As if she is suffering from a terrible toothache, Mary Wiles has wrapped her
woolen scarf around her oval face. Head bent, shoulders rising and falling in
silent gasps, she is determined to finish her worksheet. From one row over, we
can see the rivers of ink coursing down her paper and making a soggy bank at
her right hand. She wraps and rewraps her scarf until it is apparent that it is
not her own ache, but Sara’s bruised and swollen legs that she is bandaging.  

Sara’s sobbing comes in little fits now through the thick door. A cuckoo out of
sync and out of key, she bleats out her objections:  
No, she does not want to go
to the nurse’s office; no, she does not want to show the nurse; no, she does not
want everything better. No. No.

Sara and Miss D are in Camelot, the stairwell just outside our classroom, the
stairwell that we and the other 2nd-floor classrooms use for fire drills.  Weeks
ago, after several days of King Arthur, we changed the “EXIT” sign above the
door to “EXETER” as a surprise for Miss D.

“Children!” she shouted, not taking her eyes off of the new sign, “
This is no
longer a way
out. It is now a way in.”  

Shortly after, Exeter became our passage – not to fire drills  – but to an ideal
place, a place that we could go to on any day, at any time. During math lesson,
in the middle of language arts, in the midst of a peer’s recitation, any one of us
might rise from his seat and wander in to feel time stop, to be alone, to feel
the quiet, to walk away, to feel the train of joy in breaking rules, to hear one’s
own heartbeat  – and after a while, to miss the others, to want the others.  

Next to the door is a throne on wheels: Miss D’s chair draped with a checkered
print – remainder from an Easter dress that Mary Gillis donated, and for which
act of charity her parents punished her for weeks. For a ceremonial feel: green
and white pom-poms retrieved from someone’s bicycle, and hung from the
arms.  On birthdays, and on Composition days, any one of us is allowed to
wheel the throne through Exeter and into Camelot. Time and time again,
Nicholas Kastinopoulos will plant himself in the throne during our writing hour;
notebook and pencil in hand, he will tip his head back in thought, and wait for
the muses to descend upon him. When Bailey Arnold will not stop sniffling,
Sabrina Kaslov will retreat to the throne for a quiet read. And when John G.
Ashe becomes suddenly impatient with the 4th grade in general, he will huff off
to the throne for what Miss D calls
his spell in the catbird seat.

Today, however, the throne stares back at us, abandoned, unconsulted.  We
picture the two of them, Miss D and Sara, sitting on the cold concrete stairs in
Camelot and everything seems out of order, the earth off its axis.


This is “isms” month, the month when each of us brings in a word that ends in
ism, what Miss D calls a verbum – a word among words.   For most of us, the
choice of word has nothing to do with meaning, although Miss D assures us
meanings will come, meanings will come.  

We flip through the
Sanctuary, reading each word from right to left, and
pouncing on the first –ism we find. We scribble down the root-word as an
afterthought. On Presentation Day, we make the words our own: we copy our
words onto brightly colored placards, we take turns holding our words in front
of the class, we say our words to the class and hear the class say them back,
we say the word in a sentence of our own making, and then – the most
exciting part – we climb a ladder, and hang the word above the blackboard.

Today, against the sound of Sara’s desperate crying, we sit helpless and
helplessly alone in our seats. Some of us are scanning the room as if to find a
word for what’s happening:  



Others are quietly weeping. Like a virus, Sara’s garbled lament is spreading
through the classroom.



  Mag- net-ism

We struggle to remember the sentences that the words belong in.

Last week, during Science, one of the boys in the class showed us how
magnets too close to one another will push each other away.  We gasped a
collective gasp to see how pull became push so suddenly, how at precisely the
point where we thought that the magnets would grasp one another and fall
into one another’s magnetic orbits -- instead they spun away from one
another. Miss D said that sometimes it was the same with people too.

Against the muffled din of Sara’s spasmodic cries, that moment seems to come
back to us now, that moment that we saw during show-and-tell, not as
science, but as an inexplicable moment when like things rejected one another.  

In the first seat of the row closest to Exeter, Glen Rooney is lifting the visor to
his astronaut’s helmet. The helmet was a gift from Miss D after Glen announced
to her one day his dream of orbiting the earth. On a typical day, he dons the
helmet from morning arrival until afternoon dismissal -- retiring it to the top of
his desk only for recess, but always wearing it for fire drills. During whole-class
lessons, he peers through the helmet’s plastic shield while he reads Miss D’s
lips as she guides us at the blackboard, or as she shuttles us through the
sentences of the great Roman orators: Cicero’s impassioned speeches parsed
into columns of persuasive words like the concrete columns of the Roman

During writing and reading hours, Glen sits at his desk hovering over word
problems or over his science text as if he is hovering over the earth’s arc -- his
only air supply coming from his deco-style, laminated desk: his port, his dream
base. Today, however, Glen Rooney is leaving his port: he has lifted his visor,
and is wiping his nose and gasping for air. He seems to be breathing some
noxious gas. A few of the motherly girls surround Glen, tell him to go back
inside, back under his hood, and not to cry.  Somehow we need him to do as
they say. If Glen stops breathing, surely we all will.     



In spite of Miss D’s and Sara’s absence, Sabrina Kaslov is determined to
present her word.  It is after morning songs, after math lesson, and it is her
turn.  She is the prettiest girl in the class, and she is accustomed to performing
on queue.  She stands before us, and with an affected British accent, she
reads the definition that she has copied directly out of the Sanctuary:

…  the whole as well as the parts, and the relations of the parts to the
whole ….

None of us are listening. Definitions, we have learned by now, are hardly
meanings. Definitions are what Miss D calls,
small apologies – apologies for a life
not lived
. They are too tentative, too conditioned, too – and this Miss D says
with her arms swinging through the air –
too sweeping.  Although Miss D has
gone, we can feel the lasting breeze of her swinging arms. What we want is
sentence -- the word particularized, the life lived.

But, Sabrina has clearly rehearsed something more polished. In addition to her
comprehensive list of meanings for the word, she offers a catalogue of
Organism as ecosystem, organism as bio-system, organism as
governmental system.
 She seems to be speaking in tongue, and yet, none of
us are moved.

For a visual, she holds up a photo-enlarged mushroom – a
fungus, she tells us,
and not nature gone wrong.
Organism par excellence. She offers an accent aigu
on the word
excellence. She reads, from a powder-blue note card, words that
she has copied verbatim from the

fungus:  a spongy growth, like proud flesh formed in a wound

We are tired and distracted, and we are disgusted by her image.  But, Miss D
has returned to the classroom, and is already on her feet.  She is singing,
Oh! Oh! Children! Did you hear that?”
 And she is writing Sabrina’s horrid
description on the board:

Like proud flesh formed in a wound

And Miss D is singing,

“Science and Poetry! Poetry and Science!

See how we need one another?”

We do see it.

Although Miss D has returned, Sara’s seat is empty. We feel Sara’s absence
like the absence of exact meaning, like a story too awful for language to hold –
but that perhaps science, or medicine, or a school nurse’s care might heal.   
We feel the desperate beating heart in Sabrina’s analogy – and in all
 Like proud flesh formed in a wound. We see the precision of science
in the face of human suffering, and we feel the lightness that comes with that
precision.   And, we know we won’t be graded on this – not today at least.

Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey.  All rights reserved.

Judge's Review
Published in MEMOIR (and), Summer 2008
Excerpted from the forthcoming book: Beginner's Mind

Chapter 2: Isms