I had told the story
of Smedley a few days ago in one of the posts that got accidentally deleted. It
was a story I felt needed to be retold, if only to acknowledge the inspiration that
was given to me by an old school chum.
His story begins
in the September of my eighth grade year at an unnamed parochial (read that "Christian")
school. Smedley was different from other kids. Smedley wasn't born in the sterility
of a maternity ward. He wasn't even born in a cab or ambulance on the way to the
hospital.
No, nothing that happened in his life was what I would call normal. You see, Smedley
was born in the first few minutes of our eighth grade physical science class.
We had a physical
science teacher who was a little like a substitute teacher. You know the way kids
mess with a substitute? Well, this guy was like a sub, but better, because he was
there everyday -- begging to be messed with.
In the parochial
school we attended, it was not uncommon for a teacher to begin a class period by
saying a prayer. Some of the teachers would even ask the students if there were
any special concerns that needed mention in the prayer. The poor permanent sub who
taught physical science was one of these teachers. And one day, early in the school
year, as he solicited prayer requests, one of my classmates (I'll call him Pat)
raised his hand.
Pat proceeded to
tell us all about his friend from the neighborhood, Smedley, who had been involved
in a freak accident and was now in the hospital, awaiting an emergency kidney transplant
(or something to that effect). Were it not for the beginnings of a smile forming
on Pat's lips as the teacher sympathetically listened, some of us in the class might
have believed the story also. But the teacher seemed to buy the whole thing.
As days went by,
the science teacher would ask Pat for updates on Smedley, which Pat would willingly
supply. As the stories got stranger, we in the class had more difficulty suppressing
our laughter. At one point, the teacher scolded a few students for laughing at such
a serious matter, but he never scolded Pat for the fantastic stories he was telling.
To Pat's credit, he got better at selling the stories as he told more of them. One
of Smedley's unfortunate incidents involved a transplant surgeon leaving a scalpel
inside of him.
Thinking back, it
was probably not that funny, at least the laughs were mostly in poor taste, but
that's what often happens with a roomful of thirteen-year-old's. To our knowledge,
the science teacher, who left the school after that one year, never caught on; but
then, that may have just been the faulty perspective of our naïveté.
But Smedley isn't
just important for the myriad injuries and illnesses he suffered. He shares
a common thread with my first public poetry display. For the very young man who
had breathed life into Smedley's myth was also instrumental in helping me "get
published" for the first time, as a junior high"poet."
This event sprang
from a short verse I had scribbled in a study hall. The subject of my rhyme was
a girl in our class who was quite unpopular, and the poem was fairly mean towards
her. Of course, I never intended for anyone to read it; I was just bored at the
time.
But my buddy Pat
changed all that. He caught a glimpse of the derogatory little limerick, and instantly
saw potential, so he confiscated it. I was mildly shocked to later find my poem
posted on the bulletin board of our homeroom, from which it became a short-lived
favorite of most of my classmates -- until our teacher discovered it, and the handwriting
was soon recognized as mine.
The funny thing
is, I had gotten in trouble during my school years, but I didn't really get into
trouble for this particular escapade. But I remember it better than most others.
The principal only gave me a lecture about how I was making poor use of my ability
(he also made me apologize to the girl who was the subject of the poem). And I remember
feeling bad about it for a while.
To this day, I think
about that episode, and I wonder about that girl. I often wonder if she remembers
that poem, or if it just blends into the countless assaults I know she suffered
at the hands of her classmates. I know I saw her in the mall years ago, with a young
child. I almost said something to her, but I didn't.
I wondered if all
the slings and arrows had faded into her subconscious, where she might prefer to
leave them -- unstirred by an impromptu greeting from someone who had once been
part of the assault.
I hoped that her
world had changed, that the child I saw by her side was part of a happier life than
the one a bunch of junior high students had done their best to ruin. (-It was around
this point in my life that I first studied Richard
Wilbur's poem "The Writer," which may have had something to do with
my philosophical thoughts at the time.)
This is more than
I had intended to write, so I'm not too sure where this is headed now. Perhaps I
meant to declare this set of memories as a sort of "rainbow" reminder
-- the promise that I will never again (attempt to) destroy someone with poetry.
But that just sounds
silly...
