Читать книгу Acrobaddict - Joe Putignano - Страница 16
ОглавлениеTHE LACRIMAL BONE IS THE SMALLEST AND MOST FRAGILE BONE OF THE FACE. IT IS LOCATED IN THE EYE SOCKETS AND IS DERIVED FROM THE LATIN WORD FOR TEAR, lacrima. THE LACRIMAL BONE HOUSES THE TEAR DUCT, ALLOWING US TO CRY.
I imagined that education took place in a land where the gods came to learn about and question hypotheses. In my mind, school should be a giant garden of luminescent flowers snaking through corridors of perfectly cut hedges. Unfortunately, my middle school was nothing like my vision, and so I would slip in and out of my fantasy, trying to flee the drab classroom in which I always landed.
Our classroom was surrounded by giant letters of the alphabet with pictures of animals representing the shape of each letter. Horrible drawings decorated the walls alongside stories of our favorite family holidays, and the desks were arranged in a scattered line. I always felt like the children around me knew more than me because their parents had given them a book called Secrets to Life and All You Need to Know to Be Happy. It seemed they always knew how to pay sharp attention to what the teacher was saying, and their parents never forgot their lunches, snow boots, or winter gloves. No matter how much I forced myself to pay attention to the lessons, I somehow found myself back in the land of my daydreams. I always missed the given lesson and would become confused and angry with myself, which only served to force me further back into my land of enchantment.
It wasn’t that I had problems with the educational system—I loved to learn. But I felt lost in a labyrinth, not knowing which path to take or which answer was correct. The only weapon I had against ignorance was the pencil, which I usually forgot and shamefully had to borrow from another student. The pencil became my key to escape into my newfound physical love. I would pretend my desk was a tumbling mat and the pencil was my body performing the greatest routine at the Olympic Games. I did that all the time, completely oblivious to the lessons on grammar, math, and science.
One of my teachers began to notice the dissociation from my schoolwork. With dirty blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, she looked like an elf, making my whole fantasy illusion much easier. She smelled of anger and discontent, and I often felt that she singled me out because she herself had lost her own dreams, and I was a reminder of the road less traveled. I was that single, burning fire in a forest that she could not extinguish, and the flickering of my flames scorched her inner child’s dream. She eventually telephoned my mother to ask her why I was so unfocused in the classroom.
I came home from school one day, and my mom sat me down and said delicately, “How much do you like doing gymnastics?” I told her without blinking, forcefully, as if it was the only thing I knew, “With all my heart!” It was clear the words came from a greater authority, and I was a puppet under its control. “I thought so,” she replied. “I just wanted to ask you what I already knew.” I heard her talking on the phone later that day. She said my teacher thought I should quit or slow down my training in gymnastics because it was taking the focus away from my schoolwork. My mom told the teacher that was ridiculous.
I don’t think my teacher understood how difficult gymnastics was. My teammates and I had a good time at practice, but it was hard work. It takes a special kind of discipline that many children haven’t yet cultivated. Even with the youthful energy a child carries, going to school all day, coming home, and then going directly to gymnastics was exhausting. My teammates and I missed out on a lot of things and sacrificed a lot for our passion.
I remember one year I received the game Zelda for our Nintendo. I never wanted to stop playing it, but the moment came when my mom would say, “Joey, come on, we have to leave for gymnastics.” I loved gymnastics, never wanted to part with it, but I was playing a game. Did I have to go? Yes, I did, and so I went. Gymnastics is a bit different because it doesn’t carry the same camaraderie that team sports do, since it is an individual sport. My teammates wouldn’t have been let down if I didn’t show up to practice because I wanted to play Zelda. Who would I have let down? Me! And I would have to live with myself. If I wanted to be great, then I would have to put down the game and train.
When I went to school the next day I was nervous that my teacher would be angry with me or embarrass me, but she didn’t. She carried on as if no conversation had ever occurred. This intrigued me: an adult pretending that no conversation with my mom had happened, concealing the truth behind her false smile. She was an adult who was lying, and oddly, I somehow appreciated that. I tried harder to stay focused on the schoolwork, but the thoughts of gymnastics absorbed me and I repeatedly succumbed to their dominance and strength.
Walking down the hallways among the other children, I felt like an intruder. I was an alien from another planet, isolated and alone. I was the strongest boy in my grade, doing the most pull-ups, chin-ups, rope climbs, and sit-ups, but still no one wanted to hang out with me. A different vibe emanated from me; I was not like the others, and even though no one said a word, silently we all knew.
It wasn’t just the other kids I had trouble with; my middle school gym teacher didn’t like me either. Even though I was strong, he saw something in me that I think made him uncomfortable. He took my surname Putignano and turned it into “Putzy,” which I hated, and I shuddered inside every time he said it.
To make matters worse, I was the shortest boy in my class and looked much younger than I was. I had a baby face that gave me an appearance of innocence. While that worked against me with my classmates, adults babied me and treated me with great care, like I was made of porcelain.
I had no friends in school until I met Tara. We were the exact same height and there was something about her that pulled me in. I was the Earth and she was gravity. It was something primal and complex that I couldn’t explain, but I needed to be near her. We were like twins, and she didn’t like the other students either. Without any real effort, we developed a deep and caring friendship.
Her laughter and her smile kept me by her side throughout my childhood. I made a silent vow in my heart to love her until the end of time and take care of her no matter what. Tara was special to me, and I felt lucky to have her. Our friendship was more than a connection; it was as if we had known each other in another life. Tara and I could make each other laugh—one of the best ingredients for a friendship. We did everything together; she slept over at my house on the weekends and we hung out all the time during recess. The other kids at school noticed our impenetrable union and didn’t like it. It was unusual for them to see a boy being best friends with a girl.
Sometimes after school I played baseball, soccer, and football with the neighborhood kids. I loved playing sports, but there was too much standing around between actual movement. It felt like we were always waiting for something to happen, and it drove me crazy. In those moments I would kick to a handstand or do a backflip, and of course, the ball would come toward me and I’d miss it since I was standing on my hands. Needless to say, this often made the other players angry since they were as serious about their sports as I was about gymnastics. They made fun of me and my sport, and accused it of being “girlie” because of our uniforms.
I was insanely defensive of gymnastics and would try to explain that the precision of the sport demanded tight uniforms so judges could see the lines of our body and form. Few other sports require the athlete to be so tuned into their muscles that even the slightest bending of the knee means points are taken off your score. Still, my peers didn’t get that I was doing something dangerous almost every day, using my muscles and coordination in a way they’d never know to challenge the forces of physics. The happiness I garnered from gymnastics battled against the embarrassment and shame I felt from what others said to me. I loved that “girlie sport” with all my heart; I felt that I was meant to do gymnastics and I wasn’t going to apologize for it to anyone.
Soon I began to believe my schoolmates’ view of me. Their whispers, jokes, and comments infiltrated my muscles and bones. I was outnumbered, and it became difficult for me not to believe them. But instead of quitting the sport, I went deeper into my body and practice, shutting down to the outside world. I couldn’t have stopped if I had wanted to: I was obsessed. After school, before gymnastics practice, the patch of grass that my brother mowed became my gymnasium. I would drag our old mattresses onto the lawn, lining up mattress after mattress, and tumbled on them. I learned new skills on my own to take to practice that night.
After gymnastics practice, I would set up the mattresses in the basement to work on what I had learned while my brother and father drank beer and played pool. I would practice until my body could no longer take it, until each movement was just right. I never had much in common with my brother and father, who were very much alike, but somehow through my practicing I communicated and bonded with them. Though my father seemed like he was concentrating on his game, I would occasionally see him give me a fatherly glance that said, “That’s my boy.” Together in that room, as they played pool, I practiced becoming a champion, and that space and time became precious for us all.
