03/06/2005 Posted @ 07:26 PM PD/ST: "Charlie Brown's Adults"

Yesterday was just one of those days. A hard day that made me want to quit everything. But this little voice kept questioning me. At first it was so quiet I couldn't hear it. Finally I heard it in the big loving voice of my youngest brother, BrotherK.

"And do what?", is what my version of the voice was saying. What BrotherK said was, "You know you're not going to quit. The fact you are upset and crying means it really is important to you. Bad teachers and scary math tests/classes and upset friends happen. I can't tell you how many bad teachers I had. And I know it's easier said than done, but you are worrying about things that aren't even in your control. So what if the party in June isn't about graduation? You will graduate and that's worthy of celebration too."

I sat on the couch. Watched free Showtime movies and let the tears fall periodically from my cheeks. The series of "what ifs" playing through my mind.

Then I called G and asked if he wanted to go get ice cream or something. He had talked to me earlier in the day because we were supposed to do Algebra and I just couldn't, so he said, "Well, call me if you want to do something later."

He drove over and picked me up. I pantomimed directions to the Red Robin near my place while he drove and talked to his oldest daughter on the phone. We sat in a booth and ordered. And I talked, and talked and talked. Sometimes he jumped in, but mostly it was me doing all the talking.

I'm sure that a lot of it was just Charlie Brown's adults to him. That trumpety, "wah wah wah wah waaaah" sound. He was married long enough to know when to put in the "uh huhs" and the nods. He listened, and I talked while I ate a basket of wings and part of super baked apple cinnamon dessert with a scoop of ice cream on top.

We talked about my paper and how much work I had put into it and he started telling me about living in Detroit during those long hot summers of the Civil Rights Movement and how his school made an announcement about Malcolm X being assasinated. The tanks and helicopters that patrolled his neighbourhood. The curfew he had to live by during that long crazy summer in 1968.

Then I told him about La Raza in the '70's when I lived in New Mexico and my first experience with tear gas and the student walkouts. I told him about the riot at the Grand Funk Railroad concert in Albuquerque that my parents had gotten tickets for and we drove two hours each way to see. How somehow I knew to tell everyone to put something over their mouth and noses. How those experiences made me really twitchy in big crowds and how I hoped he would never have the "pleasure" of knowing what tear gas feels and smells like.

Then the restaurant started closing so we decided to leave and he dropped me off, and ever the gentleman waited until I had walked in my door before he drove off. I watched another movie and thought about the day.

What I had said to him was true, I do want to spend my life in musty old libraries and history is one of the only professions that will allow me to do that. And so, in some sort of way, I have no choice but to carry on despite the bad teacher, the scary math class and the scenarios that play through my head.

So what if June arrives and I haven't graduated? The party will either be "Woo hoo I graduated!" or "Woo hoo! I only have one more class to take!" And that just isn't that bad.