contract in my backpack, I would board the bus for school as if headed for labor camp. Shortly after I got on, the bus would pass a retirement home. I’d press my face against the window and envy those old people, sitting in their rockers, free to watch TV and read all day. When I mentioned this to my mother, she said very quietly, “Get in the T-Bird.”
Steering us around Manhasset my mother told me that I needed to stop worrying. “Just try your
best,
babe,” she said.
“That’s the same thing Mrs. Williams’s contract says,” I complained. “How do I know what my best is?”
“Your best is whatever you can do comfortably without having a breakdown.”
She didn’t understand. According to my black-or-white view of the world, it wasn’t enough to do my best. I had to be perfect. To take care of my mother, to send her to college, I needed to eliminate all mistakes. Mistakes had led to our predicament—Grandma marrying Grandpa, Grandpa denying my mother’s wish to go to college, my mother marrying my father—and they continued to cost us. I needed to correct those mistakes by avoiding new ones, and by getting perfect grades, then getting into a perfect college, then a perfect law school, then suing my imperfect father. But with school getting harder, I couldn’t see how I was going to be perfect, and if I were imperfect, then my mother and Grandma would be disappointed with me, and I’d be no better than my father, and then my mother would sing and cry and peck at her calculator—this was how my mind raced on the playground as I watched the other kids playing tetherball.
My mother sat me down one night in the dining room, Grandma by her side. “Mrs. Williams phoned me at work today,” she said. “Mrs. Williams tells me that at recess you sit on the playground, staring off into space, and when she asked what you were doing, you told her you were—
worrying
?”
Grandma made her tsk-tsk sound.
“Now look,” my mother said. “When I feel myself starting to worry, I just tell myself,
I will not worry about something that will not happen,
and that always calms me, because most of the things we worry about will never happen. Why don’t you give that a try?”
Like Mrs. Williams with her contract, my mother thought her affirmation would motivate me. Instead it hypnotized me. I converted it into an incantation, a mantra, and chanted it on the playground until I induced a trancelike state. I used my mantra as both a spell, to ward off disasters, and a club, to beat back the onslaught of worrisome thoughts about disasters. I’m going to be left back and have to repeat sixth grade.
I will not worry about something that will not happen.
I’m going to fail out of school and then I won’t be able to take care of my mother.
I will not worry about something that will not happen.
I’m just like my father.
I will not worry . . .
It worked. After I’d repeated my mantra a few thousand times Mrs. Williams announced that we’d be taking a break from our many assignments. All the kids cheered, and I cheered the loudest. “Instead,” Mrs. Williams said, “we’ll be planning the annual Sixth-Grade Father-Son Breakfast!” I stopped cheering. “Today,” she continued, holding up construction paper and glue, “we’re going to design and make our own invitations, which you’ll bring home to your fathers after school. Saturday morning we’ll cook our fathers breakfast and read to them from our schoolwork and everyone will get a chance to know each other better.”
When class ended Mrs. Williams called me to her desk. “What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“I saw your face.”
“I don’t have a father.”
“Oh. Is he—did he—pass on?”
“No. I mean, maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t have one.”
She stared out the window beside her desk, then turned back to me.
“Is there an uncle?” she said.
I frowned.
“A brother?”
I thought of McGraw.
“Anyone
Steering us around Manhasset my mother told me that I needed to stop worrying. “Just try your
best,
babe,” she said.
“That’s the same thing Mrs. Williams’s contract says,” I complained. “How do I know what my best is?”
“Your best is whatever you can do comfortably without having a breakdown.”
She didn’t understand. According to my black-or-white view of the world, it wasn’t enough to do my best. I had to be perfect. To take care of my mother, to send her to college, I needed to eliminate all mistakes. Mistakes had led to our predicament—Grandma marrying Grandpa, Grandpa denying my mother’s wish to go to college, my mother marrying my father—and they continued to cost us. I needed to correct those mistakes by avoiding new ones, and by getting perfect grades, then getting into a perfect college, then a perfect law school, then suing my imperfect father. But with school getting harder, I couldn’t see how I was going to be perfect, and if I were imperfect, then my mother and Grandma would be disappointed with me, and I’d be no better than my father, and then my mother would sing and cry and peck at her calculator—this was how my mind raced on the playground as I watched the other kids playing tetherball.
My mother sat me down one night in the dining room, Grandma by her side. “Mrs. Williams phoned me at work today,” she said. “Mrs. Williams tells me that at recess you sit on the playground, staring off into space, and when she asked what you were doing, you told her you were—
worrying
?”
Grandma made her tsk-tsk sound.
“Now look,” my mother said. “When I feel myself starting to worry, I just tell myself,
I will not worry about something that will not happen,
and that always calms me, because most of the things we worry about will never happen. Why don’t you give that a try?”
Like Mrs. Williams with her contract, my mother thought her affirmation would motivate me. Instead it hypnotized me. I converted it into an incantation, a mantra, and chanted it on the playground until I induced a trancelike state. I used my mantra as both a spell, to ward off disasters, and a club, to beat back the onslaught of worrisome thoughts about disasters. I’m going to be left back and have to repeat sixth grade.
I will not worry about something that will not happen.
I’m going to fail out of school and then I won’t be able to take care of my mother.
I will not worry about something that will not happen.
I’m just like my father.
I will not worry . . .
It worked. After I’d repeated my mantra a few thousand times Mrs. Williams announced that we’d be taking a break from our many assignments. All the kids cheered, and I cheered the loudest. “Instead,” Mrs. Williams said, “we’ll be planning the annual Sixth-Grade Father-Son Breakfast!” I stopped cheering. “Today,” she continued, holding up construction paper and glue, “we’re going to design and make our own invitations, which you’ll bring home to your fathers after school. Saturday morning we’ll cook our fathers breakfast and read to them from our schoolwork and everyone will get a chance to know each other better.”
When class ended Mrs. Williams called me to her desk. “What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“I saw your face.”
“I don’t have a father.”
“Oh. Is he—did he—pass on?”
“No. I mean, maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t have one.”
She stared out the window beside her desk, then turned back to me.
“Is there an uncle?” she said.
I frowned.
“A brother?”
I thought of McGraw.
“Anyone
Similar Books
