Discovering My Voice
Sometimes you have to lie to discover the truth …
I temporarily lost my faith upon discovering that my high school teachers, especially the Jesuits, graded my writing unfairly.
Unfortunately, I also learned that sometimes you have to lie to discover the truth. Later my friends would joke that I was on double secret probation.
I sensed something was wrong all along. This was especially evident in class, the Jesuit “hummph” after I spoke, the non-energy response, the stare straight through me as if I wasn’t there.
To them, I was the naughty dog, the boy with limitations, the untouchable boy. The boy whose stupidity was just too much to deal with. The boy who was both obnoxious and insecure; a boy too closed-minded. A boy who was only a C student; no matter what he did, just keep giving him a C.
“He’s just average, and there’s nothing we can do about it, so just keep him there.” The next morning at their hour of prayer, they could rest easy knowing they built a perfect box for the dyslexic moron.
I’d imagine a perfect place for challenging students to thrive. A place that would require teaching and communicating in a different way. Just a dream at the time, but I finally broke down and let my friends know.
“What’s the point in trying, when no matter what I do, I will get a C?”
My friends took the Jesuit’s defense. Emotional pleas did not work. We needed a test, since courses repeated on the semester, we selected Fr. O’Brien’s World History class.
A major paper was due in a couple of weeks, and my friend Paul, who took the class in the previous semester, agreed to let me re-type his A-level paper to submit as my own. His paper was absolutely fine: well organized, quotes set up and cited correctly, and logically organized with smooth transitions and steady attention to his thesis. He definitely understood the text.
I retyped it carefully and nervously turned it in. The paper returned loaded with red-inked correction and a standard C on the top.
Paul was stunned, “why does O’Brien hate you so much?”
“It’s not just O’Brien, all of my teachers treat me like this, now I know, but I don’t know what to do about it.”
Does it matter that I cheated, that I tricked the teacher? Confessing meant being flunked, going to summer school, being cruel to a priest. Defending myself incorrectly. Attempting to hold the mirror up to the cultural sociopathology of a holy institution.
To feel power and powerlessness at the same time. To be in the back end of the story of eating from the Tree of Knowledge.
It also meant understanding that grades were a reflection of reputation; now I understood Othello’s lament on reputation. Now I understood that teachers weren’t reading their students’ writing. It never occurred to Paul that his paper was blindly read and awarded an A based on his positive reputation. That he could be improving as a writer.
At first, this knowledge tormented me, trapping me in the shadows, but a voice, quietly at first, and eventually as clear as a bell rang out to simply enjoy being their fool. Edgar’s message at the end of King Lear became my new command, “Speak what [you] feel, not what [you] ought to say.”
This new voice brought a confidence to my instincts and I simply allowed it to guide my mind. My concern for their opinions disappeared and my hatred for their narrow minded judgments turned to pity.
This knowledge forced me to simply bear with the unchangeable. I realized that there was something more complex going on and that helped me let go of self-pity. Once that happened the anxiety of constantly feeling inadequate evaporated. I learned that no matter how hard I tried, some people are never going to like me, and somehow, through the grace of God, that truth became relaxing.
