hesitated, I knew exactly what to invoke: principle. "Because you didn't raise me to be a quitter," I continued. "You want me to take on challenges and problem-solve. This is my first job, if you don't count babysitting and feeding Mrs. Knight's fish. I had to make it work, even if it involved a little creativity. Which I thank you for—my setting goals and not giving up."
For two such unadorned and allegedly vanity-proof parents, they were quite susceptible to flattery. They both looked a little dreamy, as if recalling heart-to-hearts that imbued me with my unwavering work ethic and cast-iron values.
My father beamed. "You stick with it," he said. "Every job has worth and dignity."
"No matter how seemingly thankless," said my mother.
"It's not like I'm cleaning toilets," I said.
A strategic mistake. I'd forgotten to pay lip service to the belief that all jobs, even if disgusting, were noble. "Never disparage anyone's occupation," intoned my father.
"I usually don't."
"It smacks of snobbery," said my mother.
"And elitism," said my father.
I said, "I'm no elitist. I'm just normal. Normal people know it's better to be a college professor than a chambermaid."
My mother put her hand over her heart and closed her eyes. The gesture meant either
Where did we go wrong?
or, more likely,
Power to our oppressed sisters toiling in the bowls of the rich.
12 Legs
L ESS THAN A WEEK LATER , Laura Lee French made the acquaintance of Marietta Woodbury. It wasn't at a table for two in Curran Hall, as I had envisioned, but on a tree-lined lane, recently paved with speed bumps, that bisected the campus. Mrs. Woodbury was at the wheel of her brand-new silver-mauve Cadillac, with Marietta sulking in the passenger seat. Laura Lee was walking down the middle of the road, not only holding her novel, but also reading it, the spine at eye level in the cartoon manner of a bookworm on parade. Mrs. Woodbury felt it was her duty to stop the car, lower her electric window, and say, "Miss? You're weaving while you're walking. This is a road. Wouldn't it be safer to walk on the grass? Or safest of all: not read while you walked?"
Laura Lee peered into the car and knew immediately who was dispensing advice. She said, in what I can only imagine was her silly-me, absent-minded-professor voice, "I'm so sorry. Did I scare you? I was a million miles from here. In a gulag, in fact"—she held up
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.
"Such are the perils of being a bookworm."
"Are you in our English Department?" asked Mrs. Woodbury.
If the question had been posed by a visiting parent, Laura Lee would certainly have said, "Why, yes. I teach Siberian literature.
Have you read Solzhenitsyn?" But she knew this was the First Lady of Dewing, and the sullen but rather stunning passenger was the First Daughter. "I'm Laura Lee French," she said, slipping her hand for a ladylike squeeze through the half-open window. "I'm the director of Ada Tibbets Hall"
"You'd better walk on the left so you can see the oncoming traffic," Mrs. Woodbury advised. "And save the reading for indoors."
"I'm hoping to have people over to Tibbets Hall very soon, a welcome party for all of us newcomers."
Mrs. Woodbury must not have grasped that a gracious response was called for. She murmured something like "I'm sure the students will enjoy that."
Marietta said sharply, "Ma. We're late."
Her mother's toe pressed the accelerator and the car shot away without, in Laura Lee's view, a proper good-bye and, simultaneously, exceeding the five-mile-per-hour campus speed limit. Mrs. Woodbury hadn't even projected a silent apology, a roll of the eyes or a tilt of the head to signal,
Excuse the scowling teenager.
Laura Lee reported that she was left by the side of the road like an undesirable hitchhiker, as the Caddy sped its way to Griggs Hall and waiting passenger Frederica Hatch.
As I slid into the back seat seconds later, Marietta said, "We just passed your best friend."
"Who's
For two such unadorned and allegedly vanity-proof parents, they were quite susceptible to flattery. They both looked a little dreamy, as if recalling heart-to-hearts that imbued me with my unwavering work ethic and cast-iron values.
My father beamed. "You stick with it," he said. "Every job has worth and dignity."
"No matter how seemingly thankless," said my mother.
"It's not like I'm cleaning toilets," I said.
A strategic mistake. I'd forgotten to pay lip service to the belief that all jobs, even if disgusting, were noble. "Never disparage anyone's occupation," intoned my father.
"I usually don't."
"It smacks of snobbery," said my mother.
"And elitism," said my father.
I said, "I'm no elitist. I'm just normal. Normal people know it's better to be a college professor than a chambermaid."
My mother put her hand over her heart and closed her eyes. The gesture meant either
Where did we go wrong?
or, more likely,
Power to our oppressed sisters toiling in the bowls of the rich.
12 Legs
L ESS THAN A WEEK LATER , Laura Lee French made the acquaintance of Marietta Woodbury. It wasn't at a table for two in Curran Hall, as I had envisioned, but on a tree-lined lane, recently paved with speed bumps, that bisected the campus. Mrs. Woodbury was at the wheel of her brand-new silver-mauve Cadillac, with Marietta sulking in the passenger seat. Laura Lee was walking down the middle of the road, not only holding her novel, but also reading it, the spine at eye level in the cartoon manner of a bookworm on parade. Mrs. Woodbury felt it was her duty to stop the car, lower her electric window, and say, "Miss? You're weaving while you're walking. This is a road. Wouldn't it be safer to walk on the grass? Or safest of all: not read while you walked?"
Laura Lee peered into the car and knew immediately who was dispensing advice. She said, in what I can only imagine was her silly-me, absent-minded-professor voice, "I'm so sorry. Did I scare you? I was a million miles from here. In a gulag, in fact"—she held up
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.
"Such are the perils of being a bookworm."
"Are you in our English Department?" asked Mrs. Woodbury.
If the question had been posed by a visiting parent, Laura Lee would certainly have said, "Why, yes. I teach Siberian literature.
Have you read Solzhenitsyn?" But she knew this was the First Lady of Dewing, and the sullen but rather stunning passenger was the First Daughter. "I'm Laura Lee French," she said, slipping her hand for a ladylike squeeze through the half-open window. "I'm the director of Ada Tibbets Hall"
"You'd better walk on the left so you can see the oncoming traffic," Mrs. Woodbury advised. "And save the reading for indoors."
"I'm hoping to have people over to Tibbets Hall very soon, a welcome party for all of us newcomers."
Mrs. Woodbury must not have grasped that a gracious response was called for. She murmured something like "I'm sure the students will enjoy that."
Marietta said sharply, "Ma. We're late."
Her mother's toe pressed the accelerator and the car shot away without, in Laura Lee's view, a proper good-bye and, simultaneously, exceeding the five-mile-per-hour campus speed limit. Mrs. Woodbury hadn't even projected a silent apology, a roll of the eyes or a tilt of the head to signal,
Excuse the scowling teenager.
Laura Lee reported that she was left by the side of the road like an undesirable hitchhiker, as the Caddy sped its way to Griggs Hall and waiting passenger Frederica Hatch.
As I slid into the back seat seconds later, Marietta said, "We just passed your best friend."
"Who's
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