Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Dixon
There was a message on my machine when I got home from shopping last night-- great loot, $400 worth of clothes. I no longer have to start school naked. "Mrs. Snow, it's Dixon Crandall. I have a favor to ask you..."
In 2001, I was promoted to eighth grade along with 30 or so of my seventh graders, one of whom was Dixon, a rather surly young man prone to acne and sarcasm, and, according to some, defiance-- that instant blood pressure raiser among parents and teachers.
He sat in my first period class in seventh grade not saying a whole lot, just looking the least bit indignantly surprised all the time, as if someone next to him had left a really foul fart or a tack on his chair. I wasn't really sure how to take him. Like someone trying to balance a chair on only one leg, his style teetered between what was popular, what his parents wanted him to wear, what he actually wanted to wear, and what he could wear to make him stand out. He said little during those first few weeks of seventh grade, and I said little to him.
When our first Major Assignment, a personal experience narrative, was due, Dixon turned his in, a good sign! His topic was a family reunion he'd attended over the summer-- yawn-- but Dixon was able to make that topic (a favorite among middle schoolers, right up there with The Big Game) interesting, almost beautiful in places. Yes, there were mechanical issues, but this kid's writing was so unlike what I'd seen in my previous seven years' experience with 13 year olds.
So, as any good teacher would, I wondered if he'd actually written it.
For some reason, though, I swallowed my suspicion, telling myself-- you've known this kid for what, a couple months? Come on, give him the benefit of the doubt. When I passed back his paper, I told him quietly, "You're a writer. I'm looking forward to seeing more."
While other teachers commented on his "attitude," Dixon wrote for me: essays, book reviews, poetry, and research. He started to perk up in class, too, responding to classmates' statements and questioning their logic. He started to consider himself as having a skill, a talent even, maybe.
We were promoted to eighth grade together, and again we started the day together, first period. He wrote more and more, talked more and more. This is not to say that the rest of eighth grade was smooth sailing. Mr. Traditional Math across the hall rankled at Dixon's occasional defiant attitude. (Dixon cared not for algebra.) Mr. Snide Science commented, "You know, Dixon, you and I have a personality conflict, but you don't have to take it so personally." (Or science.)
"How can I not take a personality conflict personally? Isn't that, by definition, what it is?" Dixon reasoned.
A parent conference followed. I met Mr. and Mrs. Crandall, she sporting the exact same suprised/indignant expression (How did we get this kid?), he friendly, benign, and tall. Various chemical imbalances were suggested, measures were considered.
Okay, people, I thought. It's not fucking rocket science. We had here a kid, not unknown to the genus of American teenager: the Rebellious Young Person. The Rebellious Young Person's habitat is anywhere his parents don't want him to go. The Rebellious Young Person's grooming consists of anything his parents don't want him to wear. Whatever the teacher/parent hated about Dixon was what the teacher/parent got.
Dixon went on to high school, but we still kept in touch. He sent me short stories. I read them. They were in turn thought-provoking, haunting, disturbing. He sent me complimentary copies of a magazine he and his punk rock bandmates were working on. Again-- thought-provoking and sometimes disturbing. He sent me his term paper on the Beat Poets (what else?). Thought-provoking but not disturbing.
After an ill-conceived big-box store prank and subsequent legal near-miss, Dixon started to come around. His way. That meant no college for him. He'd had enough of the whole education establisment with its Pavlovian jocks and straight-arrows. (Dixon and I would not have crossed paths if we were in high school together, let me tell you.) He would play his music and do whatever it took to just exist, man. He told me this in a bar one evening at the beginning of his senior year. Dixon had come to hear another band perform, musical courtesy, I guess. He sat drinking Pepsi until shortly before midnight, when he left. (I stayed until 2, drinking beer.)
I didn't try too hard to convince Dixon to go to college. Tripper's family had been-there-done-that with his brother, a member of Teenagum-Rebellious himself. My in-laws insisted that Carlin go to college, and Carlin did go. He just didn't go to class. "You don't have to go to college, Dixon," I told him. "I think you'd really enjoy it, though. You can always go later. Or not. Whatever."
Dixon's favor is a letter of recommendation for a small liberal arts college (not one sports team) in a big Midwest city. THE Midwest City. He decided to go to college, I'm told, the night of high school graduation. It doesn't matter. He did it his way. He doesn't know it yet, but as he gets older, he'll have fewer opportunities to do things his way. That's the dirty little secret of adulthood.
In 2001, I was promoted to eighth grade along with 30 or so of my seventh graders, one of whom was Dixon, a rather surly young man prone to acne and sarcasm, and, according to some, defiance-- that instant blood pressure raiser among parents and teachers.
He sat in my first period class in seventh grade not saying a whole lot, just looking the least bit indignantly surprised all the time, as if someone next to him had left a really foul fart or a tack on his chair. I wasn't really sure how to take him. Like someone trying to balance a chair on only one leg, his style teetered between what was popular, what his parents wanted him to wear, what he actually wanted to wear, and what he could wear to make him stand out. He said little during those first few weeks of seventh grade, and I said little to him.
When our first Major Assignment, a personal experience narrative, was due, Dixon turned his in, a good sign! His topic was a family reunion he'd attended over the summer-- yawn-- but Dixon was able to make that topic (a favorite among middle schoolers, right up there with The Big Game) interesting, almost beautiful in places. Yes, there were mechanical issues, but this kid's writing was so unlike what I'd seen in my previous seven years' experience with 13 year olds.
So, as any good teacher would, I wondered if he'd actually written it.
For some reason, though, I swallowed my suspicion, telling myself-- you've known this kid for what, a couple months? Come on, give him the benefit of the doubt. When I passed back his paper, I told him quietly, "You're a writer. I'm looking forward to seeing more."
While other teachers commented on his "attitude," Dixon wrote for me: essays, book reviews, poetry, and research. He started to perk up in class, too, responding to classmates' statements and questioning their logic. He started to consider himself as having a skill, a talent even, maybe.
We were promoted to eighth grade together, and again we started the day together, first period. He wrote more and more, talked more and more. This is not to say that the rest of eighth grade was smooth sailing. Mr. Traditional Math across the hall rankled at Dixon's occasional defiant attitude. (Dixon cared not for algebra.) Mr. Snide Science commented, "You know, Dixon, you and I have a personality conflict, but you don't have to take it so personally." (Or science.)
"How can I not take a personality conflict personally? Isn't that, by definition, what it is?" Dixon reasoned.
A parent conference followed. I met Mr. and Mrs. Crandall, she sporting the exact same suprised/indignant expression (How did we get this kid?), he friendly, benign, and tall. Various chemical imbalances were suggested, measures were considered.
Okay, people, I thought. It's not fucking rocket science. We had here a kid, not unknown to the genus of American teenager: the Rebellious Young Person. The Rebellious Young Person's habitat is anywhere his parents don't want him to go. The Rebellious Young Person's grooming consists of anything his parents don't want him to wear. Whatever the teacher/parent hated about Dixon was what the teacher/parent got.
Dixon went on to high school, but we still kept in touch. He sent me short stories. I read them. They were in turn thought-provoking, haunting, disturbing. He sent me complimentary copies of a magazine he and his punk rock bandmates were working on. Again-- thought-provoking and sometimes disturbing. He sent me his term paper on the Beat Poets (what else?). Thought-provoking but not disturbing.
After an ill-conceived big-box store prank and subsequent legal near-miss, Dixon started to come around. His way. That meant no college for him. He'd had enough of the whole education establisment with its Pavlovian jocks and straight-arrows. (Dixon and I would not have crossed paths if we were in high school together, let me tell you.) He would play his music and do whatever it took to just exist, man. He told me this in a bar one evening at the beginning of his senior year. Dixon had come to hear another band perform, musical courtesy, I guess. He sat drinking Pepsi until shortly before midnight, when he left. (I stayed until 2, drinking beer.)
I didn't try too hard to convince Dixon to go to college. Tripper's family had been-there-done-that with his brother, a member of Teenagum-Rebellious himself. My in-laws insisted that Carlin go to college, and Carlin did go. He just didn't go to class. "You don't have to go to college, Dixon," I told him. "I think you'd really enjoy it, though. You can always go later. Or not. Whatever."
Dixon's favor is a letter of recommendation for a small liberal arts college (not one sports team) in a big Midwest city. THE Midwest City. He decided to go to college, I'm told, the night of high school graduation. It doesn't matter. He did it his way. He doesn't know it yet, but as he gets older, he'll have fewer opportunities to do things his way. That's the dirty little secret of adulthood.
# posted by Chrissy Snow @ 8/22/2006 04:20:00 AM 
