Golden Years

I was in the third grade once. Although at the time is was somehow committed to guaranteeing that I would one day say I was in the third grade twice.

Grade three is where you ostensibly begin your journey into what will hopefully lead to true higher learning. You are introduced to cursive. You are introduced to complex sentences. You are introduced to multiplication tables. You are introduced into the abject humiliation of not being able to do any of these well and having them memorialized in silly displays designed to be fun and educational. Like the parachutes we made for our multiplication tables in Mrs. (but it could have been Ms.) Emmitt's third grade class.

In case your wondering what in the hell I am talking about, one day in class we had made these cool little parachutists out of construction paper, cloth and yarn (which is cornerstone of elementary school arts and crafts). I am pretty sure I thought mine was cool. He had a cloth shoot with yarn cords holding his construction paper body to it. Cool is not what I would be feeling in the upcoming days.

A day after we had completed these little guys, Mrs. Emmitt started to erect a rather ominous mural on the wall. Except it wasn't really much of anything except a bunch of horizontal lines with a number next to them. They started with a zero on top and ended with a 12 on the bottom. I left that day wondering what in the hell that wall was for. When I returned the next day I noticed that all of our little parachutists were at the top line, zero. Mrs. Emmitt then explained to us that we were to learn our multiplication tables, or times tables in the common vernacular. We would start on the zero line and as we passed the test for that level, we would descend until our parachutist hit the twelve line. Keep in mind the test were timed (no relation to "times"). Twelve would be our final test and if we passed that we would get a passing grade and a gold star. Those damn gold stars. In the third grade I would've killed a man with my bare hands for a gold star. The only thing better than a gold star was a scratch and sniff sticker. You would of thought the blueberry one had brown horse in it. In the third grade I would've fucked my priest voluntarily for a scratch and sniff sticker.

Anyways, my adolescent mind assumed that the task of these "times tables" would somehow equate emotionally with the joy that making that little parachute had brought me. So I figured, how hard can this be? We started with the zeros. Anything times zero is zero. Duh. Those were a breeze. As were the ones. The twos were really easy as well. Then came the threes.

The reality is you have to memorize the tables. I, being a somewhat bored and lazy kid, was actually just doing quick addition on the twos. The threes were not so quick to be added up. So when I got to threes my ability to add quickly fell well short of the time limit. And there I stalled. My parachutist in space.

If my little guy had been actually flesh and blood, he would have cried to the heavens for the largess delivered by a benevolent god to keep him suspended in mid-air. Scientific publications in this parallel world would have rushed to figure out the principals behind the parachutinal mid-air suspension. Time Magazine would have put one of those scientists on the cover. But my little guy was wasn't flesh and blood. He was string, construction paper and cloth. And although he was not in any danger of hitting the ground, my self-esteem was starting to reach terminal velocity as it plummeted to the cold, hard ground. And there he was. Just floating.

Most of the kids in the class eventually started to work their way down. Some did better than others. The class genius, Robbie L., was done in what seemed like hours, although I think it was a few days. I took refuge in knowing that his parachutist in that parallel universe only cursed his name as he rocketed to his impending doom. But that was little comfort as my guy hung there, suspended with fewer and fewer parachutists to take the attention off of him.

A week stretched into weeks and my guy had only managed to drop to the fours. Again, I knew I was supposed to memorize the table, but my hard-headedness only forced me into learning to add threes really, really quickly. I stalled on four. There was some company for my misery. Rex, the class... uhh... slow one had stalled out on three. At the very least I was saved the complete humiliation of knowing I finished last. But you can never hide from yourself and underneath all my self-deception I knew I sucked at math. And a lot of other things by extension. The fact that Rex's parachutist hung perilously close to mine on that wall was proof I was almost clinically retarded. At least that is how it must look to the outside world. And test after test... no dice. Until one day when I came in and those parachutists were gone. Taken away by the same force, Mrs. Emmitt, that had put them there in the first place.

I am not sure how I managed to get past that year, but somehow I pulled it out. Considering that the majority of that year's recesses were spent doing equations behind the teacher while the other kids played, jealously looking onto the playground and seeing the kids frolic while I tried to remember what five times six was. But I must have made up for it somehow and somehow I passed. And even though there was some joy in knowing I would go to fourth grade, I have always wondered what went through my parachutist's mind as he sat suspended in space and suddenly was crumpled and blown to dust by an extension of the god that had held him there for all those weeks. Because he, much like me in that recess, sat exposed.

For those of you who believe in destiny, it might have been that gentle stranger who delivered what you see below. That’s right. My third grade class picture. And in it you will see a little kid in a brown shirt with a horizontal stripe. Like Charlie Brown with hair and about the same self image. But don’t let the smile fool you. It is a smile to hold back the tears that only that kid, and a particular parachutist, could truly understand.