At 10-years old, I was a walking masterpiece of awkwardness. My gawky elbows, knobby knees, and mouth full of oversized teeth, all seemed to conspire against any hope of coolness. My wispy blonde hair had a mind of its own that refused to Farrah Fawcett or Dorothy Hamill correctly, no matter how much I wanted to pull off the look. Repeated attempts at perming body into my hair failed spectacularly. I went from frizz to straight in a matter of days, regardless of what noxious, rotten-egg chemical combo was poured on my head.
All this weighed heavily on 10-year old me. It kept me up at night long past when I turned off my flashlight and closed the book I was reading under the covers in my red shag bedroom. A bedroom that had been the living room before my parents decided we should re-join communal life and rent out the real bedrooms to grad students.
It consumed me because I wanted nothing more than to be cool. Not the cool that comes from being so absurdly uncool that it comes across as cool. But rather, the cool that comes from fitting in.
My family of free-wheeling hippies provided the first strike against me. We were newly transplanted from a Pacific Northwest island where our kind ran wild and free. We landed, with a thud, in a suburban Albuquerque neighborhood when my father took his first professorship at the University of New Mexico.
We showed up in a U-Haul bristling with bikes, crammed with the mismatched furniture and all the trappings of grad school life, dusty from the long southward trek across the country. We stuck out like long-haired, Patchouli-scented sore thumbs, smack in the middle of cookie-cutter society. At least that’s where my 10-year old mind had us firmly planted.
It was towards the end of the school year, a time when teachers start to lose their creative mojo while lesson plans fizzle in the hazy dreams of summer vacation. I sat, contemplating the words written on the chalkboard. Career Day – loosely translated to “bring your parents to school day” – was next on the agenda. This was problematic. I knew I was surrounded by kids who had normal parents. Doctors, lawyers, police officers, the occasional coveted fireman, store owners, car salesmen. All with jobs everyone seemed to know and understand.
I was in trouble. Neurophysiologist was not on the list of what normal parents did for a living. Is he a doctor? Well, yes. Can he tell me why it hurts when I do this? Probably, but I’m not sure it’s the answer you’re looking for. I often settled with, he teaches doctors. Other times, I took the easy route and said, “he’s a professor,” hoping that they wouldn’t ask for further clarification.
Waves of parents showed up for their allotted time slot in shiny cars. Suits and uniforms gave us clues about what we were about to hear. I nervously glanced out the window. My dad didn’t own a suit. He didn’t wear a uniform. And he didn’t drive a shiny car.
“Boys and girls,” Mrs. Crockett intoned, “please say hello to Mr. Rodriguez. He’s going to tell us all about what lawyers do.”
The class expressed their drawn-out “Helllllllllllo, Missssster Rodriiiiii-gez,” and then sat back in their desks. I gauged the tone of the room. This was going to be a cool dad but he was going to have to work for it. Perfectly quaffed hair – check. Dark suit ironed into sharp lines – check. Job with name the students could pronounce – check.
Mr. Rodriguez made his way from the back of the room to the light spray of applause from the room mother flock. They were in attendance to provide teacher back-up and focus on this critical day where our behavior would be witnessed by outsiders. A cloud of Ralph Lauren Polo swirled around The Lawyer as he made his way forward. I couldn’t help but notice his cleanly shaved jawline. Wow, this guy was the full package.
The class reacted as required, listening to his description of lawyering with some degree of interest. However, summer vacation continued to vie for top billing in the room. “Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez. Class, are there any questions?” A few hands went up.
“Do you get to put bad guys in jail?”
“Well, I’m a corporate lawyer, so no.” An audible sigh rose from the room and the hens fidgeted in the back, preparing to rescue The Lawyer if necessary.
“Do you get to put corporate people in jail?” one kid tried. I recognized that Mr. Rodriguez’s Cool account was losing points and Mrs. Crockett quickly stepped in.
“Let’s give Mr. Rodriguez a big, fifth-grader thank you and round of applause.” She was obviously trying to remind us of our big-kid status and that we should behave accordingly.
We worked our way through the professions. There were no outright duds but each parent who took the front of the room did manage to engage the classroom as the temperature rose and summer-heightened kid-funk settled in.
A police officer in full uniform. From the third row: “Do you get to shoot your gun?!”
“I try not to.”
“Oh.” Obvious disappointment.
Car salesman in his white shirt and wide tie. From the third row, again. “Have you ever sold a car to a bank robber?!”
“Not that I know of.” Conditional disappointment because he had left open the possibility.
A stewardess (of today’s Flight Attendant variety) made her way to the front in a cloud of Chanel. Her perfectly formed hair, artfully applied make-up, polyester pantsuit, and 4-inch heels took my breath away. Damn. She was a rare find in the sea of career men.
From the third row: “Have you ever been in a plane crash?!”
Mrs. Crockett exploded with a firm, “Michael, really?!”
“Just askin’.”
Apparently, ten-year olds think about a lot of things they aren’t afraid to voice.
It was then that I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. My dad was about to make his appearance. He rode his trusty ten-speed to the classroom’s outer door, kicking his long leg over the seat to score a perfect landing. I glanced around the room and saw a few faces following his entrance. A few unsuspecting Dorothy Hamills fluttered to the door to help carry in the containers he pulled from his saddlebags. I knew what was inside. They clearly didn’t.
The subtle aroma of Patchouli oil wafted through the competing clouds of Jean Nates and Old Spice as my dad moved to the front of the room. He swiped shoulder-length hair from his face and then smoothed his beard. The beaver on his MIT class ring sparked a bit of interest around the room and I could tell that my classmates were at least somewhat curious about the sloshing tubs that were settling on the desk. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as bad as I had thought.
“Class. Class.” We reluctantly quieted. “I’d like you to give a warm, Room 12 welcome to Mister” she consulted her teacher-notes, “I mean, Doctor Partridge.”
“Helllllllllllo, Missss-ter I mean Doooooc-tor Parrrrrrtridge.”
My dad hurriedly corrected her. The Doctor title was not one he was overly comfortable using, especially around kids. “You can call me Don.”
“Hellllllllo, Doctor Donnnnnn,” the class intoned.
Mrs. Crockett quickly regained herself and went on, “Doctor, errr, Don…” She was clearly uncomfortable with that title in the sea of Misters and Missuses – “is going to tell us about…” She glanced at her notes again – “neuro… He’s a professor.” She took the easy route.
My dad launched right in.
Soon talk of dendrites and synapses, potassium and electrical impulses, optic nerves and spinal cords floated around the room. My dad had an amazing ability to explain the nervous system to young people in a way we’d understand. He drew pictures on the chalkboard, carefully labeling bits and parts in his careful print. Periodically, he threw in the requisite dad joke. Some landed. Some sailed. All seemed to inch the Cool-meter a bit higher in my favor.
Then he dug deep into his worn leather briefcase and pulled out a box of surgical gloves. I knew the finale was about to start. I will say, in the world of fifth-grade street cred, showing up with two buckets of mysterious, sloshy things and then handing out surgical gloves really ups the ante.
I had worried that my corduroy-wearing, Patchouli-scented, long-haired, bearded, hippie professor-dad would ruin my chances in fifth-grade social circles. I was beginning to think that the opposite was true. However, I also noticed the room moms shifting uncomfortably in their spot by the coat closet. They tittered amongst themselves and seemed unsure of what to do with this unfamiliar career person.
The mom-flock politely refused the glove offer, stating that “they wanted to make sure there were enough for the rest of us.” I could smell their distrust. My dad returned to the front of the room and pulled the tops off the tubs. The sharp tones of formaldehyde rushed out, pushing the Jean Nates and Charlie Blues to the edges of the room to intermingle with the cigarette smoke wafting in from the teacher’s lounge.
My dad fished around in the first container and with some flourish, extracted a dripping, pale gray, human brain. The room erupted in ooooo’s and aahhhh’s.
“Is that from a dead person?”
“I sure hope so,” responded my dad. The joke sailed over most but I gave it an eye-roll.
There was a sharp, collective intake of breath from the flock in the back of the room and a resounding thump as several polyester-clad butts hit the unforgiving wooden seats of the big-people chairs. I trained my eyes forward, not sure of the social currency required to pay off “caused room mom to faint” but in general, I was feeling okay about the response. This would play well on the playground.
My dad – the guy who brought human brains to class.
He began to wander up and down the rows, gently, carefully placing the brain in the sweaty, glove-covered hands of each kid. They were enthralled. I sat back a bit, being rather old-hat at holding the body parts of dead people game, and waited for him to get to me.
I waved him off so that I could state, rather loudly “it’s okay DAD… I get to do this ALL THE TIME.” I swiveled my head as I said the words, making sure to achieve maximum audio coverage of the room. It was my dad’s turn at a private eye-roll but he played along.
Even the third row didn’t know what to say and I noticed that Mrs. Crockett had moved from behind her heavy wood desk at the front of the room to hide next to the SSR box at the back. It might have had something to do with the buckets on her desk and the pungent chemical smell that continued to grow. Or maybe she was just looking for an easy exit while considering how Sustained Silent Reading might have been a safer lesson plan.
The brain sloshed slightly as it settled back in its formaldehyde bathtub and my dad dug into bucket number two. This was more than a few of the moms could handle and they decided they would be of more use helping in the cafeteria. Or the library. Or anywhere that wasn’t Room 12.
“And this is a spinal cord” my dad said as he fished out a long, snakey, dripping rope of tissue and strands. My exact memory of the day might be a bit skewed as I was a self-admitted attention-craving/attention-denying 10-year-old but as far as I remember, there was a crash from the back of the room as the first mom went down. The others abandoned her on the floor as they exited the room. The “leave no soldier behind” sentiment was lost as the Farrah Fawcetts and Dorothy Hamills hit the hills.
My dad did express some concern but didn’t have much to offer. After all, he’s not that kind of doctor.
When he was done with his ill-fated (if you were a room mom) – legendary – presentation, I helped him carry the buckets back to his bike. Mrs. Crockett was doing everything she could to get the classroom under control.
“That was SO COOL!”
“I wanna be a brain guy!”
“Do you think the dead guy was a bank robber?! Or maybe he died in a plane crash!!”
“MICHAEL!”
I smiled at my dad. I knew that I was now the coolest kid in Room 12 and I had him to thank for it. He gave me a brief hug, fitted his foot in one toe strap, kicked off, and swung his leg over the treasured buckets of human body parts in his orange saddle bags. Back to work at the coolest job EVER.
Later in life, I could look back on my 10-year old angst around achieving acceptance in a room of prescribed, suburban lives and see it with the clarity that comes with age. My hair would never Hamill or Fawcett correctly. Nor would it Cindy Lauper passably when that became the standard. I would grow out of my knobby knees and snaggle tooth grin, only to find that my pre-teen face and body held their own surprised and awkward challenges.
My dad would never show up in a shiny car. He wouldn’t smell of Old Spice. His uniform would forever be standard issue Professor-ware. The room moms of Room 12 did learn to accept him and he went on to be PTA president amongst a sea of feathered flutterers. He was rather masterful in his ability to put on a rockin’ science fair after all.
All the things that kept me up at night in my shag carpeted living/bedroom were marks of being different in a way that my 10-year old mind couldn’t fully understand. Although I did learn, early on, that sometimes it is less about who decorates for the party as who shows up with the brains.
Thank you for sharing a beautifully written wonderful memory!
What a delightful memory! You are an exquisite storyteller, Dani!