The Hemingway

http://archives.newyorker.com/?i=1950-05-13#folio=036

So the above link takes you to a wonderful and bizarre profile on Ernest Hemingway, written in a 1950 issue of the New Yorker. There are so many great moments for Hemingway fans, like when he buys a coat from Abercrombie and Fitch ("Coat," he said unhappily) or when Marlene Dietrich drops by and they share lots of inside jokes.But probably the best part of the whole article is when Mary Hemingway forgets her own mother's name for two days.

Look Well

It happened again today. If you have a child, or work with children, you may know what I’m talking about. A switch flips, a twig snaps, and all of a sudden you are raging in a way that only an adult can. It may manifest as a word, or a dig, or a tirade. It is always the same. It is a bigger animal, made strong by time and knowledge and bullshit, exerting dominance over the weaker animal. Taking it in your jaws and giving it a quick shake by the neck. Sometimes it is effective. Sometimes, it goes too far.

Today it went too far. I was at my desk (I’m rarely at my desk) and my students were working in groups. I was working on a large project, against a deadline that had come and gone, and found myself frequently distracted by bursts of laughter coming from the middle of the room. I looked up and tossed out a verbal warning to the three boys sitting in a cluster of desks.

“You guys,” I said, “you can either work by yourselves or in groups of two. You only have 10 minutes left and you have to finish this.”

They rolled their eyes and picked up their pencils. They studied their workbooks for a few minutes. Then the smallest one cracked a joke, and the laughter started up again.

“I’m serious.” They were deep into it now. Insults flew like silly string, harmless and hilarious in the way of young men. They couldn’t hear me over the refrains of “naw, man” and “you so retarded.” I counted to three. Then I threw my voice with from somewhere deep inside. Heads whipped around to face me. The walls shook.

“QUIET.”

A pause.

The little one laughed. Not outright, but quietly. As if to say, “Lady, you so retarded.”

And then it was too late, because I was shouting at him, demanding that he move his seat. He immediately became defensive. He said it wasn’t his fault. He stood up by his desk. His eyes burned into me.

I kept shouting. I told him to move. “NOW,” I shrieked. “HURRY UP.”

He sat down, firmly rooted in defiance. My anger accelerated. I threatened him with administrative action. He said he didn’t care. I couldn’t leave it alone. It was already in my mouth, and I had exhausted every weapon in my disciplinary arsenal. Except for my teeth.

And I said things to him. I said things in front of the class. I talked about his grade. I told him he was wasting his life.

He was immediately back on his feet. “I am not wasting my life!” he screamed. He seized his book bag and his workbook and stalked to an isolated desk at the back of the room. The others giggled. I kept at him. I told him that he was smart, but in the same breath I snatched all meaning away from the statement by declaring him a statistic waiting to happen.

“A statistic,” I snarled. “Just like your brother.”

The bell rang. On his way out he said, “I don’t care.” But he did. I could tell by the way every muscle in his body tensed. I could tell by the way he looked at the ground. He moved past me so quickly and closely that my hair stirred in his wake.

I should have gone after him. I should have apologized for being older and angrier and for knowing how to hurt him. I should have said I was sorry that I used my power to take his away. I should have. But instead I just stood there, watching, tasting blood in my mouth.

Test.