By B. P. Gibson
Preface
My name is strange, foreign barbarian, at least that’s what my name means. My sisters were adorned with names defined as “grace” and “purity,” empowering them with the potential for meaningful character and honor. I refer to them by their names’ meanings. Some other names have been changed.
Newbery
There, on my Twitter feed, smiling back at me with giddy excitement, a young lady announces her Newbery. I feel envy swell up inside me. I go to Google and type the book title. There it is: Piecing Me Together by Renée_Watson. The cover, a young girl in front of a colorful patchwork-city backdrop, piques my interest while the words “Free Sample” standout. I listen to the free sample and back out of the audio a few seconds later. I know this is a great book. This is a book I must have. I pick up my phone, click my iBooks app, download the audio version, and listen. There it is. The definite, distinct voice of the character, not the audio voice, but the voice of the protagonist’s personality standing out, being who she is, being real and likable. There it is the perfect oxymoron: out and in. I want to read or hear more because of the way the author writes things like in and out, so subtle and so profound. Dang! Why can’t I write like that?
It was Mrs._Bailey’s fault. Mrs._Bailey was my senior English teacher. Midway through the semester, she began writing things in my journal entries like “Plagiarism” and “I’ve read this before.” That one really got me. We were on split sessions, which meant half of us went to school from six in the morning until noon, and the other half of us went to school from half past noon to six-thirty in the evening. We switched each year, and my senior year, I was on morning-session with Mrs._Bailey’s class first period, six o’clock, bright and early.
Journals were due every Monday at the beginning of class. I awoke in the middle of a Sunday night with the realization I had not written anything in my journal that week. I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed my journal, and began to write. We could write anything in our journals as long as we wrote something. Half asleep, I filled the page with some nonsense poetry or prose, depending on what you did or didn’t read into it. The poem, or prose, spoke about clear streams and muddy waters and the entanglement of love’s desire. The clear streams and muddy waters were probably subconscious remnants of that weekend’s outings with friends to our local, national park. When the page was filled, I closed my journal, laid down, and pulled the covers over me. A few hours later, I awoke to the alarm, got dressed, and drove to school in the still, dark morning. I turned in my journal as I entered Mrs._Bailey’s classroom. The next day the journal was returned with those words, “I’ve read this before.” There wasn’t a chance in Hell she read those words before, unless sometime between one and four-thirty in the morning she broke into my house, slipped into my bedroom, silently found and read my journal, and then quietly made her way out of the house, leaving everything locked and looking untouched, and then managed to be in class before six in the morning looking fresh as a daisy. She would have to be one sneaky, crazy [expletive (unless being used by dog breeders)].
I decided to stay away from poetry. The next week I wrote down some of my philosophies. I opened my journal as soon as it was returned and flipped to my newest entry. I was greeted with the word, “Fromm!_−1.” So, now instead of getting points for my journal entries, I was getting minus points! Really? I talked to Mrs._Bailey after class and asked what the word “Fromm” meant. She said Erich_Fromm was a great philosopher and author, and I copied his ideas. I never read Erich_Fromm. I didn’t even know who he was or that he even existed. That evening Mrs._Bailey called my mother and told her I was plagiarizing. It was untrue. I never plagiarized anyone, ever. In fact, I never cheated on any school work. I was devastated. The “U” on my report card was bad enough, but the call to my mother was worse. I had to dumb down my writing. After that, I wrote things in my journal that went something like this: We went on a picnic. We had fun. Carol brought hotdogs. George brought Fig_Newtons. Ann brought hot dog buns. I brought potato chips. We roasted the hotdogs. They were good. We had fun.
It was Grace’s fault. Who else would have planted the idea I was plagiarizing into Mrs._Bailey’s head? I first met Mrs._Bailey, back before she was Mrs._Bailey, I mean before she was married. Mother wanted to drop off some things for Grace at her dorm. Mrs._Bailey lived in Grace’s dorm wing and was good friends with Grace. When we went up to Grace’s room, Grace introduced us to a handful of girls in her wing, including Mrs._Bailey. I was a little girl in fifth grade, and Mrs._Bailey was a college student. Neither of us ever guessed we would meet again, but there I was years later in Mrs._Bailey’s first period senior English class.
Grace told me she would get even with me, and she had no scruples. She never finished college and boasted of lying on her resume that said she completed her bachelor’s degree. “No one ever checks,” Grace told me. After she applied and interviewed for a job at the Jewish Community Center, she bragged about how they believed her when she told them she was Jewish. She wasn’t Jewish, but she got the job. It was Grace’s fault she was furious with me and vowed to get even. If she had scruples, morals, and character, I wouldn’t have done what I did, and she wouldn’t have sought revenge.
It was Mr._Silverburg’s fault. Mr._Silverburg was my youngest teacher when I was in his junior high English class. I loved Mr._Silverburg. He was my all-time favorite teacher. He talked to us like we were real people, not like we were just a bunch of kids, but it was his fault. How was I supposed to know one of his closest friends had started dating Grace? How was I supposed to know the new writing assignment was a trap? He knew I was Grace’s youngest sister. He knew she moved out of the dorm and back home to watch over us while our parents were in Europe. He knew she shared a bedroom with me, and I didn’t have a clue of what he knew or what he was up to until it was too late.
Mr._Silverburg told us to write about a sibling. He told us to write everything about a sister or brother, including their flaws and faults. It was to be a tell-all, revealing every facet of their lives. Then Mr._Silverburg added that if we shared a bedroom with a sibling, we should write about that person. I fell for the bait hook, line, and sinker. I swallowed the whole thing. I was even giddy with excitement about the assignment. I looked up to Grace and thought she was so cool. She boasted of dating three guys in one night, faking an illness to return in time to go out with the next date. There was so much to write, and besides, Mr._Silverburg didn’t know Grace, or so I thought. Boy was I wrong, in so many ways at so many levels. I wrote with fervor and happily turned in my paper.
Wham! I woke up in the middle of the night. The lights went on just as the door slammed, followed by a string of cuss words. Grace was furious, fuming, screaming. Smoke from her cigarette puffed from her mouth as she called me every name in the book. I gathered bits and pieces about Mr._Silverburg and my paper from her tirade. Mr._Silverburg was best friends with Grace’s new boyfriend. They were at the same party that evening. According to Grace, he pulled out my essay and read it aloud to the entire group. They mocked her, laughed at her, and scalded her with scolding, shaming her until she stomped out of the party and walked miles home.
I tried to remember what I wrote: How she lied; how she embezzled money from our parents, but they still trusted her; how she said it was just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man; how she dumped a perfectly good boyfriend when he was drafted to fight overseas so she could date the son of a wealthy, influential Senator and soon to be Presidential candidate; how she left for that first date with her dress in perfect form but returned in disarray with the hangar straps showing in the front of the dress as though she put the dress on in a hurry; how she boasted of dating three guys in the same night; how she drank; how she chain-smoked; how she bleached her hair; how she cussed; and what else? I guess that was enough. That was the night Grace said she would get even with me. That was the night we were forever divided.
A week or two later, Grace acted like everything was back to normal, as though we were best buddies. She offered to do my makeup for me before school. I never wore makeup before, and I couldn’t remember anyone at my junior high school wearing makeup, but Grace assured me everyone did, and it was time for me to wear makeup, too. I figured I didn’t notice the other girls’ makeup.
“Are you sure it isn’t too much?” I asked before I left for school.
“It’s perfect!” Grace answered.
When I arrived in English class, Mr._Silverburg took one look at me and said, “Did Grace do that to you?” I knew without explanation what he meant and that I made a terrible mistake. I sheepishly nodded. “Go wash it off,” Mr._Silverburg said. As I left for the restroom, my eyes panned across the classroom. I didn’t see makeup on any of the other girls.
A call slip came to Mr._Silverburg’s class for one of my best friends one Friday morning. Sue was summoned to the office for a phone call from her mom. When Sue returned, she stopped by my desk and whispered she had important news for me. After class she told me when she walked to the office she saw Todd_O’Brien in the other English class.
“There’s another English class at the same time as our class, and Todd_O’Brien is in it?” I asked, verifying the information. Sue answered with an affirmative. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved Mr._Silverburg, but not the way I loved Todd_O’Brien. Todd was the cutest boy at school. He was my heartthrob, my soulmate, my everything, even if he hardly knew I existed. I would do just about anything to be near Todd_O’Brien.
By Monday, I had a plan. I couldn’t say I wanted to be in the same class as Todd_O’Brien. My school counselor would never go for that because if he did, half the girls in the school would be in Todd_O’Brien’s classes. I had to be discreet. Asking to be switched to the other English class was out of the question. I would be asked why, and I didn’t know anything about the other English teacher. Instead of asking to be placed in that other English class, I asked to be removed from Mr._Silverburg’s class. It made sense to me. The only place they could put me was Todd’s class unless they wanted to switch around all my classes, which would be way too much trouble. I decided my plan would keep them from knowing I absolutely had to be with Todd.
In my youthful stupidity, I hadn’t planned the answer to the obvious, forthcoming question: “Why do you want out of Mr._Silverburg’s class?”
“Uh…h. I don’t know. I just don’t like Mr._Silverburg’s class. I don’t like Mr._Silverburg,” I lied. I didn’t tell the counselor about Mr._Silverburg’s deceitful plan to get me to write about all of Grace’s flaws, and I didn’t mention he read my paper about my sister at a party in front of her friends. I just said I wanted out of his class. Mr._Silverburg was still my favorite teacher despite what he did, but things were never the same. In truth, things had become uncomfortable. Mr._Silverburg kept giving me better grades than I deserved. Maybe he was trying to make up for the great-divide he created between Grace and me. “I just want out of his class,” I said. It wasn’t enough. Todd_O’Brien remained an elusive three classrooms down the hall.
Maybe the counselor asked Mr._Silverburg why I wanted out of his class, or maybe Grace lied to him, or perhaps both. I didn’t find out about Mr._Silverburg’s lie until the end of the school year. Rebecca_Grossman had a party and invited everyone, everyone except me. I asked my friend Sarah why I hadn’t been invited. Her answer was blunt, but meaningless to me, “Because you’re anti-Semitic.”
“I’m what?” I asked. I had never heard the word. I had no clue what it meant. Up to that point, I spent most of my life in private schools. Four of those years were in an all-girls Catholic school. No one ever mentioned the Holocaust, Nazis, persecution of Jews, or anything like that. I was totally clueless.
“You hate Jews,” Sarah said matter-of-factly. I was flabbergasted.
“I don’t hate Jews. Why would anyone hate Jews? Why would anyone hate someone for their religion? It’s a free world. Everyone should be allowed to practice any religion they want without being hated for it. Wait a minute, there’s a word for hating Jews? What is the word for hating Catholics? What is the word for hating Baptists? Is there a word for hating atheists?”
“No! Don’t you know anything?” Sarah said. Obviously, I didn’t.
“Why do people think I’m anti…” I couldn’t say the word but tried again, “anti-semi-attic?”
“Anti-Semitic,” Sarah corrected, “Because Mr._Silverburg told us you were.”
“Why would he say that?”
“Because you wanted out of his class.”
“I didn’t want out of his class. I wanted into Todd_O’Brien’s class,” I tried to explain, “Wait a minute, what would that have to do with being anti-sem-ictic?”
“Anti-Semitic. Because Mr._Silverburg is Jewish.”
“How was I supposed to know Mr._Silverburg is Jewish?” Really, I was the epitome of clueless.
“By his name,” Sarah informed me.
“His name? You can tell someone’s religion by their name? What religion is my name supposed to be? What religion is O’Brien?”
Years passed, and one summer afternoon, my senior schedule arrived in the mail. There, by the class title, English was a familiar name: Silverburg. I was delighted but, in truth, felt a little trepidation. He didn’t really think I was anti-Semitic, did he? It would be like old times. I loved Mr._Silverburg despite everything that had happened. English, first period with Mr._Silverburg, a wonderful way to start the day, I thought.
My boyfriend, Bill, offered to take me to school that first day. He said it would allow him the opportunity to see the school since he graduated a couple of years earlier. I took him up on the offer. Bill walked me to Mr._Silverburg’s classroom door, but then I started to feel nauseated. Just first day jitters, I told myself, although I never had first day jitters before. The nausea grew.
“I think I’m going to throw-up,” I said.
“Do you want me to take you home?” Bill offered.
“No. No, I’m fine. I don’t want to miss the first day,” I said, but a moment later it became apparent, I wasn’t fine. Bill took me home, and I vomited the rest of the day.
A few days later, I returned to school. Mr._Silverburg was in the hall standing by his classroom doorway. I was about to hand him my excused absence pass when he held out a slip of paper. He didn’t even need to go into his classroom to get the paper. It was already in his hand, ready to give to me.
“You’re in Mrs._Bailey’s English class now. Down the hall on the left, ” he said. I was heartbroken and dumbfounded. I guess he really thought I was anti-Semitic. Maybe Grace told him that as part of her evil get-even plan.
I wasn’t sure if he believed it or not, and I wanted to say, “Mr._Silverburg, I’m not anti-Semitic,” but that would just sound like I was. I wanted to say, “I didn’t leave the other day because I didn’t want to be in your class. I left because I was sick, really sick, throwing-up sick. See, I have an excused absence pass,” but that too would sound bogus. There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do. I said nothing, took the paper he handed me, and walked down the hall into Mrs. Bailey’s class, into accusations of plagiarism and away from a Newbery.
No, it was my fault in so many ways at so many levels. I should have said something, anything, but I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. So, I said nothing and walked away. I thought someday I would explain it to Mr._Silverburg, tell him the whole truth about what happened.
A couple of years after high school graduation, I was driving home late one summer evening after babysitting my sister, Purity’s goddaughter. A car drove up next to mine, and a boy in the passenger seat leaned out the window and shouted, “Do you want to go to a party?” Typically, under those circumstances, I wouldn’t have responded, but to my surprise, the boy looked familiar. It was Todd_O’Brien! We decided to meet at my house. Once we were at my house, he asked if we could take my car. I let him drive. The next thing I knew, he was racing over eighty miles an hour down our quiet winding suburban road. I kept telling him to stop. Our next-door neighbor was sick. Walking was part of her therapy, but she couldn’t walk during the day in the summer heat, so her whole family walked alongside her on that quiet winding road late at night, usually taking up an entire lane. Every time Todd sped around a curve, I feared the worst. I screamed at him to stop, but he refused until we reached the party where he skidded into the drive, tearing up the gravel. He got out of the car, slammed the car door, and walked away. That was when I realized having all the good looks in the world didn’t mean a man had less character than a swine (my apologies to hogs of the animal kingdom for the comparison).
Years later, Grace was elected to a local school board. Her bio posted to the internet showed she had a bachelor’s degree from our town’s university. I thought maybe Grace finished her degree, but I checked and found she still hadn’t graduated. A short time later, she added a master’s degree to her bio.
In time, I went back to my junior high school and taught English, language arts, literature, and reading until the school closed in 2013. My classroom was only a dozen yards from the classroom, where I once attended Mr._Silverburg’s English class.
I still hoped to see Mr._Silverburg again and explain why I wanted to switch out of his class in junior high. Occasionally I checked the internet, but I never found him. Sadly, in October 2021, Mr._Silverburg passed away after a brief illness.
I finished reading/listening to Piecing Me Together by Renée_Watson, and I loved it. It’s a great read. She more than deserves her Newbery, although I still feel a tinge of envy.