Sometimes, a Pieces of You topic makes me think of something I haven't thought of in a long time, or even something old but in a new way. This one, though, made me remember a most embarrassing moment, something I did once that comes back to me maybe a few times a month. Here's the topic:
Gossip ~ Do you ever wonder what people say about you behind your back? Friends even? Everyone gossips at least once in their lives. What would people be saying about you? Is it good or bad? Would you want to know about it? Would you be hurt or take it as friendly, helpful criticism? On the other hand, do you partake in the same kind of gossip? Would you be willing to say the same things to the said persons face?
I'm going back about ten years. This was after we had already changed a lot about the atmosphere in the library at school. The old, and old-fashioned head librarian, HMM [Horrible Mean Man], had retired, and I was in charge. Things got a lot looser, and it was a good thing. Kids were no longer screamed at or given detentions for chewing gum, or whispering in the library. They were much more comfortable there, which means they were more likely to come in on their own, and ask for help when they needed it, since they weren't afraid of breathing there.
One of the things that the HMM was really obsessive about was keeping things neat and in order. Of course, there always has to be some of this in the library, but the stuff needs to be used, too. He was particularly insane about newspapers. Every half hour or so throughout the day, he would neaten up all the newspapers, make sure all the pages were there and in order. Woe to any child who had last used a newspaper found to be missing an article, or a page.
I hated that. They're newspapers, after all; we get new ones every day. When the HMM retired, I vowed that I would never be like that.
But it took awhile for Colleague and the SCM [the new librarian, the Self-Centered Man], to catch on. At first, they would complain that the kids were always messing up the newspapers. "They're newspapers," I'd remind them, "not Gutenberg Bibles. It's not a big deal." In time, it stopped being a big deal for everyone concerned.
Except one teacher. She would come into the library every day during last period, when she didn't have a class scheduled. She was a very rigid person, not willing or able to adjust or adapt to much. It seemed odd that she was an art teacher, but in truth, her enrollment had dropped tremendously over the years as fewer and fewer kids were willing to see art her way and only her way. She killed her own program. During lunch, she would sit in her classroom with the lights out and the door locked, in a part of the room where she couldn't be seen from the door. She just didn't care much for people, and had no desire to interact with anyone. She was biding her time until retirement, which was only a few months away.
Every day when she came into the library, she would ask for one of the papers, probably The New York Times. Each day, either the SCM or I would remind her where the papers were kept, and that whatever was left of the paper by this time of day would be there. We did straighten up the papers and return them to their rack after lunch; we just didn't sweat it if something was missing.
Each time she would fail to find the part of the paper she was looking for, she would say something snide about how it should be our job to keep track of the papers all day, and it seemed the least we could do. Often, I would reply politely that we were spending our time differently now, much more of it in teaching kids directly, and working with teachers to develop research projects and teaching materials. She would storm off, out into the hall and on her way.
I hate confrontation and avoid it at all costs, but it was certainly getting to me. I would sometimes suggest that she simply come to the library in the morning, during another time when she had no class scheduled. Or she could send a student for the paper, and then send it back when she was done. There were other options. She always turned a snotty sneer my way and stormed out.
One time, she was particularly irritating. The SCM and I were sitting at the library's one computer, trying to figure out some of this Internet mystery, and working out how we were going to use it with kids. We were very involved in what we were doing. The library was otherwise empty at the time, but we would most gladly have stopped to help someone with need, student or teacher. However, this babe's daily newspaper diatribe was not worth my time. She came in, said her piece, I said very little. She walked off as I turned back to the computer.
I was sitting low in my chair, as was the SCM, both of us intent on the screen before us. I made a remark about the woman, and how it was getting to be too much to take every day. I said, "Why doesn't she just buy her own damn paper?" Then, to my horror, came her voice from across the room: "I'm still here, you know."
Well, of course, I hadn't known. She always walked right out after saying her piece, but not today. She was actually sitting on the other side of the newspaper rack, having found what she was looking for after all. I apologized for saying something so thoughtless and tactless, which it was. But it was also on the mark, and I'm not sorry for that.
Not a good idea to talk behind someone's back unless you're damn sure that the back and all other relevant and attached parts are clearly out of earshot. I really do remember this frequently; it was horrible. It's very much in my nature to pass the occasional sarcastic or cynical remark, but it's not at all in me to hurt someone knowingly, or to be in any way comfortable having hurt someone unknowingly. It was a bad bad thing and I'm sorry I did it, even though I'm not sorry, somehow, all at the same time.
And a short tale for Jane, whose little one has come up with a sudden, unexplained limp:
My eldest was born with an irregular-shaped birthmark on the front of her left leg, about four inches above the foot. It was about the size of -- well, a quarter cut in half. Her pediatrician checked it regularly, and when she was five, said we might as well have it removed before it ever turned into something else. We saw a surgeon, scheduled it, were all ready to go. We made sure that little R knew that if she got sick, we would have to postpone the surgery, so she'd better tell us if she had a scratchy throat or anything else we needed to know about.
I got a call one day from her teacher (at the all-day kindegarten she attended in the pre-K school she had gone to, so we knew them all well), all frantic: "R says she has a scratchy throat! What should we do?" I called the pediatrician, who said bring her right over, so I left work, raced across town, raced back to his office. The whole time I was asking her how she felt, if she really really had a scratchy throat. She assured me that she did.
She hopped up on the examining table, little shirt off, ready to be examined. The very grandfatherly pediatrician -- he had been mine, and my husband's, too -- looked her over seriously and said, "So, you have a scratchy throat?"
She gave him back the same serious look, and then, as she nodded, reached her little hand up and scratched her neck.
He looked at me, I looked at him. I turned to the kid and asked "Is it scratchy on the inside or on the outside?" On the outside, she assured us.
Well, the doctor laughed his head off as I explained the difference between a scratchy throat and an itchy neck. She said the inside felt just fine. Surgery went off as scheduled, no problem.
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I'm watching Friends
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