Shame

Both of my boys are so very smart, that sometimes it still astonishes me. How could I have borne such canny little creatures?

Pre-Pubescent One is interested in Science and Technology. He is a good problem solver. Many of his teachers have remarked upon his ability to "think outside the box". His 5th grade teacher once told me laughingly that Pre-Pubescent One's answers have prompted many a debate between she and her husband when she solicited his opinion about whether a particular answer was wrong or right.

Diminutive One is fantastically creative. He writes epic stories, one after another, scribbling furiously for hours on end. He infuses these tales with with stunning details and rich imagery. He has a skill and an awareness of the craft that is far beyond his years. His vocabulary is vast and he sometimes gets odd looks from adults because of his speech. He is dramatic and colorful and hungry.

Unfortunately, neither of them is terribly jazzed about school. Neither of them will graduate at the top of their class, be given academic scholarships, or be taking calls from Mensa.

I watch them struggle. They hate school. They are not motivated to do well. They think it's stupid and it sucks.

I tell them, I know. I understand. And recently, I let them in on a dirty little secret.

I did not graduate from high school.

Yes.

I grew so demoralized, so frustrated, so apathetic and so filled with hopelessness and...I just stopped going to school. I found much more of interest and value out in the real world. So I ditched class and wandered the streets to watch people, or hide out at the library, hunched into a carrell so nobody would see me and call the truant officer. I read for hours on end, completely absorbed and wholly satisfied. Or I wrote...mostly bad poetry, poring out all the heaviness in my heart.

There is only one class I attended with any regularity, and that of course, was language arts. It was the only thing that gave me any sense of worth. The teacher, Mr. Sandlin, was small, tidy man with a quiet, comfortable scholarship about him. He didn't yell at me when I skipped, he simply asked me if I had written anything new and could he see it. He always, always, always...wrote something positive on my papers. He always made an encouraging remark in his neat, cheery handwriting.

I will always remember him.

Of course, when it was discovered that I had not only failed every single class except language arts, but that I was lacking so many credits that I would have to attend for another entire year....there was much gnashing of teeth and rending of garments. My parents were displeased, but not, of course, surprised. They had been to the principal's office far too many times, staring at forged excuses and listening to administrators preach the gospel of "not living up to her potential" that they had heard over and over since I entered Jr. High.

I refused to go back. Nothing could make me. I had had it and I was 18, and I informed my parents that it was MY CHOICE. And to their credit, they did not strongarm me into going back. They told me that they loved me, they believed in me, they knew that I was smarter than to let myself be trapped into a life without choices.

I went back. And I graduated. And then I was done. No more school. College was bound to be just another series of disappointments and failures. It was not for me.

In general, I try not to waste too much time on regrets. But I would like to go back in time, take that headstrong girl by the throat and choke her quite senseless.

It's my biggest shame. My only secret. The thing I never tell.

People assume I am an educated woman. I suppose that should be flattering, but it only makes the shame all the more fierce. They speak to me of grad and undergrad and this degree or that, while I nod my head and make noncommital remarks. I change the topic or extricate myself from the conversation before I am forced into a lie or trapped into admission.

It's not something I relish. And I wish it weren't so. But I also think that my regret has strengthened my resolve not to let my boys fall into the same terrible cycle of apathy, disappointment, and resignation. I won't let an inept teacher or a flawed system make them believe they are stupid.

Boys, I tell them...I want you to have choices. Because you are too big to be happy doing something small. Too fantastic to be happy with good enough. You were born for greatness. You are my hope for redemption. Do this for me, so I don't have to spend the rest of my life knowing I failed you as well as myself. Do this so you never have to wonder about what you might have been. It's bitter and it hurts, my dear boys. And I don't want that for you.

And they look at me with astonishment. You? Mom? You?

It helps them I think. It puts us in league with one another. It makes them feel less alone. They are sorry for my regret, they do not want it for themselves. So my shame has come full circle and become somthing I never could have foreseen. A practical thing, an impetus. A tool and a teacher.

So there it is.

I am not an educated woman. I do not possess a degree of any kind. I barely earned my high school diploma.

Sometimes, during periods of great stress in my life...I dream that my former Principal calls me on the phone to tell me, with great, sneering satisfaction, that there has been a mistake, and they must take back my diploma. I will have to go back to high school.

I wake up sweaty and shaking, with dread laying heavy on my heart and the word "NO!!" dying on my lips.

My boys will have no such dreams.

If that is what takes...this telling of secrets...then that's what I will do. I would bleed the rich, hot blood of my body for them...why not the blood of my soul as well?

Shame has it's uses afterall, it seems.