Compromised -- Chapter 3
From The Undercurrent -- What Lies Beneath
My first experience with compromise, I was nine. Miss Gleed’s fifth grade class, to be exact.
Aware of my participation in an accelerated program in Seattle Public Schools, putting me ahead, combining second and third grade in one year, Miss Gleed anointed me “Teacher’s Pet” for the year. At first, it wasn’t so obvious. Miss Gleed had a program in place giving everyone in class their turn and title of “Teacher’s Pet” for a week, with special privileges and duties. Yet over time, Miss Gleed’s actions revealed a singled-out unspoken fondness for me, with high expectations of performance. She anticipated my potential and would not settle for less.
Miss Gleed knew I loved books, that I could easily convey a story’s meaning in summary. She assigned oral book reports given in front of the class, sometimes other classrooms, then expanded my public speaking with social study reports. With her critique, I have a strong voice that carries to the back row, molded and shaped fluctuation with dramatic pauses. The critiques often happen live. She likes to use me as an example. Little me with the big voice.
Recess could be difficult if Miss Gleed had singled me out to answer a question, or to correctly spell a word. Or worse, be asked to give the weekly spelling test. Teacher’s Pet. Short, stringy haired, rag-a-muffin me, new to the school, and barely made any friends.
I’m not the only new kid in school. It is the first year of desegregation in our city. Every morning a bus arrives transporting Black children from Seattle’s Central District, into this white, upper middle class, Scandinavian neighborhood. For as much as I feel like I don’t fit in, there are now others who seem to stand out more than me. The new girls have something to offer though-- kindness, courage, authenticity, and voraciously loud humor. I’m drawn to them. They rock the playground at recess, especially when jump ropes come out for Double Dutch. Sometimes, I’m asked to join in. I don’t dress like the rich girls, and I tend to wander off by myself. I’m more approachable, I suppose.
To Miss Gleed, my insecurities are quite obvious. She is not about to let me withdraw. Not in her classroom. Her course in confidence, includes tough love. Miss Gleed assigned everyone’s seat in the room. I sit two rows back from her desk, right on the aisle. Not only does it give me a better view of the chalkboard, it offers my teacher the convenience to zero in on me, taking off her glasses, chewing on the end while tapping her foot, waiting for a raised hand with an answer to her question.
Tuesday is spelling day. Spelling is easy for me. I read at second grade level at age three. The spelling test always begins promptly at nine-thirty. We barely get in our seats and take attendance, when we are told to clear our desks and have a sharp pencil out. The row monitors are called to the front and given a small stack of narrow newsprint to pass out, aqua blue lines down the page and a three-inch border at the top. There’s always a line at the pencil sharpener. Miss Gleed refuses to wait. One should come prepared for class, she would say with stern tone.
Miss Gleed put on her glasses demanding silence, lifts the spelling book from her desk, and begins. Slowly each word is said, then used in a sentence. Then said again. Sometimes I can’t stand waiting. If I’ve memorized the list, I write ahead. That is, until one day. Miss Gleed caught me and mixed up the words when I wasn’t paying attention. She fixed my clock alright.
A third of the way through the spelling test, on this day, Miss Gleed starts to cough, a dry cough that won’t stop. She labors over catching her breath, finally grabbing a tissue, heading for the door. Yet not before she barks my name, waving the spelling book at me. I scurry up to her desk, completing the dictation of the test to the class. Just before the recess bell rings, Miss Gleed reappears. As everyone files out, she grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back against the lockers, until the hall is empty.
“Miss Bonnie, I shouldn’t have had to ask you to come up and finish that test. You should have come up on your own. When you see someone’s in trouble, you should take it upon yourself to step up. Next time, if there ever is a next time, don’t hesitate.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry.”
The next morning on my desk is a small envelope with a card inside from Miss Gleed, thanking me for my help with the spelling test. After taking attendance, she delivers a polite lecture on the benefits of thank you notes. She encourages the art of surprise notes to loved ones, like the notes a mother might tuck in a lunch box or bag. Miss Gleed suggests under your mother’s pillow, under your brother or sister’s dinner plate, in your father’s pants pockets, a simple thank you. The art and etiquette of gratitude.
I can’t help but be a willing participant of Miss Gleed’s self-improvement mentoring. She simply wouldn’t allow me to be otherwise.
One day, we practice for a school program on the lunchroom stage, square dancing in four groups of eight. That means everyone has a partner. Miss Gleed stands below near the lunch tables watching, calling up her critique. She insists we project how much fun we are all having. You can imagine.
“Move your body. Straighten those elbows. Overly smile and move your head, Bonnie, exaggerate. Sway. Look like you’re having the time of your life!”
Now, not only did I have voice inflection, I learn to move my body and address the room. I had sway.
I am chosen to work on a social studies project Miss Gleed is all excited about. Speaking into a tape recorder, a report on Washington state, complete with our class rendition of the song “Roll on Columbia,” at the end. Miss Gleed plans to ship it to a classroom in Hawaii, along with Washington souvenirs and some natural resources.
Miss Gleed is full of connections. Word of the project made its way to the daily newspapers. Next thing I know, a reporter comes out to take a few pictures. I, and two others, simulate recording the reports we did for Hawaii. The picture and story are published in the local daily newspaper. I felt fame.
By spring, I understood what would get Miss Gleed’s attention, finally deciding to play her game. The day I give my oral report on the history of ice cream, Mama delivers ice cream sandwiches to the classroom after lunch. I cut each in half and serve them. Now, the class is content to listen. I knew how to command attention.
It is obvious. I can’t ignore Miss Gleed’s note left at the junior high school about Mama’s death. Miss Gleed has been checking on me. Perhaps I should check in on her. I stop by her classroom on my way home from school. Miss Gleed gives me a hug, happy to see me. If there is anything I need, just ask, she says. I needed something. I couldn’t tell what, quite yet. Except, maybe my Mama to come back, so we could run away together. Yet that isn’t going to happen, is it?
The day before St. Patrick’s Day is Daddy’s birthday. Grandma is cooking something special. She’s become a fixture at the house, sorting through Mama’s things. After dinner as we gather in the living room, the doorbell rings. Daddy told us earlier a friend from work is stopping by. A woman’s voice rolls in from the front door following Daddy back to the living room. One of my sisters grumbles under her breath. This platinum blonde woman is Daddy’s secretary, Marian. Funny, that is Mama’s real mother’s name, the one who had tried to end her own life and her children’s lives. Unsuccessfully. Miss Secretary recognizes my oldest siter, Rachel. She has a summer job at Daddy’s office.
Daddy offers to take Marian’s coat and mix her a drink. She sets her purse on the floor next to a wrapped rectangular present. He helps with her jacket, as we all watch. Marian wore glasses, her white hair cut really short, with pearl nail polish to match. She wore white jeans and a split-pea green men’s sweater with thin white lines every six inches.
Daddy came back with her cocktail. There’s small talk for a few minutes, the let’s get acquainted kind. Then Marian hands Daddy her gift. He opens the lid, spreading the tissue paper wide. Marian begins to giggle before taking a sip of her drink. He did the same and their eyes met. Then, he winks. I almost throw up a little bit in the back of my mouth. Daddy pulls out a split-pea green sweater with thin white lines every six inches, like the one Marian has on. The room falls silent.
The next night before we all leave the dinner table, Daddy sets down his silverware, pushes away his plate, folds his hands, and turns to me.
“I have something to ask you, Bon.”
I keep eating, glancing over at my sisters who are trading wide eyed, arched brow looks.
“First, I’m sorry you lost your mother. I’m worried about you and how you’ll get along. I think we need some help. I need some help.”
Whatever Daddy is leading to, it feels creepy. Rachel and Carrie Ann put down their silverware and squirm in their seats, torn between staying and leaving. Did they know what this is about? I put mine down, too, and turn to look at Daddy, who obviously has more to say.
“I would like to bring Marian into our home, our life, to help and be here for you. We’ve talked about getting married. I want to know what you think, want to know if that’s okay.”
The bomb has dropped.
All eyes are fixed on me. I look over at my sisters who are positioned to bolt at whatever response I give. They’re simply waiting to witness the outcome. Perhaps they’d already been asked this question. It’s a most uncomfortable place to be.
“Well, what do you think?” Daddy repeats.
I know exactly what I thought. I barely have begun to heal. Now he wants to bring in some strange woman that is nothing like my mother. Jackie is barely cold in her grave. Were we not permitted time to mourn, get reacquainted, adjust and grieve? Pardon me, but what the hell is he thinking? How long has this woman been a thing in his life?
I itch and squirm, my skin crawling all over me. Feeling pressure to provide an answer so I can leave the table, words come tumbling.
“I guess that’d be okay.”
Those words aren’t mine. Not a one of them.
Compromised. My life has been compromised.
Suddenly, I knew no one sitting at that table. Not even me.