the Altar of Tennessee, also put a lot of effort into insisting I am a Good Writer. I decided to believe him.
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