Tom Sawyer
(Woods, P / Lifeson, A / Lee, G / Peart, N)
Performed by Rush
A modern day warrior
Mean, mean stride
Today's Tom Sawyer
Mean, mean pride
Though his mind is not for rent
Don't put him down as arrogant
His reserve a quiet defense
Riding out the day's events
The river
What you say about his company
Is what you say about society
Catch the mist, catch the myth
Catch the mystery, catch the drift
The world is, the world is
Love and life are deep
Maybe as his skies are wide
Today's Tom Sawyer
He gets high on you
And the space he invades
He gets by on you
No, his mind is not for rent
To any God or government
Always hopeful yet discontent
He knows changes aren't permanent
But change is
What you say about his company
Is what you say about society
Catch the witness, catch the wit
Catch the spirit, catch the spit
The world is, the world is
Love and life are deep
Maybe as his eyes are wide
Exit the warrior
Today's Tom Sawyer
He gets by on you
And the energy you trade
He gets right on to the friction of the day
Part two of my final grade nine tidbits and I just want to make a small point about my song choice for today: Obviously, Tom Sawyer is sampled in Grade Nine (last week's song by Barenaked Ladies), so it's kind of an unsubtle choice for extending a theme, but it's appropriate for other reasons, too. I've mentioned before that my brother Ken was tutored by Rush's drummer's sister the first time he went through grade nine, but there's something particularly special to me about Tom Sawyer itself. It's the kind of song I would have switched radio stations to avoid listening to in the '80s, but the more I've heard it and the more my musical tastes have matured over the years, the more I love this song -- just the way that three musicians can jam so much presence into one song (those drums!) -- and, thinking about it now, this one song seems to have grown in my estimation over the years; just as my memory of grade nine has grown to dominate my memories of what it was to be a kid.
As I said last week, Ken had pretty much failed his first year of grade nine, so when he and I started attending Sacred Heart together, we were technically in the same grade. The only class we had together was English and it was slightly embarrassing for me to have him there. Our teacher was young and blonde and curvy, and while we girls were decidedly unalluring in our unisex uniforms, this teacher would wear sweaters with big open necks and lean over boys' desks; and I don't imagine this was accidental. Ken carried himself as older and more mature than the other guys in class -- like as though this teacher's flirting could have actually meant something -- and his posturing and peacocking made my eyes roll hard. Funny thing is that we girls all had a girl-crush on this teacher, too: She would often spend free time explaining how she had to work hard to put herself through school, and how as a single working woman she had decided not to wait until she was married to have nice china and furniture; she bought all these things for herself already and needed no man to provide for her a home; this woman -- from her openly sexual nature to her fierce independence -- was a new kind of role model for us. It may have been to impress this teacher, but Ken paid attention in her class, and when we studied To Kill a Mockingbird, it became imprinted on my brother as the greatest novel of all time (and maybe it is). Just a couple of years ago, one of my own girls was studying Mockingbird, and Ken was trying to start a conversation around it (which means a monologue in which he tries to impart his special insight). I made a throwaway comment about it being a coming-of-age novel and Ken disagreed with me, saying that since we don't follow Scout into adulthood, it is by definition not a coming-of-age tale. I let that go (not wanting to embarrass him), but he'd go out to the garage, have a drink, and come back in and tell us more about why I'm wrong. When he later emailed me to explain again why my "analysis" was way off, I sent back the results of the Google search "To Kill a Mockingbird + coming of age", in which every site proceeds from the acknowledgement that it's a classic coming-of-age story, and he didn't reply or ever bring it up again. So, maybe it was a little mean to rob Ken of his one academic certainty, but I was done with being pushed on it. As for me, grade nine was the first time we studied Shakespeare, and even though the language went way over my head like everyone else's, The Merchant of Venice is the Bard's work that left the greatest impression on my own brain. (And I hope I haven't been boorish with my own favourite quotes iwis!)
Grade nine was the first time I was handed an official-looking booklet in which to complete exams, and this for some reason intimidated me; like I had been underprepared by my rural elementary school for how high school would actually work. I know I was underprepared in math: I had never had a problem understanding math, and as a result, I had never studied much either; and not completing homework was always okay with my teachers so long as I got results. Our first exam in grade nine math was an overview of what we already knew, and I think I got a mark in the 90s, because I remember Dad was pretty proud of the results (but as I remember it, this was just basic functions). When we then began a new unit, I approached the material with my usual "no-homework-no-worries" approach, and for the first time, math was hard. So I stopped caring. On our midterm report, all my other marks were high 80s and 90s, but when my Dad saw that my math mark was in the 70s, he threw down my report with disgust and said, "Well, you'll never be a vet with that math mark. You'll never be anything." (Note: when I was little, it was suggested to me that I should be a veterinarian since I was bright and liked animals. Without any ambitions of my own, I accepted that as a likely plan.) I was so stung -- I was never the academic disappointment in the family -- and I never tried in math ever again, rarely tried in anything; if my marks were going to be lacklustre, at least I would know it wasn't because I wasn't smart enough. I honestly don't remember if my Dad ever looked at one of my report cards again. Neither of my parents ever talked to me again about post-secondary or what I'd like to do with my life -- and I don't know if that's because they lost interest in me or if their interest was only a temporary side-effect of my youth. (Final note: when we moved to Alberta the next year, the exams were familiar photocopies instead of official-looking booklets. I didn't see these type of formal exams again until I started university.)
I mentioned before that my homeroom was French (and I still can't remember whether or not Cora was in that class with me and Andrea), but I know that I didn't mention the teacher. He -- unlike the English teacher -- was very homely. He was tall and heavy, with a buzz cut, a bad moustache, and the worst acne scars I've ever seen. Yet, he was a good and kind teacher. Bizarrely, at the end of the year, he invited the entire class to his bachelor apartment for a French-themed cheese and hors d'oeuvres party. I remember Andrea and I attended the party -- along with a handful of other students -- and her Mom must have driven us into Toronto to his place that overlooked Lake Ontario because I'm not certain if I even told my parents about the event; even at the time I knew it was a weird concept. The afternoon was spent in eating petite bouches and carrying on stilted conversations en Français, and I got a very lonely vibe off the teacher that was probably an unfair final memory of him.
Grade nine was the year of great field trips. I went into Toronto to see the ballet of Sleeping Beauty and into Stratford-on-the-Lake to see Pygmalion at the Shaw Festival. These exposures to live theatre seemed to fill a very real void for me and I relished the idea that all of high school would be crammed with such nourishing cultural events (and when we moved to Alberta, my life went back to being a cultural wasteland; I never saw a live play again until an amateur university production -- which was terrible -- when I started going to the U of L). The greatest trip of all, however, was our band exchange with a school in St. John's, Newfoundland. After a brief questionnaire, we were matched with students at the other school, and as Cora and I emphasised that we were best friend Beatlemaniacs, we were paired with best friend Beatlemaniacs. My billet was named Michelle, and she was awesome; warm and friendly with that great Newfie accent. Our band went first to St. John's, and even though the stated purpose was for us to put on a combined concert for the school, it was also a cultural exchange. We were taken to Signal Hill -- from where Marconi sent the first trans-Atlantic radio signal -- a Highliner fish processing factory, an Oceanography institute, and the Basilica of John the Baptist. There was also a "free day" -- when the host family could decide what to show us -- and I remember Michelle's father driving us around as he pointed out his favourite spots and we ended up at a new sports complex (maybe a YMCA?) and we had a pop at a table that overlooked the swimming pool; us sitting in our winter boots and coats in the chlorine-choked, humid air; me trying to act as impressed as Michelle's Dad needed me to be, without passing out from the heat and fumes. These were true salt-of-the-earth, amazingly hospitable people. I loved having a new pen pal in Michelle after we returned home, and I couldn't wait to show her my own province. When they finally came in the late spring, we had the combined concert once again and we took them to the CN Tower, Niagara Falls, and Canada's Wonderland. It was a Saturday on our "free day", and my Dad wasn't around and my Mum stayed in bed with a headache. I was so embarrassed that there was nowhere to walk to in my crappy hick town, and not wanting to accept that all we could spend the day doing was watching TV with my crappy brothers, I dared to open my mother's bedroom door and ask if there was any chance she had something planned for Michelle. Mum moaned something about not being up to it and I snarked out, "But we never do anything!" Mum lost it -- her head not too sore to avoid yelling at me "Just what is that supposed to mean?" -- and making several statements about not having any money herself for "sightseeing" and wasn't that what the school had provided and I was so mad I stomped off and I'm sure she never got the point: she didn't need to spend any money on Michelle -- her parents didn't spend much on me -- but I had been welcomed into their family in a way that my own parents were incapable of doing for her. I was so humiliated after Michelle's visit, that I stopped answering her letters after she went back home (which is totally on me) and I can only assume that in Michelle's memory, she got ripped off in the whole exchange.
I know I've told the following story at least once before, but it belongs here: After being forced to walk home for lunch every day when we were in elementary school, this was no longer an option once we started being bused to high school. And so, we got no lunch. I know I could have probably always made myself a peanut butter sandwich, but we had no tupperware or baggies or any other way of bringing a sandwich to school. Earlyish in the school year, I asked my Mum why we couldn't have lunches and she yelled something about "not being made of money" and I never asked again. I realised years later that she probably thought I was asking about the type of lunch she would pack for our few field trips when I was younger -- she always felt the need to include a Faygo pop and a Vachon cake from the variety store in these rare sack lunches -- and I can understand that she couldn't keep that up for two of us every day of the school week. I honestly wonder if she realised that Ken and I went to school every day with no lunch at all. Most days I could handle it, but some days I would beg or borrow money from one of my friends to buy an ice cream sandwich from the cafeteria (sometimes, Cora didn't even know I was "borrowing" money from her locker; I have no idea why she always had more cash than she'd miss). As another odd aside: Sacred Heart's vice principal was a huge and intimidating man named Mr. MacDonnell. One of his jobs was to keep an eye out for uniform infractions, and he was always busting Ken for wearing crappy old running shoes instead of his black dress shoes in the hallways (what a rebel! personally, I often wore socks with my kilt that were very similar to the uniform socks, but not exactly the same. I felt ridiculously unruly in these off-shade socks, and although Mr. MacDonnell did point them out a couple of times, I was never actually busted). The punishment for a uniform infraction was being forced to eat lunch at Mr. MacDonnell's table, and I wonder now if that would have been humbling for Ken to need to sit there so often with no lunch?
My other small rebellion -- which I told each of my girls in turn when they started high school in case they wished to follow my lead -- was to choose a day at random and request a bathroom break in each of my classes. I'd mosey down the corridors with my hall pass (wasting 4 x ten minutes/day) feeling like I had "beat the system" and "stuck it to the man". I would have done that 6 or 8 times that school year and that's pretty much the extent of my acting out, lol.
My other small rebellion -- which I told each of my girls in turn when they started high school in case they wished to follow my lead -- was to choose a day at random and request a bathroom break in each of my classes. I'd mosey down the corridors with my hall pass (wasting 4 x ten minutes/day) feeling like I had "beat the system" and "stuck it to the man". I would have done that 6 or 8 times that school year and that's pretty much the extent of my acting out, lol.
I guess I didn't quite divide these final tidbits in half; this seems twice as long as last week, but I'm pretty much done now with grade nine. I don't know if I've done a good enough job outlining that year, but here's my overall memory: I had a group of really good friends, but there was always a distance between us; like there was something missing in me that makes real connections with other people. Because Ken was willingly attending high school now, my home life wasn't as violently chaotic as it had been for the previous couple of years, but it was still not a warm or nurturing place; my Dad was always angry; my Mum sad but at least getting out of the house to work at the old folks home. (Funny how my younger brother doesn't figure much into my memories of that year, but I do remember how Kyler and I were mutually disgusted by Ken and his girlfriend Nancy making out under a blanket on the other couch in the rec room while we were all down there watching TV; while Mum was right upstairs cooking dinner; funny how I don't have a memory of Kyler from that time that doesn't have Ken mixed into it.) I was consumed by want; I wanted to have what I figured everyone around me had -- and while that did include stuff, I also craved belonging and community, but since I knew pretty much the whole school year that I'd be going to grade ten in Alberta, it was like I was already gone; a half-ghost in the hallways. I was usually shy and quiet but had uncontrollable outbursts that my friends would find bizarre, and despite the years of closeness, I don't know if even Cora ever really knew me at all; what was in my heart; how sad my homelife was. And then I was gone. And I don't know if I left much of a hole behind.
Though his mind is not for rent
Don't put him down as arrogant
His reserve a quiet defense
Riding out the day's events
The river!
