Then I meet Georgie’s gaze and mentally erase that idea.Who am I kidding? I can’t lie to her, of all people. Besides which, I need totell her the truth so that she can help me make sense of it.
“Because I’m cutting school like a truant teenager?” Ismile.
“Interesting.” Georgie nods, scribbling more notes.
“Which I’m doing because I’m experiencing a tad bit of amidlife crisis?”
“Been there!” she says, holding her palms skyward as ifI’ve just found God. I expect her to add an “Amen!” but she doesn’t, which iskind of disappointing.
Bolstered by the freeing feeling of truth-telling and theenthusiastic support from Georgie, I’m on a roll. “Because I thought I couldget a few days off from my life by sitting on jury duty, only the courtstotally screwed with that plan and now I’ve got to come up with creative fieldtrips to keep me busy and out of Hadley each day?” I say-ask.
“Mmm, mmm, hmm.” Georgie is shaking her head at me with abig fat no that actually means a hearty yes. She jots more notes on the yellowpad in front of her, definitely using a red pen. I call her on it.
“What, this?” she says, motioning to her hand. “It’s justa pen. It’s not devil worship or anything.”
“But…!” I launch into my story of the complete and utterfear I have had of red pen usage in United States classrooms for the pastdecade and a half. “I don’t even let the school secretaries order them fromStaples anymore. I’ve tried to change the entire culture of my school tored-pen adverse.”
“Well,” she says. “That’s just extreme, Lauren.” Sheshakes her head and goes back to taking notes on me.
I am stunned into silence. Either Georgie’s changed hertune completely or I really misunderstood my entire two-year graduate programhere at Harvard.
“But…I thought…sacrilegious…doesn’t honor thestudents…demeaning…testing is very good…or is it very bad…?” I trail off,confused.
Georgie shrugs. “Testing is whatever you want it to be,Lauren, whatever you need in order to teach your children the things they mustknow. And teaching is not about the color of the ink in a pen! It’s about thewoman holding that pen in her hand. You should know that.”
“But you used to say…”
“Used to. Not anymore. Now I’m all about the freedom tochoose.”
“The freedom to choose…what?”
“Exactly,” she says. “The freedom to choose what. Only youknow the answer to that.”
“What about the ten commandments?”
She cackles loud and deep. “What am I, God? I woke up onemorning about two years ago and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked tired.I was tired! I was tired of telling people what to do, of how to teach,of how to live, even if it was mostly good advice, mostly done to make livesbetter. I mean, it was all great at first. But over the years, somethingchanged. I suddenly had a lot to live up to. People expected me to always havethe answers, so I gave them answers, telling them red pens were damaging, thattesting was the way or definitely not the way. Truth is, what did Iknow? I swear to you, that one morning, I said to my reflection, GeorginaParks, you do a hell of a lot of preaching for a mere mortal. Maybe it’stime to stop being in charge of everything all the time. And, you knowwhat? It felt empowering to let go.”
“But this morning…I heard you. You sounded the same asalways, powerful and sure. There were disciples taking notes!”
She laughs again, wiping a tear from her eye. “I know.People like to have something to believe in, Lauren. They need to havesomething to strive for. Don’t you? Why did you come visit me today?”
My knee-jerk response would be “Because of a sweater,” butthat sounds insulting and empty.
Why did I visit Georgie? “For the same reason thesestudents do, I suppose. To feel a part of something important. And,” I add asan afterthought, “to have someone give their lives direction.”
“And so that’s what I do. But occasionally, it strikeseven me as crazy to believe so much in me.”
Something indeed is crazy. Georgie’s ironclad rules abouthow to teach and what to teach and when to teach just don’t exist anymore?Or they do, only she no longer really believes in them?
“Girl, listen to me,” she starts. I love the “girl” thing.It’s so familiar and yet so authoritative at the same time. When Georgie isaddressing a crowd and is looking for the same effect, she’ll use “people,”like she did during this morning’s lecture. And when she’s got you one-on-oneand wants to drive a point home, nothing is more effective than “girl.”
With the use of “girl,” I feel sure that she will settlethis confusion once and for all and say what I need her to say, say what sheused to say.
“No wonder you need a little break from teaching. You takeit way too seriously.”
Seriously?
Until this moment, there was an urn on a pedestal in mymind, reserved for all that wisdom gleaned from Georgie. Now, broken shards areall that’s left of this vessel that once contained everything I found sacredabout education, everything I thought was true in the world. I mentally beginthe process of cleaning up a few pieces, avoiding the really sharp ones.
I think back to the way I just dismissed Martin on Mondaymorning, letting him conjure an entire book plot from thin air. I think aboutthe way letting him off the hook made me feel like I was also off the hook.
Then I look at Georgie’s face and start to see her for thefirst time. She looks back, interested. “Yes?” she asks. “I know, I know, it’sshocking! You thought I was a demigod, too, didn’t you?”
“I guess,” I say, not wanting to sound like the completefollower I have been. What are the right words for this particular scenario,the one in which your life’s mentor reveals that she’s not All That? “So…let meget this straight…you’re like the Wizard of Oz?”
Georgie laughs good-naturedly. “I love it! Yes! Pull asidethe curtain and see just how regular I am.”
I watch her as she gets
