In the Shadow of Fundamentalism

Chapter 2, Part 2

LaFevre Dreams

Joan LaFevre was the type of woman most parents dreamt of recruiting during the late 1950’s. She was single, without a prospect of marriage, and educated as a nurse. She was progressive enough to feel that exposing children to literature and music was important, and fundamentalist enough to believe that such material should be strictly regulated.

She began our mornings with ballet stretches, led us to lunch with passages from C. S. Lewis’ “Narnia” books, and sent us home with a creative assignment each afternoon.
In all, she seemed like a perfect teacher until I realized that her creativity and mine were unable to coexist. This became painfully apparent during our first school reading contest.

The contest was held with some outside source; schools with the most books read per student could win an entire set of encyclopedias for use in the school library. HCA was small and poor, and any type of gift could be well useful to the student body. I was thrilled with the idea of reading books competitively, and felt like this was a chance for someone of my bookish nature to excel.

That weekend my brother and I went with my father to the book store. While on a quest for books that my brother would enjoy, I wandered idly through the shelves before finally asking my father the question weighing on my mind.

“Dad, what are some really important books? I mean books everyone should read.”
“You mean classics?” he looked amused.
“Sure, classic books. What books do they make people read…?” I had no idea what I was really asking. I merely wanted to bring home books that would test my mind, and show how smart I was.
“How about Shakespeare? Or Homer?” he was on the edge of laughing.
“Are they good?”
“Some of the best ever written. I tell you what, if you promise to actually try to read them I will buy some for you. If you give up, then you have to give the books to your brother.” Was that pride on his face?
“I won’t give up.” I certainly wasn’t going to concede some books to my brother.
“You’re sure?”
“Promise.”

And with that I brought home three shiny Signet Classics of “Hamlet,” “Macbeth,” and “The Iliad.”

Ms. LaFevre had instituted a policy that all reading materials for the contest must be brought to her for approval. This, she explained, would prevent smart fifth graders like us from wasting our time with silly books like “The Cat in the Hat,” and cheating the intent of the contest. On Monday morning I proudly set these three literary classics before her for approval.

“You want to read these?” she asked?
“My dad says they’re important,” I felt tall and mature when I said this.
“I don’t know,” she looked skeptical. “Let me hear you read this one.” She lifted the corner of “Hamlet” and eyed me critically.
“Where do you want me to read from?”

Flipping through the pages she found something in particular, placing her index finger on the passage she indicated for me to begin.
For the first time I began to read, “To be, or not to be. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…” I read haltingly, but it made sense. I had, after all, learned to read on a King James Bible. Shakespeare was dense and poetic, but I could make the words out confidently in the stillness of the classroom.

“I’m still not sure you can do this,” she seemed to be staring. “Let me ask Mr. Falkenburg if he thinks it’s okay.”
“Okay,” I said. Of course it would be allowed. My dad called them “classics.” He said everyone should read them. Why not now?

At the end of the day I found all three books in a neat stack on my desk with a small yellow note with the words “inappropriate reading material.”

That evening my father was furious. “Shakespeare? Inappropriate? What kind of people are these?” he was almost yelling at my mother.
“They should be happy he’s even trying it at his age.”
“Maybe they think it’s too hard for him,” she placated.
“Maybe it is, but why not help him read the books then? Encourage him.”
“We’ll just have to find him some other books,” she sighed.

In the end, I read only one book for the contest; the hardcover version of “James Herriot’s Dog Stories,” a fat eight hundred page collection of his experiences as a British vet.

The day I finished the book I plopped it on Ms. Lafevre’s desk proudly.
“Finished it finally.”
“I’m not sure you could read all this.” She said it with that same look. I was very confused by that look. My dad was happy when I finished something, but she seemed upset.
“I did though.” Why didn’t she believe me.
“Okay, let’s see…” she flipped through the heavy volume’s pages. “What was this story about?”
“That was about Mr. James going to do surgery with another vet somewhere in England. The other vet liked to drink beer, and they stayed up all night drinking and James said he felt sick. What are pickled onions? He said they were eating them at the bar…”
“Okay, okay,” she cut me off. I would talk all day and ask questions if she let me.
“How about this chapter?” she flipped to a new page.
“This is about some lady that brings James a smelly dog with gas. He can’t find a home for it for a while until he meets an old man who has no sense of smell. Then the dog lives with the man and…”

And so she went through the entire eight hundred pages (fifty different stories) asking over and over for a synopsis. Each time I told the stories as though they had happened to a family member.

“You really should’ve read something smaller. Here we are at the end of the contest and you have only read this one book. You should be less lazy, Mark. You’re very bright when you apply yourself. And you could have helped your school by reading more books…”

“I’m sorry,” I looked down at the floor and blushed. What she didn’t know was that I had read “Hamlet,” “Macbeth,” and the “Iliad,” before even looking at the James Herriot book. I wondered if I had sinned… but my dad said they were “classic.”

posted by NY Monk @ 7:11 PM