Saturday, September 04, 2004
A Memoir
by Yen Dang
This is a mostly unedited version (it contains more of the original) of a memoir I wrote in creative writing class. *Names have been changed.
I remember him. We used to talk at recess in the spring where the sun shined outside and in the lunchroom in the winter where everyone gathered amongst the bustling din. I had met him at Sarandon Middle School* first where I asked about the book Le Petit Prince and his knowledge of French. I was still interested in French back then.
During lunch we used to talk even including his other students at the table. The seventh grade students adored Mr. Gregory*, and even though I was an eighth grader and had never had him as a teacher, I think I adored him as well. I remember one time we talked about how I liked astrology, so much so that I'd brought my book of astrology with me to school, along with numerous notes taken on the subject itself. When I read to him the description of a person with a Leo Ascendant (which applied to me) that said: "'People with Leo rising have delicate, round faces, often with a full head of hair, shining teeth, and a beautiful, dazzling smile,'"** he said, "Right on." And I smiled. He was always generous with compliments.
I remember one time a student of his, Sammy,* asked, "Why are you the hairy man-ape that you are?" Though Mr. Gregory didn't have a head of long, wavy hair, the hair on his arms and body was compensation enough. Tufts of dark, brown hair sticking out of the dress shirts that he used to wear. It would even stick out through the cuffs of his sleeves, and perhaps through the collar of his shirt. I never knew why he would wear long-sleeved dress shirts even when spring came around and it became hot. I suppose it was to cover up all that hair.
He used to wear cardigans too, most often accompanied by a dazzling smile and shining teeth. The bridge of his nose became a mystery when one of the students asked if he had gotten into a barfight that caused a strange but small flatness on the bridge.
One time that same student, Sammy, saw me talking to Mr. Gregory, and again asked, "Is she your daughter?" To that, he laughed and replied, "Sometimes." Of course, he probably didn't want to hurt my feelings by saying, "No." That incident took place in the springtime when it was hot outside and kids played football on the grassy school lawn. I remember the sun shining hotly, the cast shadow on the concrete area by the entrance doors and me just standing there talking, facing away from the sun when Sammy asked that question.
Soon the time came for graduation. The graduation ceremony would take place at a different school this time at Geffery High School.* Fortunately, I lived close by needing only to walk six to seven blocks to get there. I walked there in the early afternoon and arrived to a crowd of students huddled by the front doors. I arrived in a navy blue shirt, a black skirt, and black high heels. My hair was long and black, and loose except for two strands held back by hair clips.
The graduation ceremony was very much like a high school commencement. We would be seated in rows while one by one a student would come up to get a certificate when his or her name would be called. And since my last name started with a "D," I sat in the first row. During the commencement, I saw Mr. Gregory sitting before us about six feet back from the announcer. I caught him from the corner of my eye.
He was still sitting there listening to music after the students and parents gathered in the lobby to receive refreshments. Hearing the soft classical music pouring from the radio, I had a grand idea. I wanted to show him the classical piano music I'd been listening to that spring, the music of Franz Liszt. But as I was expressing this, I knew Mr. Gregory would have a wait for me to race home and back.
"Hi Yen. What's up?"
"Hi. Are you going to be here for long? I wanted to show you some classical piano but do you think you can wait?"
"Sure, I'll be here, " he replied.
So that afternoon, I stepped onto the baking concrete sidewalk, that first step in black high heels. I walked swiftly, feeling my legs burn with each step, a shot of adrenaline in my heart with every other step. I knew where I wanted to go: the short way. I would walk a block straight ahead, then take a right, not by the busy street but by the residential houses behind the busy street. I quickened my pace as I neared my block and my house.
I was in my house for such a short while, saying a quick hello and goodbye to my brothers then rushing up to my room to grab two CDs. Then I had to set out in the sun again. By the time, I came back to the school building, everyone had left. A teacher whom I recognized came up to me and said, "Mr. Gregory's waiting for you."
By then, I was exhausted. After all, it was June and I could feel the prickly heat and sweat on my forehead, and a great warmth rising from my chest. After that walk, it seemed all enthusiasm was drenched by a quickened breath and a sudden weariness. As I approached him, I heard him say, "I'm sorry. They closed the building right after you left." Now, the only thing I could do was to show him the contents of the CD cases and slowly walk back to where his car was parked.
"Are you okay?" he asked, amidst a lagging walk and downcast eyes beside him.
I replied, "Yes. I'm just really tired from walking all that way."
"Are you sure? Is there something wrong with your shoes?"
"No," I reassured him, "Just that my thighs hurt."
We strolled back in the direction of his car, catching up on small talk, nothing big after such a disappointment. But even that talk was reassuring. He recommended a book to me, Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins, and mentioned he was taking a road trip to Arizona that summer. I gladly listened. When we stopped at the corner of the sidewalk, it was time to part. He gave me a half-hug with his arm around my back and shoulder. I patted his back in return. I said goodbye, but didn't see him get in his car. I then crossed the street and continued walking, thinking of going home.
**description taken from the book, The Only Astrology Book You'll Ever Need by Joanna Martine Woolfolk, Copyright 1990. New York; Scarborough House/Publishers.
Copyright © 2004, by Yen Dang. All Rights Reserved.
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