Reading the Classics

Some people were born to be lie targets.  I'm not saying that to be mean, but just as there are some people you feel an irresistible urge to hug, commiserate with or tell jokes to, there are some to whom I can't resist lying. 

My eighth-grade English teacher, Mr. Rogers (name changed in order to semi-protect his identity.  NOT TECHNICALLY A LIE.  Also probably unnecessary since anyone who went to Jr. High with me knows exactly who I'm talking about.), was one of those.  This was compounded by his first-year teaching naivete, as well as his earnest desire to be Robin Williams in The Dead Poet Society. 

And in that equation, I think I was supposed to be Ethan Hawke, and in a climactic transition scene, he would coax me into bursting free with heretofore unknown poetic prowess, thus curing me of my crippling shyness and prompting me to cry out, "Oh, Captain!"


I forgot to mention that I also lied to him because he was kind of creepy. 

Even though I was a terribly shy and awkward 13-year-old, I wasn't completely friendless or as discomfited as he thought.  I definitely didn't warrant him crouching down next to my desk during "homework time," asking me how I was doing, what I was reading in my free time, and if I had any feelings I'd like to share. 

You should know that I never have, and never will, have feelings. 

It took about two days before I gave into temptation.  I invented an entire sub-life, which, instead of consisting of Pony Club rallies and ballet class, had  Junior Olympics, off-off-off Broadway performances, and some kind of grassroots Save the Pandas nonprofit. 

Was I projecting my actual dreams and goals? Probably-- who doesn't want to save pandas? But the larger issue remains: why did this guy believe me? Was it my amazing commitment to detail-- I actually gave him a contact number and website for the panda organization.  And my essays always detailed the European warmbloods I was training, down to their sire's bloodlines.  I even wrote a short story about one of my dance performances, even though I can hardly count it as a lie since I ripped off the storyline to Centre Stage. 

Maybe it still seems a little mean, but in addition to being an overly earnest creeper, he was also a terrible, terrible English teacher.  Before Christmas break, when we "read" A Christmas Carol, he showed us the Muppets' version, encouraging us to "follow along" with the text. 

The kicker came during Brit Lit week (week!) when we studied Pride and Prejudice by watching the 1990's BBC miniseries.  No offense to Jane Austen, but from the first commercial break (that's right.  He didn't pay for the movie-- he taped it off A & E one night), the plotline's super easy to figure out.  So, when he had us go around the room and make our predictions, I guessed that Elizabeth and Darcy, and Bingley and Jane, all wound up together. 

I think he felt like Michael Phelps' Tadpole swimming coach.  He spent about twenty seconds in shock and awe, before getting suspicious, for the first time, and assuming I must've read the book before. 

I've never read the entire Pride & Prejudice text.  Not even when I did a project on it senior year of high school.  But because lying to Mr. Rogers was practically compulsory at this point, I had to say,

"Yeah, is that OK? I read it in the summer between third and fourth grade, during the English for Elementary program at the library.  We read that, and Great Expectations, and Anna Karenina.  They made us write essays for some kind of anthology-- it's still in the library reference section, I think."

At this point, a good teacher would've asked me what the essays were about.  In my mind, I was prepping all sorts of BS about society, and the roles of women, yada yada yada.

But Mr. Roger, God bless him, just put on his earnest face, and blathered about how much initiative that showed, and how far ahead I was going to be when I started high school in the fall. 

Then we watched Colin Firth play Darcy until the end of the semester.